Siren's Fury (13 page)

Just as I think the ship’s captain means to actually set the hull on the ground, the order is given and a plank is lowered into a slanted position. I turn to watch as two of the soldiers walk up it and stand aside, and Eogan appears from the cabin beside the dining room. The men slap their right fists over their chests in salute.

My eyes narrow but the monster inside Eogan ignores me and proceeds to descend the ramp.

At the bottom, an elderly man is waiting. He holds out his hand, which Eogan-who-is-Draewulf takes and places over his own heart, and the air deflates from my lungs at the reminder that he has been here before. With Isobel, when Eogan was a child, for a few years by my recollection of Eogan’s story.

He’ll already know their habits. And their weaknesses.

I look back at Myles and Rasha with a mouth tasting of ash. Rasha’s watching the old man intensely, but Myles’s mouth presses into a thin line as he stares back at me. Challenging me with the quiet question of what risk I’d be willing to take to fix it. To fix all of this.

“This way,” someone says, and our flanking guards lead us to the plank.

“How does a balloon of air hold up such a thing?” Rasha murmurs.

I shake my head, but as soon as we’ve reached the bottom, I pull her away from it as fast as they’re leading, lest it tilt and accidentally crush us. The thing looks three times as intimidating as it did in the dark back in Faelen.

The waiting Bron soldiers surround us, and I realize the shorter
ones aren’t just the size of children—they are children, perhaps between eight and thirteen years old, leading us across the courtyard toward one of the copper doors of the palace. I search for Kel among their faces even though I know he’s still on the ship.
Is this what he does too? Act as a child soldier?

My legs feel like jelly and Myles’s must as well because he’s limping funny.

“For admiring the warrior spirit, you don’t walk like one,” Rasha tells him. She peers back at me and giggles. “He’s certainly a wobbly baby, no?”

Myles sniffs and looks like he’d like to make her face wobbly. Which only makes her laugh more as we enter the building and the long hallway lined with more soldiers.

One hundred, two hundred, three hundred paces, the floor is gradually tilting upward so that by the time we emerge into a wider corridor with windows, we’re looking out over the city again. But I’m hardly paying attention—I’m watching Draewulf edge along outside our group, with his shifting eyes and that same expression he had when he killed the poor airship guard.

He’s eyeing every Bron here with it.

I slow. The delegates keep walking as the elderly man who met Draewulf at the base of the airship moves ahead and announces, “His Majesty has matters to attend to. Come, I will show you to your rooms.”

I dig my fingers into my bandaged palms and look to the side for Draewulf.

“Don’t look so nervous, pet.” His growl in my ear makes me jump. “They’ll think you don’t trust me.”

When I turn, that disgusting wolfish curl of his lip is two inches away. I lift my fist.

“Ah-ah. Watch yourself or else their blood will be on your head.” He smirks. “At least, sooner than the timing I have planned.”

“Leave me alive and I
will
kill you,” I say quietly.

“If you still had your Elemental power, I’d believe you. Sadly, that’s why I had to eliminate your kind.” He reaches out and pats my face. I flinch.

I grab my stinging cheek only to find that when I pull my hand away, it’s tinted with blood. “You blasted—”

He raises his hand to give me a good look at his fingers, which are beginning to curl and his nails are growing longer. Like claws. He leans in. “Don’t worry, pet—not much longer and he’ll be free. Forever. Because even you can’t stop me now.” With that he turns and nods to the Bron escorts who instantly enfold him before hurrying him away.

Leaving me with the terrible assurance blooming that he is beginning to absorb Eogan’s body.

I swallow and watch him, that horror in me growing, suffocating, as my hands are still clenched into fists. As if holding my fingers gripped like that will keep some part of him in existence—will keep some part of me breathing despite the knowledge that I am so close to losing the one person I care for in this world.

Knowing that when I let go, the rest of me will shatter.

Ten steps.

Fifteen steps.

Twenty steps.

The steady sound of Eogan walking away clips out a rhythm.
Kill me, kill me, kill me.
Thirty steps.
Kill me. Kill me.
Like a mantra burrowing its moldy fingers into my bones. Until I can’t bear the noise of it anymore, and I crush my hand bandages beneath my fingers just to feel the shock and pain jar through me. To shut out
the internal voice yelling that he and everyone else are going to die if I am weak and unable to do what needs to be done.

