26. Leni

“Is he dead?” I ask, mind racing, struggling to process.

I don’t care.

I don’t.

I just—why didn’t he come for me? Why send Andromeda?

He barely flinched when a bullet carved out a home in his shoulder, sewed it up like he was trimming split ends. If he isn’t here, if he couldn’t come, if he sent someone else …

“Was he shot?” I ask, still not caring.

Maybe a little.

A fraction of me still clings to the male who vowed to protect me in the warmth of the pub, smelling faintly of orange and rain, fingers twirling my hair.

The rest of me is bitter and angry and requires revenge. I’m not a killer, but a swift kick to the balls? Let’s do it. A kick me sign on the back? Yes. An onslaught of pointed negs. I’m making a list.

I’ll hurt him back, and leave him, like he left me.

Why did I think he would stay?

Because we got along? Shared a few laughs? Because he tossed a few compliments at me? Because he liked the blue? It’s a five-dollar box dye.

So what if his kiss made me feel alive, hopeful?

Meda—no one calls me Andromeda, Leni—bounces hard in the seat next to me as she wipes her face with what’s left of her skirt.

“Who?” she asks, throwing her golden gaze behind us, snatching up her dagger. Confusion clouds her features.

“Cross.”

“What?”

“Cross,” I hiss. “Atlas sent you to collect me for Cross. Me. Leni.” My hands, covered in a layer of smeared dirt, are raised in surrender. Fresh sweat on my forehead trickles down, mingling with the grime on my face. The entire car now carries our scent, pine sap and smoke. “Your spymaster, remember?”

Meda is efficient and purposeful. For nearly ten hours, she’s kept us moving. Sprinting through dense woods, absconding a backfiring ATV, squeezing us onto a cramped bus, hiding like stowaways on a train, and now in this beast of a car.

If it can be called that.

It’s more like a tank. It lacks any semblance of comfort and safety. The windows are blacked out from the inside, the lap belts struggle to hold us in place, and the constant rumble of the engine rattles my teeth, vibrating through the worn-out seat cushions.

Meda shakes her head as if clearing cobwebs from a forgotten corner of her mind. Her posture relaxes slightly and her clutch on her decked out dagger loosens. “Cross?” She doesn’t sound familiar, more like she’s attempting to jog her memories.

“Yes,” I grunt, barely audible over the engine’s thrum. “Cross. Brown hair, eyes like midnight shooting stars.”

We keep doing this. Having this same conversation.

She wiped his name off her arm while we waited in line at the Poughkeepsie bus station, along with bullet points one and two—retrieve Leni and erase tracks.

I added a step one point five, ripping down the lanterns in Draven’s halls, nearly lighting us on fire as we escaped.

“Meticulous,” she mutters, squinting at the roof. “Paranoid.” A nod. “He’s alive. Kind of.”

Kind of?I fist the singed ruffles of my dress. “Was he shot?”

“I can’t …” she trails off, her eyes haunted by what isn’t there. “I told him we wouldn’t be followed. And Atlas never breaks his word. He said if I obeyed his instructions, no one could track us.”

“Andromeda. Can you just focus? Cross. What happened to him?”

“Fuck this,” she snaps, unwinding her apron and unbuckling her seatbelt. Not hesitating as she rams her boot through the driver’s gray partition.

A faint groan escapes Sin’s lips in protest. “Hey,” he complains. “The plan is—”

“Yeah, I’ve been briefed on the plan, but I just remembered that the spymaster isn’t my boss, and you’re making me carsick with your horrible driving,” she replies, climbing into the front seat and plopping down, dirty boots propped on the dash.

White dusted mountains fill the windshield, dense with fluffy snow-laden trees and rounded peaks.

I focus at the beautiful male behind the wheel. “What about you? Can you tell me what happened to Cross?”

“The bride to be. What a pleasure.” Sin directs a wink in the rearview mirror, one of his hands on the wheel, the other shaking an iced coffee. “Oh darling, white is not your color.”

“I’m aware.” I grit out. The dress is filthy, the train knotted, blackened, tucked in a ball at my back. I don’t care. “Where is he?” I’m impatient, worried we’re dragging, worried Andromeda’s going to grab her dagger again and threaten me.

“Who’s Cross?” Meda asks, like I’m speaking in tongues.

“Cross!” I shout, pushing myself up from the seat. “Your friend! Your brother! The one who sticks his neck out for your information, who protects you and fights for you despite getting nothing in return, not even a familiar look from you. He calls you his family and you don’t even know him. You—”

“Calm. Down.”

I do.

As quick as that.

Sin’s command is like a tropical breeze across my senses. The weight on my chest evaporates, my pulse settles.

