Page 53 of Each Their Own Devil

“By the First, you’re still as sanctimonious as ever,” the Messenger said.

“You have no idea what I’ve done.”

“Actually, I am quite aware. And I take back what I said. To be sanctimonious, your morality would have to be consistent. Would you like me to help you save face or not? I am not offering out of the goodness of my heart.”

“No,” Aleja eventually said. “We ride in together. I might need to use my magic.”

“I know this is a big ask for the Lady of Wrath, but I have precious few loyal soldiers left. It would be much appreciated if you avoided killing as many of them as possible.”

“I’ll do my best.” The words came from Aleja’s mouth a moment before she smelled the battlefield. It was, surprisingly, not blood that hit her first, but sweat and a hormonal tang that reminded her of fertilizer. Then came iron, magic, and finally, smoke.

She tried to slow her elk, but it did not respond to her command until the Messenger gave another low whistle. The climb down the elk’s saddle was clumsy and ungraceful, but in Aleja’s desperation to reach the fight, she could not be bothered to care about the Messenger’s snort.

“What happened to your sword, Wrath?” the Messenger said, pointing her chin to the stiletto blade Aleja pulled from her sash. “Don’t tell me the Knowing One lets you charge into battle with that thing.”

“The burn scars on half your army prove it’s not my only weapon,” she snapped back.

“A fair point. Let’s see what kind of diplomatic nightmare we’re dealing with.”

Aleja ran to look at the scene below. The Astraelis that remained upright moved slowly, leaning over the bodies of the dead. A gutted Throne lay at the far end of the battlefield.

“Ah,” the Messenger said, coming to stand by Aleja’s side. “It seems we’re too late.”

“Are those your soldiers looting the dead down there?”

“I should hope so, but fear not. There are plenty more mutineers; there’s no need to give up hope that one of them might fell me yet.”

A bright red flair shot into the sky. Aleja nearly took off toward it, before the Messenger’s large hand clamped down on her shoulder, yanking her back. “That’s Otherlander magic,” Aleja hissed.

“Exactly. You’re not in their best graces. What if your darling husband is not the first to spot you?”

“I’ll take that risk,” Aleja said, breaking free from the Messenger’s grasp. “Garm, stay with her. Keep your eyes on everything she does.”

The Messenger gave a bored humph. “Suit yourself. I should regroup my troops. Don’t die with those figs in your backpack. It would be unfortunate if they were to fall into the wrong hands.”

“Fig,” Aleja said, “I only took one, like you told me to.”

“You’re an Otherlander. That is impossible. Go.”

Aleja didn’t answer. As she ran uphill, her legs burning from the climb, she spotted a number of black-clad soldiers on the flatlands below. She didn’t need to be a military genius to know their commanders were likely on higher ground. The landscape was littered with enormous boulders. Large feathers in pastel shades clung to blood smeared across them.

“Tadd?” Aleja shouted, spotting a large axe on the grass at the top of the hill. Beyond it lay a large man sprawled sideways in the dirt, his braids falling over his face. Silmiya was crouched beside him, tending to his injuries.

“Stay back, Wrath,” Silmiya snarled.

“What’s going on?” Aleja asked, relieved that Silmiya hadn’t immediately drawn her weapon.

Her voice was drowned out by the heavy beating of wings—so familiar that she let out an involuntary sigh of relief.

Nicolas landed with his sword drawn. As he descended, the dark fire painted his face in warped shadows—shades of red, deep blue, and a strange flat gray that made him look every bit the Otherlander of nightmares. The devil that had haunted the dreams of every Ruiz since Aleja’s great-great-grandfather made their family’s bargain with him.

“Lady of Wrath,” Nicolas said, his voice cold and commanding, the same tone he had once used with Val while the traitor wasted away in the Hiding Place’s dungeons. “You’re overdue for your debriefing. Come with me.”

Both Silmiya and Taddeas—who had recovered enough to sit up and pinch the bridge of his nose—looked up. Aleja studied Taddeas’s face closely. Of all the Dark Saints, save for Bonnie,she was closest to him. He had trained her to wield her fire, guided her step by step on the path to reassuming her role as the Otherlanders’ High General. Hell, he had even walked back his decision to leave his post because she had begged him not to.

“Everything will be explained to you soon, High General,” Nicolas said before Taddeas could speak. Aleja didn’t think she’d ever been more grateful to hear any words in her life. “Come on, Wrath.”

She couldn’t bear to wait for Taddeas’s answer. She took off after Nicolas, moving as fast as she could without making it obvious that she was breaking into a jog. She didn’t look back, even when she heard Taddeas and Silmiya murmuring behind her.

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