A Court of Wings and Ruin
Page 67
Or tried to—again. I soared for about half a minute, savoring the cleansing scream of the wind, before my wings wobbled, my back strained, and the fall became unbearably deadly. I winnowed the rest of the way to the town house, and adjusted vases and figurines in the sitting room while waiting for them.
Azriel arrived first, no shadows to be seen, my sister a pale, golden mass in his arms. He, too, wore his Illyrian armor, Elain’s golden-brown hair snagging in some of the black scales across his chest and shoulders.
He set her down gently on the foyer carpet, having carried her in through the front door.
Elain peered up at his patient, solemn face.
Azriel smiled faintly. “Would you like me to show you the garden?”
She seemed so small before him, so fragile compared to the scales of his fighting leathers, the breadth of his shoulders. The wings peeking over them.
But Elain did not balk from him, did not shy away as she nodded—just once.
Azriel, graceful as any courtier, offered her an arm. I couldn’t tell if she was looking at his blue Siphon or at his scarred skin beneath as she breathed, “Beautiful.”
Color bloomed high on Azriel’s golden-brown cheeks, but he inclined his head in thanks and led my sister toward the back doors into the garden, sunlight bathing them.
A moment later, Nesta was stomping through the front door, her face a remarkable shade of green. “I need—a toilet.”
I met Rhys’s stare as he prowled in behind her, hands in his pockets. What did you do?
His brows shot up. But I wordlessly pointed Nesta toward the powder room beneath the stairs, and she vanished, slamming the door behind her.
Me? Rhys leaned against the bottom post of the banister. She complained that I was flying deliberately slow. So I went fast.
Cassian and Lucien appeared, neither looking at the other. But Lucien’s attention went right to the hallway toward the back, his nostrils flaring as he scented Elain’s direction. And who she’d gone with.
A low snarl slipped out of him—
“Relax,” Rhys said. “Azriel isn’t the ravishing type.”
Lucien cut him a glare.
Mercifully, or perhaps not, Nesta’s retching filled the silence. Cassian gaped at Rhys. “What did you do?”
“I asked him the same thing,” I said, crossing my arms. “He said he ‘went fast.’ ”
Nesta vomited again—then silence.
Cassian sighed at the ceiling. “She’ll never fly again.”
The doorknob twisted, and we tried—or at least Cassian and I did—not to seem like we’d been listening to her. Nesta’s face was still greenish-pale, but … Her eyes burned.
There was no way of describing that burning—and even painting it might have failed.
Her eyes remained the same blue-gray as my own. And yet … Molten ore was all I could think of. Quicksilver set aflame.
She advanced a step toward us. All her attention fixed on Rhys.
Cassian casually stepped in her path, wings folded in tight. Feet braced apart on the carpet. A fighting stance—casual, but … his Siphons glimmered.
“Do you know,” Cassian drawled to her, “that the last time I got into a brawl in this house, I was kicked out for a month?”
Nesta’s burning gaze slid to him, still outraged—but hinted with incredulity.
He just went on, “It was Amren’s fault, of course, but no one believed me. And no one dared banish her.”
She blinked slowly.
But the burning, molten gaze became mortal. Or as mortal as one of us could be.
Until Lucien breathed, “What are you?”
Cassian didn’t seem to dare take his focus off Nesta. But my sister slowly looked at Lucien.
“I made it give something back,” she said with terrifying quiet. The Cauldron. The hairs along my arms rose. Nesta’s gaze flicked to the carpet, then to a spot on the wall. “I wish to go to my room.”
It took a moment to realize she’d spoken to me. I cleared my throat. “Up the stairs, on your right. Second door. Or the third—whichever suits you. The other is for Elain. We need to leave in …” I squinted at the clock in the sitting room. “Two hours.”
A shallow nod was her only acknowledgment and thanks.
We watched as she headed up the steps, her lavender gown trailing after her, one slender hand braced on the rail.
“I’m sorry,” Rhys called up after her.
Her hand tightened on the rail, the whites of her knuckles poking through her pale skin, but she didn’t say anything as she continued on.
“Is that sort of thing even possible?” Cassian murmured when the door to her room had shut. “For someone to take from the Cauldron’s essence?”
“It would seem so,” Rhys mused, then said to Lucien, “The flame in her eyes was not of your usual sort, I take it.”
Lucien shook his head. “No. It spoke to nothing in my own arsenal. That was … Ice so cold it burned. Ice and yet … fluid like flame. Or flame made of ice.”
“I think it’s death,” I said quietly.
I held Rhys’s gaze, as if it were again the tether that had kept me in this world. “I think the power is death—death made flesh. Or whatever power the Cauldron holds over such things. That’s why the Carver heard it—heard about her.”
“Mother above,” Lucien said, dragging a hand through his hair.
Cassian gave him a solemn nod.
But Rhys rubbed his jaw, weighing, thinking. Then he said simply, “Only Nesta would not just conquer Death—but pillage it.”
No wonder she didn’t wish to speak to anyone about it—didn’t wish to bear witness on our behalf. It had been mere seconds for us while she’d gone under.
I had never asked either of my sisters how long it had been for them inside that Cauldron.
“Azriel knows you’re watching,” Rhys drawled from where he stood before the mirror in our bedroom, adjusting the lapels of his black jacket.
The town house was a quiet flurry of activity as we prepared to leave. Mor and Amren had arrived half an hour ago, the former heading for the sitting room, the latter bearing a dress for my sister. I didn’t dare ask Amren to see what she’d selected for Nesta.
