“Embriel is supposed to be your friend! Why is Montague doing this!” I demand Danon tell me. He sighs, glancing out the window of his University office.
“They want me to do something I don't want to do. It's punishment.”
“These are yourfriends?” I gape.
He laughs, eyes creasing. “Yes, little thorn. It's complicated. Relationships between immortals always are.”
I guess the Montague fucker figures that if we're too busy trying to eat grass to fill our bellies, we'll be too busy to fight. Joke's on him. I don't mind grass, and dandelions are pretty fucking tasty too. You can candy them. Kind of. I tried once, with some sugar we got from a raid on Labornne. Wasn't half bad.
Danon has more money on the way from the Kuthliele estate in Ninephe, but it'll be a while. It's not a hop skip jumpand there's paperwork. And groveling. He may have to go in person and I don't want him to go. At least not without me.
“I will never take you to Ninephe.” This is the sharpest he's ever spoken to me. “Don't ask.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, my throat closing like a tightening noose. Money he only has access to because our mother was murdered. I wrap my hands around the hilt of my sword, feeling the cold metal leech warmth from my fingers, and deep breathe. The air tastes of wood shavings and dusty concrete. It's not all right, but I'll make someone from Montague pay today.
A door opens and slams shut on the far side of the warehouse with the clang of a coffin lid dropping, and in walks Tybien. It's more of a saunter, and if I had any feelings left, I'd roll my eyes. His footsteps echo in the cavernous space, each one a countdown to violence.
He's technically way older than me, but full-blooded Fae development is fucking weird, so he's the equivalent of my age. Sixteen is old enough to fight and kill. Too bad it's old enough to die too.
Numair and Juliette are tense beside me, quiet and waiting orders. Numair's a few decades older than Tybien and Juliette too.
When we're all old enough, they'll both swear into House service. They've been acting as my informal guards since I started training at twelve and I was a natural, like my body already knew the moves. Ard—that moody asshole—says the bond is stronger between those who train and grow up together. We all kind of grew up together. Juliette was a kid when I was a baby, and she stayed a kid for years but by the time I was old enough for playmates, she'd caught up with me.
I'm fucking stalling and I don't know why.
Oh yeah, because this is a trap. A really obvious one too. Again, because I can't feel anything these days, I'm not insulted. Well, I feel rage. Bloodthirst. They burn in my chest like coals from a pyre. But other than that, nothing. I had to cut off my feelings, or I would've slit my own wrists. Not before I burned down a few buildings though.
My mother is dead. Murdered by the Prince. Because she wanted to save me.
I swallow the agony that wants to shape itself into an awful sound. Business time.
“You two stay here,” I whisper. My breath forms ghostly wisps in the cold air. “I'll spring the trap, and if I need help, Numair you come. Juliette, you're faster, you run to get backup. We'll survive. If whoever is behind this sent that scrawny lackwit Tybien, they don't want me dead.”
I agree with your assessment. This setup is too incompetent to be about a simple political assassination. Or I would not have allowed you to come,he adds.
But they do want to talk. The question is, why the fuck why? This doesn't make any sense.
It only makes no sense because you do not have all the pieces.
They would've sent Lord Baroun if they wanted me dead. No, they knew Tybien's stupid little note demanding a duel and setting the time and place would piss me off enough to leave my house. I was told to come alone, which, again, I wish I could roll my eyes.
Fucking really? Yeah, that's exactly what I'm gonna do. Come alone to a duel in an unknown warehouse in Montague territory to fight Tybien, who's one of the main cousins ofMontague House, and I'm not gonna fucking bring guards with me. By the Realms, they must think I'm dumb. Or, it's a double feint. They want me to think they think I’m dumb. I'm betting Numair's money on that one.
When Tybien reaches the middle of the warehouse and starts looking around, arms crossed over his chest, I start to rise.
“Where are you, yapping little bitch?” he calls out. His voice echoes off the rafters where I swear I can see shapes moving in the darkness—crows or worse. “Halfling of Faronne! Will you hide like a cur or will you face me?”
I almost hate that I've given this male any of my time. What a posturing moron. How much trouble will I be in if I finally kill his ass dead? Things can't get worse.
That childisrather tedious,Darkan says.Killing him is beneath me, but dignity is fairly superfluous at my age.
Age sixteen? Sounds right.It's not beneath me.
I straighten and walk around the pallet, stopping when he turns to me. The space between is charged with malice, the air itself holding its breath.
“I'm here.”
Tybien sneers, and starts blabbering. I tune it out because my ears have better things to do. Like figure out how many Montague warriors are already in the warehouse. I hate fucking talkers. What is the point of talking before, and especially during, a fight? You should have better things to be thinking about. The training in Montague must really suck balls.
