Page 39 of Each Their Own Devil

Nicolas met Taddeas’s gaze and forced himself to hold it. Keep the Dark Saints united—that was what he had to do now. “Aleja believes that the Messenger is telling the truth. She also believes that Val has knowledge—or at least, can acquire the knowledge—to stop the Avaddon. I’m not defending her actions, nor am I saying that I agree with them, but if she acted so rashly, it’s because she thought she was doing it for the good of the Hiding Place.”

“Don’t,” Bonnie said, raising a hand. “If this Avaddon was real, then our librarians would have something about in their books—even a single word or two. The Second claims the same and we have no reason to doubt him. Don’t you think that in all the millennia the Hiding Place has existed, an event of that magnitude, or even the possibility of an event of that magnitude, would have been mentioned by one scholar at the very least?”

“I agree with you, Bonnie. We only have three facts. One, the Messenger is a known liar and manipulator. Two, we have no evidence that what she speaks is the truth. And three, despitethis all, Aleja believes that the Avaddon is real, and Val holds the key to stopping it.”

“She doesn’t have her memories, Nicolas,” Orla said. “She’s just a human girl with?—”

“Enough, Orla,” he snarled, unable to help himself. “I never claimed she had all of her training. I never claimed she had all of her expertise. But she is still the Alejandra we knew back then; the Alejandra who put herself in danger time and time again to save not just the Dark Saints, but every foot soldier, Avisai, and the countless other demons that crawled their way from the mountains to help us in the last war. If you truly believe it, then look me in the eye and tell me the Dark Saint of Wrath is a traitor, just like Roland—Roland, whoyouvouched for countless times.”

It had been decades—more—since Nicolas had raised his voice like this to the Dark Saints, let alone Orla, who held more sway among the others than most. When she narrowed her eyes, it was with a certain pleased defiance, as if she’d been waiting for this fight. “I don’t think Aleja is a traitor. I think she is naïve. She does not remember the cruelty of the Astraelis, nor the cruelty with which we responded in turn. I am fond of your wife, Nicolas, but she is not the same person who led us as High General before.”

“I agree with you,” Nicolas said. “She is practically untrained, but so was the Lady of Wrath when the first war came—a new Dark Saint whose only talent for killing was shooting rabbits with her bow. Aleja’s strength has always been her instincts, and that is something neither time nor the loss of her memories can take away from her. So, if you ask if I trust her, then yes, I do. Unconditionally. Not just as my wife, but as a Dark Saint and the High General in waiting.”

The silence that followed was broken only by the imperfections in the candle wicks, popping as the flames burned.Nicolas expected Orla to argue, but it was Merit who spoke—the first time he had done so all evening. “If you’re wrong about this, Knowing One, it means the end of our realm, the Otherlanders, and the humans who use our magic. No one here is brave enough to say it, but I will. You had the chance to stop this war once before, centuries ago—all you had to do was sacrifice one life for the sake of thousands, of millions, and you?—”

“The life of mywife,” Nicolas interjected.

“Yes,” Merit barked back. He rarely spoke up, unless Orla paved the way for him. “Wealllost friends, and family, and lovers. Think about your husband, Taddeas, sent to the fey realm for protection. Would you ever be able to forgive the Knowing One if you knew that all he had to do was execute a prisoner—a prisoner who has already betrayed us once? Would you have traded the Astraelis’s life for yours, knowing your husband would be a widow? Would you have traded the Astraelis’s life for Jack’s?”

“I—” Taddeas began, then stammered over his words. It was rare, these days, that he showed the shyness he once had when he first arrived at the Hiding Place, but when a few of his braids slipped in front of his face, he didn’t bother pushing them back. “I would do whatever it took to save him. But it’s no use miring ourselves in hypotheticals. What’s done is done. We need to figure out how to use it to our advantage.”

