Chapter 11

‘Every single day ?’ Thysandra repeated, her soaring voice echoing along the alabaster corridor. ‘You can’t possibly mean—'

The fae male before her winced but didn’t retreat, even as his gaze cautiously shot back and forth between her and Nicanor by her side. ‘I … I’m just reporting what she said, Your Majesty. I don’t mean to endorse anything, of course.’

Gods help her.

‘Yes, of course,’ she managed through gritted teeth. There were too many people listening for her to lose control of herself, even if a significant part of her felt like crumbling to dust and never getting up again. Dust at least wouldn’t have to deal with sharp-toothed seductresses. ‘I’ll have a word with the demon herself about this. Please continue the report.’

The story came out with much hemming and hawing, none of it particularly relevant but for the confirmation of the Labyrinth’s sentient nature. Somehow, over the course of twenty-four hours, the fact had almost begun to seem like some trivial detail to Thysandra; she needed the sagging jaws and widening eyes of her audience to remind her it would be the very opposite to all other members of her court.

It might just be for the best. This way, at least they were all too occupied with the news of the Labyrinth to realise they were now stuck with a murderous demon for gods-knew-how-long – until their High Lady found some other way to handle the equally murderous mountain beneath the castle, and unfortunately, the High Lady in question had no idea where to even start .

So much for ending this madness.

So much for sleeping in her own bed again.

‘Thank you,’ she cut in as soon as the story had reached its sort-of-end; she wasn’t going to give the gathered flock of fae around her any chance to subside into hysterics again. ‘Glad you’ve all returned home safely. If anyone runs into Anaxia, tell her I want a word with her – and please stay the hell away from her otherwise, will you?’

By the looks on the faces around her, nobody had needed that reminder.

‘Off you go, then,’ she told them.

Off they went.

It was getting easier surprisingly quickly, giving commands as if she deserved to – and odder still, more and more people were actually listening . Even with Naxi’s presence hanging over her head, it was hard not to feel a sting of satisfaction as the corridor quieted within seconds. Perhaps it wouldn’t be that bad to have a demon hovering around. At least now the rest of the world knew there were clear, objective reasons for it that had absolutely nothing to do with Thysandra’s personal preferences, and—

‘Thysandra?’ Nicanor said, holding open the door of the map room for which they’d been headed, politely gesturing for her to go first. ‘Time to get back to work, then?’

It was the hope that did it.

It was the stupid, dewy-eyed notion of things possibly going well that had her stepping through that doorway and into the room without her habitual glances to each side, those checks she always ran through before entering any new environment – and it was because of that stupid, dewy-eyed negligence that she did not notice the attacker before the first flash of red magic exploded towards her face.

She dodged before she thought.

Battle reflexes took over, dulling everything in the world but the immediate presence of danger, the simple facts of defence and survival. A winged shape lunged from between the cabinets. A knife flashed. She spun around, wing hitting wood, narrowly missing the blade diving for her throat; her own hand fell to her red dress even as her mind whirled to identify those black wings, that dark head of curls. Where the hell had she seen this male before?

Not the time to think. He was already turning back around. Bright crimson shot from her fingertips as she drew the colour from her dress, and destruction slashed her attacker’s wrist, sending his knife clattering to the floor. One more blow and he’d be done for. She aimed, barely hearing Nicanor’s cry of alarm as her focus zoned in on nothing but a vulnerable, dark-skinned throat …

‘ Traitor !’ the male before her screeched.

She stiffened.

He leapt forward again.

Red filled her vision in the same moment, and pain splintered through her left shoulder, inches away from her heart. Blood spurted from the wound. Which meant she had to act. She had to act now and save herself, but—

‘Just like your gods-damned father!’ that half-familiar voice spat.

Father.

Father .

And at once she was no longer there, bleeding and staggering back in some nameless map room at the heart of the Crimson Court. Instead she stood on the precipice above Faewood, the Mother’s hand on her shoulder as beneath her a hound’s jaws closed around her father’s leg. As bone snapped. As he cried her name again and again and she couldn’t move, couldn’t—

Her head was slammed back against a wall.

She barely felt it.

Traitor. Traitor. Traitor. What was the use of fighting, if that was where she’d end up after all – cast out and torn apart by the court she’d tried to serve? Hands bound, wings bound. Running from her death the way Father had tried to run, not away from the hounds but towards her—

‘Thysandra!’ someone shouted in the distance.

Not Father’s voice.

The red magic dulled, then sizzled out around her.

Nicanor – that was Nicanor who was dragging her accuser away from her, his pale face flushed with shock and effort. Only then did she recognise the young fae thrashing and writhing in his grip. Symeon. The same male she’d told to grab a mop and take care of the bloodstains yesterday – but surely that wasn’t why he’d attacked her, was it? That would be ridiculous, wouldn’t it?

