Page 85 of The Dead Saint

“Stand,” he commanded, a calm veneer covering the madness.

Sorcha hesitated, keeping her eyes cast downward as she gingerly stood. Adrian twitched, as if he might stand, but remained kneeling.

Prince Eine grabbed her arm, yanking her forward. The room was silent now, breathless as they watched. With one hand, he pulled at the neck of her dress as he brought the blade down with the other.

The thin fabric split and fell away in ribbons—floating to the floor as if made of nothing. The remaining tattoos were revealed, but most striking was the absence of them. The court could now witness what was left for themselves—dark flowing lines and even darker secrets. Sorcha kept her head up with her hands at her sides—nipples tightening in the cool room.

“Where are the rest?” Prince Eine asked, circling her, the blade inches from her skin. “I saw what the Mapmaker copied. Either his map was wrong, or your flesh is lying. Priestess?”

“They disappear as I discover the relics.” she said, swallowing, too afraid to tell him anything but the truth. “No one told me it would happen.”

“And this one?” He touched the dagger to her hip—against the tattoo she hadn’t shared with the Mapmaker. “I don’t remember seeing it before.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Sorcha caught the barest hint of movement from Adrian. She opened her mouth to respond but could think of nothing to say. What had seemed like such a clever idea before now had become a huge mistake.

“It doesn’t matter,” Prince Eine said, waving the blade dismissively. “We only require one more piece.”

Before Sorcha could reply, Prince Eine grabbed her by the hair, their faces so close she could see how tired he was—bloodshot eyes and a muscle ticking in his jaw. When he spoke, it was to Adrian, though Eine never took his eyes from Sorcha.

“You have a map.” Prince Eine’s voice rose, hitting the high ceiling and ringing in her ears. He brought the blade to her throat, pressing it into the soft flesh. “How hard is it? Does someone else need to make her do it?”

Adrian shot to his feet, eyes blazing, hand on the sword at his side.

“I see,” Prince Eine said. “It wouldn’t do me any good to keep her here, to bleed her dry. I need the thing only she can call forth.” The blade slid down her collarbone, tracing the lines of the tattoo, pricking the skin, drawing the faintest line of blood.

Adrian’s sword rang as he drew it, but his face was a blank mask, eyes raging.

“Stop.”

A single word. Treason. Instant death. The guards around the room drew their weapons and rushed forward, waiting for the command from the prince. The court gasped in delight, anticipating more bloodshed.

The prince smiled. A promise of painful things. Hideous things.

“Revive the Saint, and you can have her,” he said as he dropped the blade at Sorcha’s feet and stepped back. “But if you take her, if you lower yourself to this, you will no longer be welcome in my city. In any of my cities. And who knows what would become of you then, without my protection. The most hated man in the Empire of the White Snake. The slaughterer of thousands. A monster.”

Sorcha’s skin prickled, fear growing in her chest.

“Wolf,” Prince Eine continued, low voice menacing. “How long do you think I’d let you keep her?”

The threat hung in the air.

Adrian crossed to Sorcha and took her arm, turning to face the prince. “She will find the last relic and revive the Saint.”

The words were flat and final. Twitters of delight ran through the ranks watching them, whispers behind hands, delighted eyes focused on the flesh of the woman before them. They watched her hungrily, devouring the details, saving them to share later with the poor unfortunates who missed out on the entertainment.

Adrian turned her away from Prince Eine and hustled her toward the huge doors at the end of the hall. Her dress lay on the floor behind them, her nakedness on display—body open to the curious and prying eyes of the men and women they passed. Behind them, Prince Eine began to laugh, the sound growing and echoing, chasing them out of the hall.

* * *

“You made a mistake in there,” he hissed, hand tight on Sorcha’s upper arm as he guided her down the hall, looking for a dark corner.

They passed a handful of servants, who watched them curiously. The naked woman covered in tattoos. Thedark man in full armor who brought the scent of death with him.

The Wolf, known at a glance.

She stumbled, staring at him, watching the blood sliding down his neck from the thin slice on his face. Her own blood snaked down from her collarbone, slipping between her breasts, more than she would have expected from such a shallow wound. They bled together.

Dazed, head fuzzy, she tried to understand his words.

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