I can’t do this. I can’t stop Draewulf like this.

Draewulf turns the corner. Just as the last of him disappears and the guards surrounding me prod me forward, I swear a whisper floats back. Eogan’s breath breezing across my soul, “
Don’t let him take who you are
.”

They were Colin’s last words.

Except Draewulf’s already taken who I am.
What
I am.
Along with the people I love.

I pick up following the delegates who’ve stopped to wait for me and glance down at my bandaged hands, my fingers, my gimpy wrist, as the words stir something in my soul awake.

I won’t let him take any more.

I glance ahead at Rasha who’s in conversation with the old man. Then at Myles who’s watching me.

And I give him a sickened nod.

CHAPTER 14

T
HE BANQUET WILL BEGIN IN LESS THAN AN HOUR,” the elderly man says, leading us to a series of rooms assembled in a row down one hallway near the place Eogan left us. “Until then, we hope you find refreshment in your quarters.”

From what I can see through the open doors, they each look exactly the same in size and beautiful furnishings. Mine is third down, after the two Rasha’s been assigned. I stand and watch the guards sort the other delegates into theirs. Lady Gwen, Lord Percival, and Lord Wellimton—they promptly disappear through doors before the soldiers click their feet and step back to pose one on either side.

“Be ready as soon as the banquet’s done,” Myles mutters when he strides past me.

My nerves rise. “We can’t wait. He’s already—”

He cuts me off with a wave and strides on toward his quarters, leaving me to twelve guards, six from Faelen and six from Bron.

I inhale and eye them, trying to recall how Draewulf took over Breck—did he ever emerge through her skin early on? Through her
hands? I can’t remember anything other than her shift in personality. Maybe Draewulf’s bluffing. I clench my jaw. Or maybe not.

Either way, you can’t do anything about it right now. So smile and start out on a good foot with the guards.

I force a brazen grin and nod to them. “You gentlemen look worried like I’ll strip down to my Elemental abilities and run ruinous through the Castle.”

The Bron men may have Eogan’s onyx skin and hard expression and broad chests that are thicker than three versions of Lord Myles, but they’re clearly missing his humor. There’s not even a smirk. I sniff and turn for my room, but before I can step forward, the largest guard reaches out and slides his hands through my hair and down my neck.

My palm is against his chest faster than a bolcrane claw, except without an Elemental surge the result is nothing more than a shove of annoyance. Two Bron soldiers grab me and pin my arms to my side as my Faelen guards offer no help, and the first man continues his search of my body.

I shudder and fight to ignore his rough touch down my skin and the slave memories it evokes.

“Just checking for weapons, miss.”

As soon as he finishes, I push him off and step into my quarters, then slam the door to the sound of tromping footfalls. A moment later, I hear an entourage enter Rasha’s room—the level of her squeal and the murmured fawning voices suggest it’s her bodyguards and lady-in-waiting.

Shaking off the sensation of the man’s hands, I turn to my room.
Get familiar with the environment.

It’s elegant, with walls covered in white paper flecked with giant black paisleys and set off by a black rug and a smooth-edged iron
bed. Nearby sits a couch, and a desk stands against a white-curtained window. I stroll over to peek out and find a full view of the airship pad we just left, with the ship now settled on giant metal ribbing while the balloon above deflates.

A knock on the door is followed by a man’s voice. “Your bag, miss.”

I open it up to one of Rasha’s bodyguards holding a case that has Faelen’s crest on the side. He tips his head. “From the princess.”

There’s no armoire in my room, so I unload the bag onto a set of five empty iron shelves stacked against one wall like the wood ones in Adora’s library. I’m halfway through tugging out my blue leathers before it occurs to me that the clothes have already been rifled through. Which means the Bron guards sifted over every inch of this bag, and they didn’t bother to hide the fact.

My knives.

Yanking out the rest of the clothes, most of which look suspiciously like Rasha’s Cashlin style, I feel around down at the bottom of the case for my weapons. Not there. I slide my fingers along the sides until I come across a small slip of material that, when pulled on, reveals a false front. Not there either.