Although it was better than—

Traitor .

She couldn’t make herself move, thrown wing-first against the wall like a discarded ragdoll. Mere feet away, Nicanor dragged Symeon against the nearest cabinet, drawing a long dagger from his belt with the ease of a male who took lives like he took breaths.

No , she wanted to shout. Wait.

Nothing but a strangled sound escaped her. Neither male seemed to hear her.

‘No!’ Symeon choked, his eyes widening with terror as he caught sight of the blade. ‘Wait, no, Nicanor! I was just—’

Just joking?

Just messing around?

She’d never know. Sharp steel ripped through his bobbing throat before he could finish that wafer-thin excuse, and he collapsed with nothing but a last wet gurgle. Blood spattered the floor, Nicanor’s pristine black coat, as the twitching body sank to the ground and went utterly, lifelessly still.

For a moment, the room was so silent she could hear the blood dripping onto the floorboards.

Then Nicanor hoarsely said, ‘ Fuck . ’

She didn’t manage to respond to that. She barely even managed to move as he strode towards her and pulled her back to her feet, his left hand straying to his coat as his right pressed against her wound. Blue for healing . The black lace turned a tawny brown as he drew, and the stinging pain in her shoulder softened until nothing but the aching memory remained. That and—

Traitor .

It still seemed to echo around the room.

‘Fuck,’ Nicanor repeated, out of breath as he retreated and glanced back and forth between Symeon and her. His fingers twitched around the hilt of his knife. ‘You’re alright? Or, well …’

She was not alright.

She was farther from alright than she’d been in days.

‘He … he called me …’ Her hands clung to the wall behind her, as if her knees would buckle again without that minimal support. ‘He …’

‘Yes. Fuck.’ Nicanor drew in a deep breath, his eyes a little too wide as he threw yet another wary glance at Symeon’s corpse. ‘I was hoping— But clearly that was …’

He faltered. Panicked, perhaps, and still tense from the fight – but not, she realised with a sinking, sickening sensation in her guts, surprised.

She could barely breathe. In the back of her mind, the hounds were howling, snarling, louder than her own stifled voice.

‘What were you hoping?’ she rasped, dark blots crowding the edges of her sight.

‘Look, there’ve been … rumours.’ He threw a hurried glance into the corridor, then slammed the door with nothing of his usual icy composure and turned to lean against it. The hand he rubbed over his temple was bloodied, leaving bright red smears behind on his pale skin. ‘I’m not sure who started it – Bereas has been talking a lot, but I don’t think he’s the only one saying … well, you know?’

‘No!’ Her voice cracked. ‘No, I don’t know, Nicanor.’

‘Saying that you sold us out,’ he hastily clarified, his blue eyes cautious as he kept his gaze trained on her. As if she might lash out at any moment. As if she might just be that traitorous bitch the court was whispering about. ‘That you helped the Alliance win the battle in return for this court. They’ve been mentioning Echion.’

Echion.

Her gods-damned traitor father.

Worst of all … were they even wrong?

‘But …’ she stammered without knowing what she would say – knowing only that she had to say something . ‘But …’

‘I know.’ He closed his eyes for half a heartbeat, then looked up again, visibly steeling himself. ‘Thys, I’m really, really sorry I’m even asking this at all, but did you betray anything? Even just the smallest bit of information? I’m not saying—’

‘No!’ she shrieked again – too fast, too shrill, sounding like a liar. Her heartbeat was a blur in the tips of her fingers. ‘No, of course I didn’t! You’ve known me for hundreds of years, for hell’s sake – you know me better than that, don’t you?’

His wings and shoulders sagged simultaneously. ‘Yes. Yes, of course I do, but …’

A small, dripping silence stretched between them.

But it was his life on the line as well, she realised belatedly – his reputation, at least, which boiled down to the same thing. If the accusation spread, he would be the Lord Protector who’d bound himself to a treasonous High Lady. Perhaps he’d be spared the hounds, but he’d be dead all the same.

Guilt sunk its teeth into her heart, speeding her already frantic pulse.

‘I told Bereas the same,’ Nicanor finally said, his thin lips twisting into a familiar sneer at the mention of the name. She clung to it with all of her being – more reassuring to see him venomous and calculating than to deal with his uncharacteristic panic and its implications. ‘That you’d be the last person in the world to betray anyone. I just … I just wanted to be sure the Alliance won’t be releasing any damaging information while we’re trying to keep you alive.’

Her throat squeezed shut without warning.

Emelin. Fucking Emelin .

‘If they do, they’re liars,’ she choked out – a pathetic defence against that attack that would be coming sooner or later. ‘Gods know what game they’re playing with us, but—’

‘I know,’ he interrupted, rubbing blood over his forehead, his pale brows. ‘But people will believe them, won’t they?’