“Good girl,” Sin continues in the same decadent tone. “All we’ve been told is that Atlas requires your lovely presence. And he dispatched the Blackguard’s ultimate dream team, these sultry, ferocious honey pots, to collect you. Isn’t that right, my darling Andromeda?”

“No,” she deadpans. “You sat in a damn car for half a day wanking it. I’m the one who did the actual work.”

“I’m not a plebeian, Meda. I demand a certain ambiance and sensual accoutrements to wank it.” Sin’s tone is saccharine, and I can’t discern if he’s being sarcastic or genuine.

Meda’s as dry with him as she is with me. “Yes. That’s why you were charged with indecent exposure at Denny’s.”

“If you read the report,” Sin fires back. “I wasn’t wanking anything, I was getting—”

“Why didn’t Atlas send Cross?” I interrupt, ending the debate.

“His royal micropenis only hires females,” Meda drawls. “And Sin’s got the lashes, but his persuasion has its limitations.”

Sin’s persuasion. I read something about that in Kadmos’s dirty scrawl, in one of his journals. The ability to manipulate emotion. It strikes me as relatively useless as I nestle down in my seat, suddenly overcome with exhaustion.

I’ll get answers when I can. In the meantime, might as well rest, try to eat.

I jolt. “You’re doing it to me!”

“Now you understand how we feel,” Sin croons, as the dregs of peace and weariness flake off my skin. “You honestly believe we like forgetting our own brother? We can’t help it. If I say calm, you’ll be calm. If he leaves the room, we forget.”

He stops the car abruptly, throws it into park to share a knowing look with Meda. “So mine worked fine. Which means she’s just immune to him.”

Meda seems surprised. “Atlas will be sad.”

“Atlas sent me to my death,” I balk.

“Oh gee, would love to discuss more, but we’re here.” She twists in her seat with a phony smile. “I vote bath, food, and then nap. What do you say?”

“I’m not doing anything until I see Cross.” I launch myself out of the car, determined, and freeze as soon as my silk slippers hit stone.

Hereis a pre-independence day mansion, trapped in a forest of naked trees, their gnarled branches clawing at the hazy sky.

He’s in there.

I swallow, bolster myself, and stride forward, the chilled afternoon air raising goosebumps on my bare arms. With each step, my anger simmers hotter, boiling my blood.

Before I can charge in, insults flying, the front door swings open, reveals a cavernous foyer lit by the flicker of sconces.

“Thank fucking hells,” comes Atlas’s voice.

Then he’s taking my arm, towing me across the marble floors. He looks bad. Icy blue shirt wrinkled, untucked, purple shadows stuck to his eyes. His stare is simultaneously focused and wired.

Someone shouts from down the hall.

“What took you so long?” Atlas growls at me.

Instead of balking, I lunge at him. Slam my fist into his nose. His head snaps back, and a deluge of shimmering pale pink blood sprays.

“Sweet Hera, that hurt.” I shake out my hand, knuckles burning.

Atlas’s jaw clenches. “You done?” he asks, voice tepid, as if my attack didn’t register. Shiny pink smears on his mouth.

“I’ll save the rest for your spymaster.”

“Take it out on me,” he offers, raising his chin for the blow. He stands tall, statuesque. A martyr.

Rage churns inside me. “You have values all of a sudden? You sold me out!” I’m on a roll with this shouting thing, hands shaking, chest tight. “You betrayed me. You might as well have sentenced me to death.”

Atlas steps close to me, every bit the cursed leader. Dark eyes, penetrating glare. “You were, and still are, a threat to my entire team. Don’t think for a second that I would have allowed your return if I didn’t need you.” A disgusted glance. “I would have killed you if he hadn’t made it impossible.”

I’ve had quite enough of males threatening to kill me.

I punch him again, harder. It’s sloppy, smashes my knuckles into his teeth.

He curses, grabs my elbow, yanks me against him. Seething. Nostrils flared. The last thing I expect him to say is, “I’m sorry.”

The fight drains from me. “You’re … what?”

Eyes that have witnessed some of the worst violence in the realm drift over me with surprise and admiration. “I’m sorry, Leni.”

Maybe I should punch people more often.

Another shout, followed by a curse. A door shuts.

“That’s him,” Atlas says urgently, dragging me again, rushing toward the commotion. A door swings open, and Lev stumbles out, barely able to stand.

“Thank fuck,” he wheezes when he sees us, collapsing against the wall and raking back unruly hair. The male who once seemed invincible crumbles to an echo of his former self. “Talk to him,” he begs at me. “You have to talk to him.”

Atlas nods at me, pushes me into the room.