Litched cranes.

I glare around the room and, chewing my lip, try to squelch the feeling of helplessness.
What was Myles thinking? No powers, no knives, not even the blasted sheath with the straps . . .

I freeze.

And turn back to the bag. What
was
Myles thinking? Because knowing him, he most
definitely
was.

I feel over the two stiff straps attached to the case and, sure enough, at the base of each is a section that’s hard and unbending. I tug the material open along one of the seams and there, wedged in,
is the tip of one of my knife handles with its blade jutting into the side lining of the bag. It takes a bit of work to slide the blades out, but when I’ve got them in hand, my breathing eases.

I tear up an undergarment and use it to strap the knives to my ankles before putting the rest of the clothes away. After that I turn to find the water basin for washing. Only there isn’t one. It takes me a half minute of searching the room before I think to try a thin door in the wall near the bed.

It’s a water closet of some sort. Similar to the one on the airship with its fixtures made of iron rather than wood, and the basin for hand washing fused to the table. This one’s larger though. I poke at the weird spigot arched above the bowl and abruptly jump back as a stream of clear liquid shoots out at me.
What the—?
I prod it again and the stream pours out into the basin.
It’s like an indoor well pump.
But the water is warm.

My gaze falls on a bigger version set into the floor.
For washing the entire body?
And beside it sits something akin to a waste bucket, but it too has a spigot of water over it. Considering there’s not much of a smell, it appears to be for rinsing the bowl when one’s lavatories are finished.
Huh.
I poke it to confirm my assumptions and am rewarded with a splash of water to the face.

“Teeth of a motherless pig!” Cursing the inventor of such an obtuse item, I use the coarse cloth on the table to wash down my body with the hand basin spigot. Once finished, I take my hair down from its thick braid and find the brush Rasha packed to run through my tangles before peering at the clothes she sent. I hold them up and wrinkle my nose. Most of them seem to be missing sections where the stomach and shoulders should be. “How on earth—?” I flip them sideways. I drop them and opt to change into my nicest pair of leathers.

I’ve just pulled my last bootie on when a commotion in the outside hall suggests it’s time to go.

I slide over to the door and press my ear against it to hear the elderly man’s voice announcing an invitation to the king’s banquet. It’s followed by a procession of taps on metal, including the door I’m leaning against.

I straighten my shirt and shoulders and, firming my jaw, open it to discover the old man is standing a few feet in front of me. He nods stiffly, and as his eyes catch mine, there’s a coldness in their brown depths. It’s so unfeeling, so unwelcoming. I glare back at him before his gaze moves on to the other delegates emerging into the hall. I shoot a quick peek around for the boy, Kel, although, of course, he’s not here. I hope he made it off the ship without getting caught.

“Good evening,” the old man says as soon as we’re all assembled. His cheeks crinkle in thick lines belying the stiffness in his tone. He reminds me of owner number two’s grandfather.

I sneak a peek at Rasha and am relieved to discover she’s preoccupied with her Cashlin guards. I inch toward Lord Myles, who smells like he fell into a barrel of cologne.

“I am Sir Gowon and I extend to you Bron’s highest welcome.” The old man raises his fist to his chest and thumps it over his heart, and my ears prick at his name. I look at him closer. He’s the man Eogan said to speak with.

“We’re honored you’ve come. And even more honored you have returned us our king, Ezeoha—or as he is known to you, Eogan—Bron’s prince long thought dead. For this you have our people’s gratitude and my personal thanks.” For a moment I swear there’s a hint of warmth in his voice.

I wonder what Eogan means to him.

Or what he
meant
to him.
I flinch as Eogan’s comment slips into mind that by the time I told Gowon, it would be too late for him.

I turn to Myles. “We need to go do it now.”

“And assume he’d not notice your absence at the banquet? You’re jesting.”

“Eogan doesn’t have time left.” My words come out a shrill whisper.

“Patience is a skill, my dear. One best used to your advantage.”

Sir Gowon extends a hand. “Now if you’ll follow me. Tonight we celebrate the new king’s return with a banquet.”