Queen of Shadows
Page 87
There was a roaring in her ears, a burning in her face, and she swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.”
Oh, gods.
He was over three hundred years old. Immortal. And she—she …
“I didn’t mean—” She backed away a step, toward the door on the other side of the roof. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “It was nothing.”
“Good,” he said, going for the roof door himself. “Fine.”
Rowan didn’t say anything else as he stalked downstairs. Alone, she scrubbed at her wet face, at the oily smear of cosmetics.
Don’t touch me like that.
A clear line in the sand. A line—because he was three hundred years old, and immortal, and had lost his flawless mate, and she was … She was young and inexperienced and his carranam and queen, and he wanted nothing more than that. If she hadn’t been so foolish, so stupidly unaware, maybe she would have realized that, understood that though she’d seen his eyes shine with hunger—hunger for her—it didn’t mean he wanted to act on it. Didn’t mean he might not hate himself for it.
Oh, gods.
What had she done?
The rain sliding down the windows cast slithering shadows on the wooden floor, on the painted walls of Arobynn’s bedroom.
Lysandra had been watching it for some time now, listening to the steady rhythm of the storm and to the breathing of the man sleeping beside her. Utterly unconscious.
If she were to do it, it would have to be now—when his sleep was deepest, when the rain covered up most sounds. A blessing from Temis, Goddess of Wild Things, who had once watched over her as a shape-shifter and who never forgot the caged beasts of the world.
Three words—that was all that had been written on the note Aelin slipped her earlier that night; a note still tucked into the hidden pocket of her discarded underwear.
He’s all yours.
A gift, she knew—a gift from the queen who had nothing else to give a no-name whore with a sad story.
Lysandra turned onto her side, staring now at the naked man sleeping inches away, at the red silk of his hair spilled across his face.
He’d never once suspected who had fed Aelin the details about Cormac. But that had always been her ruse with Arobynn—the skin she’d worn since childhood. He had never thought otherwise of her vapid and vain behavior, never bothered to. If he had, he wouldn’t keep a knife under his pillow and let her sleep in this bed with him.
He hadn’t been gentle tonight, and she knew she would have a bruise on her forearm from where he’d gripped her too tightly. Victorious, smug, a king certain of his crown, he hadn’t even noticed.
At dinner, she’d seen the expression flash across his face when he caught Aelin and Rowan smiling at each other. All of Arobynn’s jabs and stories had failed to find their mark tonight because Aelin had been too lost in Rowan to hear.
She wondered whether the queen knew. Rowan did. Aedion did. And Arobynn did. He had understood that with Rowan, she was no longer afraid of him; with Rowan, Arobynn was now utterly unnecessary. Irrelevant.
He’s all yours.
After Aelin had left, as soon as he’d stopped strutting about the house, convinced of his absolute mastery over the queen, Arobynn had called in his men.
Lysandra hadn’t heard the plans, but she knew the Fae Prince would be his first target. Rowan would die—Rowan had to die. She’d seen it in Arobynn’s eyes as he watched the queen and her prince holding hands, grinning at each other despite the horrors around them.
Lysandra slid her hand beneath the pillow as she sidled up to Arobynn, nestling against him. He didn’t stir; his breathing remained deep and steady.
He’d never had trouble sleeping. The night he’d killed Wesley he slept like the dead, unaware of the moments when even her iron will couldn’t keep the silent tears from falling.
She would find that love again—one day. And it would be deep and unrelenting and unexpected, the beginning and the end and eternity, the kind that could change history, change the world.
The hilt of the stiletto was cool in her hand, and as Lysandra rolled back over, no more than a restless sleeper, she pulled it with her.
Lightning gleamed on the blade, a flicker of quicksilver.
For Wesley. For Sam. For Aelin.
And for herself. For the child she’d been, for the seventeen-year-old on her Bidding night, for the woman she’d become, her heart in shreds, her invisible wound still bleeding.
It was so very easy to sit up and slice the knife across Arobynn’s throat.
45
The man strapped to the table was screaming as the demon ran its hands down his bare chest, its nails digging in and leaving blood in their wake.