I take a deep breath, acid raining over the inside of my lungs.

Metal chains bind Cross to a bed. To little more than a threadbare mattress. Sheets lie torn beneath him. Red and white confetti.

His arm is taped over a dozen times with bandages and needles and he’s screaming.

He’s screaming like he’s being boiled alive, flailing against the chains, clawing frantically.

“What is happening?” I whisper, tears welling. Raw eviscerating heartache clears my anger. I shift my gaze to the Blackguard dejected in the hall. “What have you done to him?”

This pain, this pain is …

Atlas responds with the cold detachment of a royal healer delivering bad news. “It’s been two weeks. And he’s done nothing but fantasize about your return. Ten days ago, the curse started, the pain set in. He refuses to listen to us. He only thinks of you. He’s breaking apart, starving himself. Luke tried to administer fluids, but he attacks when we get close.”

Ten days. Ten days of agony, and not even the most selfish part of me wants to preen at this.

Cautious, heart pounding, I approach him. His lips are dry and cracked as he screams out. His bloodshot eyes glare at the vacant white ceiling. He’s immobile with agony, utterly tormented.

Tears sting my eyes. “You chained him down,” I grate, consumed with fury.

“He was hurting himself,” Atlas defends. “Tearing off his skin to get free.”

“Make it stop!” Cross shrieks, voice raw, choked.

I’m across the room then, pulse racing. He’s violent, thrashing in agony, both vulnerable and terrifying. For a moment, I’m paralyzed with fear, overwhelmed by the power flooding through him, but then instinct takes over and I place my hands on his shoulders.

“Cross?” I hover above him, dirty periwinkle hair falling into his face. “Hey, Cross.” My voice is fake, sweet and trembling, and a sham of calm. “You have to stop this now, okay?” I swallow. “Cross?”

Cold as ice, Atlas cuts in, “You need to say something about the king. Talk to him, tell him about the black flames now. Get him to focus.”

I want to. I’m ready to spill everything, every secret, but I feel the caress of Cross’s gaze on mine at the pub, hear his lies.

I remember how Yaya would lament losing her queen, and I’d receive a snarky checkmate two moves later. Innocent, little bird, don’t be so trusting.

My fingers tremble around Cross’s as I unleash eye daggers on Atlas. “Is this by design? Did you torture him to extract information from me?”

The Chire wears nothing of his usual nonchalance. “Would that have worked? Do you love him so much?”

Love? Who said anything about love? “I …”

I don’t say anything. I just turn back to Cross.

“It’s a Phoenix,” I tell him, voice shaky, thin. “A Phoenix was involved in the king’s death, remember? You have to remember. You need to search for a Phoenix. They can burn black.”

Cross convulses, a needle snaps in his arm. His eyes slam shut.

I repeat myself, keep repeating myself, telling him everything I’ve already revealed. Anything that might help him survive this torture.

My lips brush against his ear as my voice cracks, and I have to bend over him to whisper. I smell sweat and blood and salt. “Focus for me. Please.”

I don’t know how long I talk, but eventually, either the pain throttles him or the exhaustion. I memorize his heartbeat under my palm, neither slow nor steady but less rampant, less terrorizing.

I push my forehead into his neck and squeeze his hand.

And then Cross’s face is turning into me, his expression contorted in pain.

I sob.

A growl rises from his chest.

Metal clangs. He’s pushing himself up, fighting the shackles.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” I croak, panicked, throwing my hands over his.

“Get these chains off me,” he snarls, voice strained and rasping.

“We can’t. I’m so sorry.” I wipe tears off my face with my shoulder. “I’m so sorry.” I bend over him again, press into him in an awkward embrace, trying futilely to offer comfort.

Pain. Unspeakable pain. So much pain he was killing himself.

Ten days of pain.

A long finger curls over my palm. “Leni,” Cross rasps. Weak. So weak.

I wipe my face again. “Focus on the king. Think of your mission. Protect yourself.”

“My only desire is to protect you.”

“No.” I’m tightening the restraint on his chest, sobbing. “I’m sorry, but you have to focus. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t apologize to me.” His low tone is suddenly vicious. Stronger. “Ever. Understand. I …” He jerks, pushes out a frustrated groan. “Undo the chains!”

Atlas slithers to my side, nods. “She’s done her job. Remove her.”

Lev’s heavy steps approach, bulky hands land on my shoulders.

I cling to the metal rails of the bed frame. “No.”

The bed splinters under Cross. He wrenches the frame’s bars apart, still welded around his hands, forces himself to sit, severing thick chains. “Let go of her.”

The Russian hesitates.

“Now,” Cross snarls, eyes darkening viciously. “She’s mine.”