Page 39 of The Demon Tide

My internal lightning spits fire as I glare at him. Wanting to drive him away. Wanting him to get this over with, whateverthisis.

“Just say whatever it is you have to say,” I snap.

He hesitates, neck tight, like he’s got a storm caught in his throat. “Not here.” His gaze flits toward the hallway’s exit. “Can we take a walk, perhaps? Away from everyone?”

“Will they allow that?” I ask, my voice tight with sarcasm. “Since I’m such a threat to the Realm?” I avert my gaze from Vothe’s tall, magnificent form.

Why does he have to be so painfully beautiful? Why? It’s like someone turned a lightning bolt into the most arresting young man imaginable. And, of course, he draws the most interesting, charismatic young men to himself. Kisses them so freely and openly. The sight never fails to send a frisson of shock through my lines. Most of the exchanges seem light and teasing, but sometimes...it’s like he’s feeding lightning straight into the man he’s kissing.

It’s even more difficult to look at Vothe now that the dreams have started.

Dreams that I don’t want. Dreams of pulling Vothendrile into my room, pinning him to the wall and showing him what lightningreallyis.

“Shouldn’t you just get on with quietly guarding me?” I ask, and there’s no way to keep the bitter edge from my tone.

Vothendrile gives me a long look, and it’s a shock to see something new in his expression—a kind of chastened dismay. And frustration.

Withwhat?

I almost go with him. I almost let him say what he has to say.

But the hurt is too raw, and I’m not interested in his blaring lack of courage. I’m not interested in feigning civility when the emotions cut too deep.

I give him another silent look that I fear reveals too much...and shut the door.

Vothendrile

The Death Fae gather around Trystan at every meal.

I watch them the next evening from the periphery, half noticing Basyl as he caresses my arm, jockeying for my attention along with several other friends. I force quick smiles, even as my attention is drawn back to Trystan in an increasingly reckless tide.

All three primordial Death Fae are seated with him, as they are at every meal—tall, powerful Viger, petite, spider-shifter Sylla, and mysterious, elegant Vesper. Every table around them has emptied, as it always does, dark mist curling around their bizarre, insular grouping.

They sit in their usual silence, poisonous scorpions and spiders and the occasional snake encircling Trystan’s lean frame like a fraternal, albeit deadly, embrace. The Death Fae’s presence here will be a fleeting thing, all three completing basic Vu Trin training before departing—Viger about to deploy to the Dyoi Desert to harness its huge desert serpents, Sylla soon to be stationed in the Agolith Desert to fortify the Vu Trin’s ranks with deadly storm spiders. And Vesper will be stationed at a military base in Northern Noilaan, the enigmatic rune sorcerer adept at linking Death magic to Noi military runes.

Conflict whorls inside me as I find myself both relieved that Trystan has gained such staunch friends and dismayed over their imminent departure.

Because the animosity toward Trystan’s presence here is growing alongside the mounting tensions between Noilaan and Gardneria. I’m becoming less a guard protecting the Wyvernguard and more a guard protectinghim.

And the sympathy thrown my way is seriously beginning to chafe.

“So terrible that they’ve got you guarding the Roach!”

“Couldn’t you arrange for some accident to befall him?”

“Vang Troi has lost her mind. Drive him out, Vothe. Whatever it takes.”

Even letters from my family in Zhilaan show mounting confusion and censure in their refined Zhilon’ile script.

Vothe, you’re the Gardnerian’s guard. Why is he still here?

Vothe, WHY IS HE STILL HERE?

I’m losing patience with all of it, increasingly unable to keep from snapping back against the slurs, my large group of friends and admirers beginning to splinter away. Whispering to each other that I’m losing my way. Shifting my allegiance to the enemy. When, in fact, I’m doing exactly the opposite. And, more and more, I want to stand in open solidarity with Trystan Gardner.

But still, I remain on the sidelines, unable to take what feels like a dive off a cliff. Because the tide of hatred for Trystan is rapidly gaining strength. And I’m brutally realistic about what it would mean to get caught in its undertow, even as I’m swept up in Trystan’s glimmering green tide.

My indecision intensifies as I watch him eat, a dark raven now perched on his shoulder. A current of shame ripples through me.

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