Page 17 of Each Their Own Devil

“Yep!” Violet’s eyes narrowed as she looked Aleja up and down. “I suppose you’re dressed appropriately. Come on, we can leave now.”

Aleja’s weak protests were in vain, even as she grumbled that she had reading to finish for her Politics in Art class. It wasn’t so much that Violet could be annoyingly persistent, but that Aleja couldn’t bring herself to say no. Invitations from her cousins had always been rare, and the novelty of having a friend who dragged her to movies and game nights in the student center still hadn’t worn off.

Fifteen minutes later, they were shivering in the northwestern rain as Violet led Aleja off campus and into the city. With the winter damp, few people were on the streets, huddling under the awnings of thrift shops and bars. Twilight at this time of year was almost uniformly blue, softened by a layer of freezing mist. Aleja assumed Violet was steering her to the wine bar where her crush worked the Tuesday shift, but they turned unexpectedly into a residential neighborhood full of Queen Anne homes that looked like elaborately decorated cakes.

“I thought you wanted to stalk Simone tonight,” Aleja said.

“I’m not stalking her.” Violet sighed and checked her phone. “I just like to be in her vicinity in case she wants to glance in my direction. But, alas, this surprise is for you, my dear Alejandra. Oh! That must be the house.”

“What house? What’s going on, Vi? Has our entire friendship been an elaborate murder plot that culminates tonight?”

“I was introduced to this couple at a hiking meetup, and we got to talking. Turns out they own one of those antique shopsthat’s hardly ever open because the rich need something to pretend to do with their time. Anyway, they’re big art lovers and brought a few pieces over from Italy. They’re storing them at home while they wait for appraisals. I asked if I could invite you over. Well, I didn’t so much ask as kind of demanded it.”

Aleja stopped in her tracks, unmindful of her hood slipping off and the rain soaking into her dark red hair. “Say more.”

“Why don’t I just show you?”

The Aleja of the present could remember the rest of the evening clearly, even without the use of the Unholy Relic. The Cooke’s collection had been small but precious: a tiny medieval annunciation scene from Siena, painted in a blue pigment so bright it was almost painful to look at, even six hundred years after being laid on the canvas. A worn board from Bologna still depicted the Virgin Mary gazing serenely from the past, her enormous dark eyes full of tenderness.

But that wasn’t what Aleja remembered most about that evening. It was how Violet had patiently listened as Aleja pointed out the symbolism of flowers, birds, and hand gestures, asking surprisingly astute questions for someone who had never shown interest in the subject before. When they eventually went to the wine bar after all, the conversation continued, diving into the differences and similarities between art and photography—a topic Violet had a better grasp of.

It was one of the few conversations Aleja had shared outside of a classroom where her cheeks didn’t burn with embarrassment each time she spouted another obscure fact or wandered down a strange tangent. In that moment, she first understood the sort of friendship she had only read about in books, where one person would dive in front of a blade for another.

Violet Timmons went missing nine months later.

As the memory faded, Aleja felt a wound in her gut—but it wasn’t one where she had taken a blade for Violet. Violet had held the hilt of the sword herself.

Aleja awoketo the sound of horns.

Nicolas was already on his feet, dragging on a piece of leather armor that had been tossed haphazardly by the bed. “Get up. Armor on. Now!” he shouted. Garm’s bark echoed through the cavernous throne room below, reverberating like there was an entire pack of hellhounds beneath them.

“Is this a drill?” Aleja asked, still half-asleep after hours of tossing and turning. She stumbled out of bed, sheets tangled around her legs.

“An Astraelis convoy has pushed through our wards.”

No. That couldn’t be right. Aleja tried to think straight, but it felt like her brain had awoken as an empty station, full of static. Her boots were on before she realized she’d reached for them. The Messenger hadn’t contacted her. The Astraelis already had the Third. Bringing him here without knowing how to kill the Second was useless, unless?—

“They want to take Val back,” she said, racing after Nicolas down the stairs. She had to take them two at a time to match his stride.

The throne room below was occupied for the first time by someone Aleja hadn’t expected: Taddeas, who was motioning for Garm to calm down. It was a useless gesture. In his hellhound form, Garm pawed at the ground like a bull preparing to charge, dark ropes of saliva dripping from his jowls.

“What’s the word?” Nicolas commanded.

“We’re not sure yet. Only one scout has reached us. There was a skirmish at the wards on the western border, but she escaped on an Avisai,” Taddeas said.

“Is the dragon still here?” Nicolas asked.

“Yes. It’s prepared for two fliers.”

“Good.”

They met no one as they raced through the palace. Aleja’s undone bootlaces slapped against the stone floors, the sound drowned out by Garm’s heavy rhythmic pants. Violet could have warned her. Violet could havefuckingwarned her. Instead, she had sent a memory to lower Aleja’s guard.

Violet was going to burn.

“What kind of defenses do we have around the palace?” Aleja asked. “If they make it through the Hiding Place…”

“They’re not going to have an easy time of it. The palace has its own wards, and Bonnie has been working with the surrounding forests,” Nicolas said.

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