They would.

Fuck. She wanted to close her eyes. She wanted to sink onto the floor and curl her wings around herself, wanted to pretend he and his words and Symeon’s bleeding corpse did not exist – fuck, fuck, fuck .

‘What do I do?’ she said instead, voice small like a child’s.

‘I’m not sure.’ He was quiet for a moment but for his pacing footsteps, brisk and restrained. ‘We should probably be careful not to fan the flames right now. Perhaps don’t make any decisions that could be seen as going against the court’s interest for a while. Even if we both know things are more nuanced than that, I doubt Bereas will care much about nuance.’

Oh, yes, she knew what Bereas would have to say about food treaties and human rights – but if she didn’t do either of those things …

Emelin told me some immensely interesting things about your time with the Alliance , Inga had said.

Traitor if she helped them. Traitor if she didn’t.

There was no escaping the net as it slowly, mercilessly closed around her.

‘I … I’ll try to keep it in mind.’ Feeble, meaningless words. She barely had a mind left in the first place. ‘I’ll be careful. I’ll …’

She ran out of words again.

Nicanor’s sharp features softened into something she might have called concern if she’d thought him capable of an emotion that altruistic. ‘Do I need to get you back to your rooms?’

‘No need. I’ll fly there.’ The last she needed was for the court to see him haul her up the stairs; it wouldn’t just be a sign of weakness, but a source of unwelcome gossip, too. ‘Get Symeon’s corpse out of here and make someone clean the room. And … and investigate whether he was working with anyone, will you? ’

‘He wasn’t the brightest,’ Nicanor said wryly, throwing the young male’s body an icy look. ‘Might have come up with a senseless plan like this all on his own. I’ll check, though.’

‘Thank you.’ Her body seemed to have grown five times heavier as she pushed herself away from the wall, glancing down at the blood soaking her dress and staining her skin. ‘For pulling him off me, too.’

‘Made a bargain.’ He turned his wrist with an elegant flick of his hand, demonstrating the purple mark in his skin – almost back to his usual polished, calculating demeanour, and yet the threads of tension remained there in his every movement. For a moment, she dared to believe he would have saved her even without his magical obligation of loyalty. ‘And I told you I like you more than most people.’

For now.

If he ever found out – her treason, her lies …

‘Thank you,’ she breathed again, staggering to the window.

He didn’t stop her as she swung open the frame and let herself fall out, into the blissful emptiness of the open air.

Her wings swept out to catch her mid-fall, and for a single moment she was weightless and free – as if she could just abandon this mess any moment she wanted, as if she wasn’t chained to the court behind her by her own guilty secrets and Emelin’s vicious scheming. Then her gaze swept over the grounds below, the mountain slopes and the grey-green forest beyond.

Faewood.

Where traitors went to die.

The memory of her father’s death seized her again, crashing over her with such force she nearly lost control of her wingbeats. Why, why was that cursed execution still haunting her? She hadn’t thought of it in years – in decades – before this hell of a week. Yet here he was, the backstabbing Echion Thenes, rising from the grave to wreck her life all over again …

Although he’d certainly had help this time.

A brand new fury sparked in her veins. She veered off-course just moments before she reached the high, vine-framed windows of her rooms .

What was it she expected to achieve? She wasn’t even sure. But the new rage bubbling from her fear and despair wouldn’t let her do nothing , and if she was to find the object of her wrath anywhere, it surely wouldn’t be in the hermetically locked safe haven of her quarters … So into the stairwell of her tower she swept instead, covered in blood and trembling with terrified anger. Up the last dozen steps to her own floor, to find—

‘Sashka!’

Naxi.

Waiting for her.

There was a single glimpse of shining blue eyes and a smile as bright as the midday sun before that blushing face darkened abruptly, demon senses catching up with the storm of emotions that came roaring in. Thysandra didn’t slow. Didn’t take note of the shrill questions and demands for an explanation as she unlocked her door and shoved the both of them inside, away from the prying eyes and ears of the court.

‘There’s blood on your dress!’ Naxi shrieked, struggling against her hold as Thysandra slammed the door shut behind her. ‘Who hurt you? Who hurt —’

‘Shut. Up .’ The rush in her ears was deafening. She dragged the wrestling demon in her arms to the couch, not caring for once about the heated sensation of their bodies pressed together – not when the flames were all anger, all violent fear. Their faces were far too close as she threw Naxi into the cushions, and she couldn’t be bothered about that, either. All that mattered was the rage boiling within her – at her father, yes, but her father was dead, and here before her sat the one other culprit to blame for this predicament that would kill her …

‘Why?’ she heard herself gasp, chest heaving, hands clawing into thin, pale shoulders. ‘Why did you have to turn me against the Mother, you fucking blight?’