Listen to him, the demon prince hissed. Listen to the music he makes.
Beyond the table, the man who usually sat on the glass throne said, “Where are the rebels hiding?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know!” the man shrieked.
The demon ran a second nail down the man’s chest. There was blood everywhere.
Do not cringe, spineless beast. Watch; savor.
The body—the body that might once have been his—had betrayed him entirely. The demon gripped him tightly, forcing him to watch as his own hands gripped a cruel-looking device, fitting it onto the man’s face, and began tightening.
“Answer me, rebel,” the crowned man said.
The man screamed as the mask tightened.
He might have begun screaming, too—might have begun begging the demon to stop.
Coward—human coward. Do you not taste his pain, his fear?
He could, and the demon shoved every bit of delight it felt into him.
Had he been able to vomit, he would have. Here there was no such thing. Here there was no escape.
“Please,” the man on the table begged. “Please!”
But his hands did not stop.
And the man went on screaming.
46
Today, Aelin decided, was already forfeited to hell, and there was no use even trying to salvage it—not with what she had to do next.
Armed to the teeth, she tried not to think about Rowan’s words from the night before as they took the carriage across the city. But she heard them beneath every clop of the horses’ hooves, just as she’d heard them all night long while she lay awake in bed, trying to ignore his presence. Don’t touch me like that.
She sat as far from Rowan as she could get without hanging out the carriage window. She’d spoken to him, of course—distantly and quietly—and he’d given her clipped answers. Which made the ride truly delightful. Aedion, wisely, didn’t ask about it.
She needed to be clear-headed, relentless, in order to endure the next few hours.
Arobynn was dead.
Word had come an hour ago that Arobynn had been found murdered. Her presence was requested immediately by Tern, Harding, and Mullin, the three assassins who had seized control of the Guild and estate until everything was sorted out.
She’d known last night, of course. Hearing it confirmed was a relief—that Lysandra had done it, and survived it, but …
Dead.
The carriage pulled up in front of the Assassins’ Keep, but Aelin didn’t move. Silence fell as they looked up at the pale stone manor looming above. But Aelin closed her eyes, breathing in deep.
Oh, gods.
He was over three hundred years old. Immortal. And she—she …
“I didn’t mean—” She backed away a step, toward the door on the other side of the roof. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “It was nothing.”
“Good,” he said, going for the roof door himself. “Fine.”
Rowan didn’t say anything else as he stalked downstairs. Alone, she scrubbed at her wet face, at the oily smear of cosmetics.
Don’t touch me like that.
A clear line in the sand. A line—because he was three hundred years old, and immortal, and had lost his flawless mate, and she was … She was young and inexperienced and his carranam and queen, and he wanted nothing more than that. If she hadn’t been so foolish, so stupidly unaware, maybe she would have realized that, understood that though she’d seen his eyes shine with hunger—hunger for her—it didn’t mean he wanted to act on it. Didn’t mean he might not hate himself for it.
Oh, gods.
What had she done?
The rain sliding down the windows cast slithering shadows on the wooden floor, on the painted walls of Arobynn’s bedroom.
Lysandra had been watching it for some time now, listening to the steady rhythm of the storm and to the breathing of the man sleeping beside her. Utterly unconscious.
If she were to do it, it would have to be now—when his sleep was deepest, when the rain covered up most sounds. A blessing from Temis, Goddess of Wild Things, who had once watched over her as a shape-shifter and who never forgot the caged beasts of the world.
Three words—that was all that had been written on the note Aelin slipped her earlier that night; a note still tucked into the hidden pocket of her discarded underwear.
He’s all yours.
A gift, she knew—a gift from the queen who had nothing else to give a no-name whore with a sad story.
Lysandra turned onto her side, staring now at the naked man sleeping inches away, at the red silk of his hair spilled across his face.
He’d never once suspected who had fed Aelin the details about Cormac. But that had always been her ruse with Arobynn—the skin she’d worn since childhood. He had never thought otherwise of her vapid and vain behavior, never bothered to. If he had, he wouldn’t keep a knife under his pillow and let her sleep in this bed with him.