Training, Amren had said days ago. There were magical objects in the Court of Nightmares that my sister could study tonight, while we were occupied with Keir. I wondered if the Ouroboros was one of them—and made a note to ask Amren what she knew of the mirror the Carver so badly desired. Which I’d somehow have to convince Keir to part with tonight.
Azriel arrived first, no shadows to be seen, my sister a pale, golden mass in his arms. He, too, wore his Illyrian armor, Elain’s golden-brown hair snagging in some of the black scales across his chest and shoulders.
He set her down gently on the foyer carpet, having carried her in through the front door.
Elain peered up at his patient, solemn face.
Azriel smiled faintly. “Would you like me to show you the garden?”
She seemed so small before him, so fragile compared to the scales of his fighting leathers, the breadth of his shoulders. The wings peeking over them.
But Elain did not balk from him, did not shy away as she nodded—just once.
Azriel, graceful as any courtier, offered her an arm. I couldn’t tell if she was looking at his blue Siphon or at his scarred skin beneath as she breathed, “Beautiful.”
Color bloomed high on Azriel’s golden-brown cheeks, but he inclined his head in thanks and led my sister toward the back doors into the garden, sunlight bathing them.
A moment later, Nesta was stomping through the front door, her face a remarkable shade of green. “I need—a toilet.”
I met Rhys’s stare as he prowled in behind her, hands in his pockets. What did you do?
His brows shot up. But I wordlessly pointed Nesta toward the powder room beneath the stairs, and she vanished, slamming the door behind her.
Me? Rhys leaned against the bottom post of the banister. She complained that I was flying deliberately slow. So I went fast.
Cassian and Lucien appeared, neither looking at the other. But Lucien’s attention went right to the hallway toward the back, his nostrils flaring as he scented Elain’s direction. And who she’d gone with.
A low snarl slipped out of him—
“Relax,” Rhys said. “Azriel isn’t the ravishing type.”
Lucien cut him a glare.
Mercifully, or perhaps not, Nesta’s retching filled the silence. Cassian gaped at Rhys. “What did you do?”
“I asked him the same thing,” I said, crossing my arms. “He said he ‘went fast.’ ”
Nesta vomited again—then silence.
Cassian sighed at the ceiling. “She’ll never fly again.”
The doorknob twisted, and we tried—or at least Cassian and I did—not to seem like we’d been listening to her. Nesta’s face was still greenish-pale, but … Her eyes burned.
There was no way of describing that burning—and even painting it might have failed.
Her eyes remained the same blue-gray as my own. And yet … Molten ore was all I could think of. Quicksilver set aflame.
She advanced a step toward us. All her attention fixed on Rhys.
Cassian casually stepped in her path, wings folded in tight. Feet braced apart on the carpet. A fighting stance—casual, but … his Siphons glimmered.
“Do you know,” Cassian drawled to her, “that the last time I got into a brawl in this house, I was kicked out for a month?”
Nesta’s burning gaze slid to him, still outraged—but hinted with incredulity.
He just went on, “It was Amren’s fault, of course, but no one believed me. And no one dared banish her.”
She blinked slowly.
But the burning, molten gaze became mortal. Or as mortal as one of us could be.
Until Lucien breathed, “What are you?”
Cassian didn’t seem to dare take his focus off Nesta. But my sister slowly looked at Lucien.
“I made it give something back,” she said with terrifying quiet. The Cauldron. The hairs along my arms rose. Nesta’s gaze flicked to the carpet, then to a spot on the wall. “I wish to go to my room.”
It took a moment to realize she’d spoken to me. I cleared my throat. “Up the stairs, on your right. Second door. Or the third—whichever suits you. The other is for Elain. We need to leave in …” I squinted at the clock in the sitting room. “Two hours.”
A shallow nod was her only acknowledgment and thanks.
We watched as she headed up the steps, her lavender gown trailing after her, one slender hand braced on the rail.
“I’m sorry,” Rhys called up after her.
Her hand tightened on the rail, the whites of her knuckles poking through her pale skin, but she didn’t say anything as she continued on.
“Is that sort of thing even possible?” Cassian murmured when the door to her room had shut. “For someone to take from the Cauldron’s essence?”
“It would seem so,” Rhys mused, then said to Lucien, “The flame in her eyes was not of your usual sort, I take it.”
Lucien shook his head. “No. It spoke to nothing in my own arsenal. That was … Ice so cold it burned. Ice and yet … fluid like flame. Or flame made of ice.”
“I think it’s death,” I said quietly.
I held Rhys’s gaze, as if it were again the tether that had kept me in this world. “I think the power is death—death made flesh. Or whatever power the Cauldron holds over such things. That’s why the Carver heard it—heard about her.”
“Mother above,” Lucien said, dragging a hand through his hair.
Cassian gave him a solemn nod.
But Rhys rubbed his jaw, weighing, thinking. Then he said simply, “Only Nesta would not just conquer Death—but pillage it.”
No wonder she didn’t wish to speak to anyone about it—didn’t wish to bear witness on our behalf. It had been mere seconds for us while she’d gone under.
I had never asked either of my sisters how long it had been for them inside that Cauldron.
“Azriel knows you’re watching,” Rhys drawled from where he stood before the mirror in our bedroom, adjusting the lapels of his black jacket.
The town house was a quiet flurry of activity as we prepared to leave. Mor and Amren had arrived half an hour ago, the former heading for the sitting room, the latter bearing a dress for my sister. I didn’t dare ask Amren to see what she’d selected for Nesta.
Training, Amren had said days ago. There were magical objects in the Court of Nightmares that my sister could study tonight, while we were occupied with Keir. I wondered if the Ouroboros was one of them—and made a note to ask Amren what she knew of the mirror the Carver so badly desired. Which I’d somehow have to convince Keir to part with tonight.
