Page 78 of Blood of Two Crowns

Less than an hour later Malovada came into view. It had already been reduced to ash from the riot where Erius had taken me captive, but it was the sightbeyondit that had my jaw dropping.

A massive crater had replaced Azrael’s palace. Now, only sharp, ragged remnants remained. And beyond that, an exodus of demons and the rest of Azrael’s denizens were fighting their way through the barrier of Atratusian soldiers towards a towering black portal.

My heart leapt so far into my throat I choked on a sudden sob at the sight of a turquoise and gold drakonati that I knew without a doubt was Malekai. I squinted, desperately searching for Nakoa. We were still much too far away to see him, but the burning tug in my chest told me he was there.

My soulbound had crossed the realms and travelled to an actual hell for me.

Chapter

Forty-Six

AZRAEL

Terrenea is a bizarre place. Infested with humans that seemed to have no concern for the land they inhabit—always biting the hand that feeds them, draining it of every drop of blood, gnawing at every bone until nothing at all remains. It’s a compulsion I’m familiar with. Perhaps that’s why I found myself drawn here so frequently.Akashknew it wasn’t for my friends’ suits. I already had thousands of them.

Giuseppe Tartini'sDevil's Trill Sonataplayed softly in the background of Ettore’s studio; a dear, veryhumanItalianfriend who also happened to have become my favorite tailor in the last forty years since I’d known him. The male was my only friend—even if he had no idea who I really was.

It seemed too bizarre a coincidence that he would unwittingly be playing a song that one of mysoulboundhad influenced in the composer’s dream.Mors…with the help of his brother.Somnus.

Perhaps it wasAkashgiving me a sign to find him… Though I’d sworn?—

"Preferisce il blu grafite o il blu notte, signore?"Ettore asked as he looked up at me with dark, almond-shaped gaze.

Do you prefer graphite blue or night blue?

Folds of skin creased his wide lids, peppered with moles across the puffy bags under his eyes that stared up at me from behind a pair of tortoiseshell spectacles perched on his bulbous nose. The male was impossibly young. Only 67 years. And yet, he was dying.Soon.

I could feel it. Like an unwelcome whisper on the back of my neck.

I swallowed against the suffocating weight of sadness rising in my chest as I glanced down at Ettore from the mirror, attempting to force a smile onto my face to mask my heartbreak. My words came out softer than I intended in a feeble attempt to quell the emotion fisting my throat.“Il blu notte, per favore. Grazie mille, mio caro amico.”

Night blue, please. Thank you, dear friend.

Concern flickered in Ettore’s eyes, but he didn’t acknowledge it. Merely gave me an affectionate pat on the back as he set down the fabric samples and hobbled towards his towering wooden, cubed shelves filled with bolts of fabric in nearly every colour and textile.

When he was halfway to the shelf, I felt a phantom of the sharp pain in his chest and left shoulder before he did. Before the stabbing pain of a myocardial infarction—the sudden and complete cessation of blood flow to one of the coronary arteries of the heart—registered in his brain.

Anger and sadness welled up in my chest like a geyser, ready to burst as his footsteps faltered. Iwilledmyself beside him before he could hit the unforgiving wood floors and break any bones.

The gentle kindness in Ettore’s eyes was replaced with fear as he clutched his chest and his lungs spasmed, unable to take a breath. I gently lowered us to the floor and cradled his stout body against mine. His hand trembled and reached for mine, squeezing with surprising strength that rapidly waned.

Ettore was a devout Catholic, so I murmured the Latin prayer of the dead to him, one he’d recognize and hopefully find comfort in.

“Requiem aeternam dona eis Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis.”

Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let light perpetual shine upon them.

My eyes swelled with tears as I held Ettore’s gaze.“Mi dispiace, vecchio amico. Il mio potere presiede alla morte, non alla vita”.

I’m sorry, old friend. My power presides over death, not life.

Realization settled on his features. He’d always known I was somethingother.

As he began to age, and I did not, he occasionally asked questions and made subtle hints. I would explain to him in reductive terms that I was not from this place or time. I showed him a few seemingly spectacular feats but never dared to tell him exactly who or what I was. It would have ruined our friendship otherwise. I’d learned that too many times the hard way.

I’d been a patron of Ettore’s since he first opened his business, after my previous tailor, Vittorio Rossi, vacated his human flesh sack and abandoned Terrenea for Avernus.

When the tension in Ettore’s body slackened and his eyes turned glassy, something inside me shifted. I’d never allowed myself to growtooclose to him. Another lesson I’d had to learn far too many times to salvage the wreckage of my heart. Even so, I loved this man despite my envy of him. He’d had a loving wife—I’d attended their wedding thirty years ago—and loving children.

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