He hadn’t been gentle tonight, and she knew she would have a bruise on her forearm from where he’d gripped her too tightly. Victorious, smug, a king certain of his crown, he hadn’t even noticed.
At dinner, she’d seen the expression flash across his face when he caught Aelin and Rowan smiling at each other. All of Arobynn’s jabs and stories had failed to find their mark tonight because Aelin had been too lost in Rowan to hear.
She wondered whether the queen knew. Rowan did. Aedion did. And Arobynn did. He had understood that with Rowan, she was no longer afraid of him; with Rowan, Arobynn was now utterly unnecessary. Irrelevant.
He’s all yours.
After Aelin had left, as soon as he’d stopped strutting about the house, convinced of his absolute mastery over the queen, Arobynn had called in his men.
Lysandra hadn’t heard the plans, but she knew the Fae Prince would be his first target. Rowan would die—Rowan had to die. She’d seen it in Arobynn’s eyes as he watched the queen and her prince holding hands, grinning at each other despite the horrors around them.
Lysandra slid her hand beneath the pillow as she sidled up to Arobynn, nestling against him. He didn’t stir; his breathing remained deep and steady.
He’d never had trouble sleeping. The night he’d killed Wesley he slept like the dead, unaware of the moments when even her iron will couldn’t keep the silent tears from falling.
She would find that love again—one day. And it would be deep and unrelenting and unexpected, the beginning and the end and eternity, the kind that could change history, change the world.
The hilt of the stiletto was cool in her hand, and as Lysandra rolled back over, no more than a restless sleeper, she pulled it with her.
Lightning gleamed on the blade, a flicker of quicksilver.
For Wesley. For Sam. For Aelin.
And for herself. For the child she’d been, for the seventeen-year-old on her Bidding night, for the woman she’d become, her heart in shreds, her invisible wound still bleeding.
It was so very easy to sit up and slice the knife across Arobynn’s throat.
45
The man strapped to the table was screaming as the demon ran its hands down his bare chest, its nails digging in and leaving blood in their wake.
Listen to him, the demon prince hissed. Listen to the music he makes.
Beyond the table, the man who usually sat on the glass throne said, “Where are the rebels hiding?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know!” the man shrieked.
The demon ran a second nail down the man’s chest. There was blood everywhere.
Do not cringe, spineless beast. Watch; savor.
The body—the body that might once have been his—had betrayed him entirely. The demon gripped him tightly, forcing him to watch as his own hands gripped a cruel-looking device, fitting it onto the man’s face, and began tightening.
“Answer me, rebel,” the crowned man said.
The man screamed as the mask tightened.
He might have begun screaming, too—might have begun begging the demon to stop.
Coward—human coward. Do you not taste his pain, his fear?
He could, and the demon shoved every bit of delight it felt into him.
Had he been able to vomit, he would have. Here there was no such thing. Here there was no escape.
“Please,” the man on the table begged. “Please!”
But his hands did not stop.
And the man went on screaming.
46
Today, Aelin decided, was already forfeited to hell, and there was no use even trying to salvage it—not with what she had to do next.
Armed to the teeth, she tried not to think about Rowan’s words from the night before as they took the carriage across the city. But she heard them beneath every clop of the horses’ hooves, just as she’d heard them all night long while she lay awake in bed, trying to ignore his presence. Don’t touch me like that.
She sat as far from Rowan as she could get without hanging out the carriage window. She’d spoken to him, of course—distantly and quietly—and he’d given her clipped answers. Which made the ride truly delightful. Aedion, wisely, didn’t ask about it.
She needed to be clear-headed, relentless, in order to endure the next few hours.
Arobynn was dead.
Word had come an hour ago that Arobynn had been found murdered. Her presence was requested immediately by Tern, Harding, and Mullin, the three assassins who had seized control of the Guild and estate until everything was sorted out.
She’d known last night, of course. Hearing it confirmed was a relief—that Lysandra had done it, and survived it, but …
Dead.
The carriage pulled up in front of the Assassins’ Keep, but Aelin didn’t move. Silence fell as they looked up at the pale stone manor looming above. But Aelin closed her eyes, breathing in deep.