“Look,” Nicolas said, “There was no outcome that could please everyone at this table, including me. If we can’t ensure peace, then we can ensure we’re well-protected when the Astraelis armies arrive at our doorstep—not mutineers this time but the Messenger with the Third in tow. We need forces stationed around the Second’s cave at all hours. Increase security around the border with as many people as you can spare, Taddeas.”

At a chorus of weary nods, Nicolas wondered—hoped—that this had been enough to spur the Dark Saints into action. He wasn’t sure how they would react to his next words.

“That’s not the only thing we’re going to do. It’s time to gather our troops. We will not be letting the Dark Saint of Wrath’s actions go unanswered, just as we are not going to lose the opportunity presented to us. The Messenger is weak, and the mutineers are disorganized. And despite our advantage, we are not in control of this war. So I say we take it. We ride into the Astraelis realm with the intention of reclaiming the Third for ourselves. If we retrieve our Dark Saint of Wrath along the way, we can decide what to do with her afterward.”

By the timethe house appeared in the distance, Aleja could no longer feel her feet. She supposed that was a mercy. There had been times when she’d contemplated asking Garm if she could ride his back—the hellhound was big enough in this form to carry her—but Val had complained so little on the trek that Aleja could hardly moan about her blisters.

“This looks strange,” Val muttered.

Aleja had noticed the change in scenery early on, but she had been too exhausted, and her head too filled with thoughts of what was happening in the Hiding Place to question it out loud. The lush green hills of the Astraelis realm had gradually turned brown. Earlier, the hills had been filled with life: crickets chirping, shrews darting through the underbrush, and owls swooping down to capture them. It had taken hours for Aleja to stop jumping at every sound, whether it was the squeal of asmall animal attempting to escape a predator’s talons or Garm’s excited whine at the activity around them.

There had been security, as Val had promised, but each time a group of Principalities passed, they seemed too engrossed in conversation to notice the intruders tucked behind a boulder or gnarled tree. Even the Thrones that tore through the sky overhead didn’t pause to carefully search the grounds. By the time the third patrol had gone by, Aleja had stopped holding her breath, simply waiting for the moment she could stand and ease the ache in her knees from crouching. How could this be so easy?

“What’s strange? The fact that the Astraelis patrols are apparently shit now, or the fact that your mother needs to hire a new gardener?” she asked.

Unlike the Hiding Place, which had shared relations with humans for so long that its architecture was a strange mix of gothic and art nouveau, the building ahead could not be compared to any human creation. Tall, thin spires rose from a domed structure painted pastel green. In the early morning light, the spires pierced the sun’s rays, as though their points were sharp enough to cut through light itself.

Though it was clear the grounds had once been surrounded by a garden, it had grown wild from neglect. The tall, thick stalks of sunflowers were broken in half, bowing as if the flowers were trying to return to the dirt. The skeleton of a large bird lay sprawled beneath a hedge.

“Both,” Val said. “The security will allow me in, but I’ll need to break the wards before you enter. You and Garm wait here.”

“No way am I letting you out of our sight,” Aleja said. But as they reached the low stone wall surrounding the property, she stopped walking. Even before coming to the Hiding Place, she had been a witch living among a family of magicians whose wealth made them the envy of their neighbors. She understood the danger of wards.

“Do you have any idea what will happen to you if this house decides you’re not supposed to be here?” Val hissed.

“Then, hurry,” she spat. “There’s not a lot of cover out here if a patrol passes by.”

“Exactly as my mother designed it,” Val replied. As he walked away, she watched the tips of his mask fanning out to either side of his pale hair. It had grown longer during his imprisonment.

Aleja held her breath until she watched him disappear over a ridge as he headed toward the spired home. Once he was gone, she reached out blindly, even though Garm was still a few yards away.

At her muffled sob, he was at her side, and the hand that had been grasping at empty air found a handful of short, dark fur. She tried to inhale, but it seemed as though her body had forgotten how to do the very thing that kept it alive. She was dying, wasn’t she? All of the pain she had put herself and her friends through, and she was about to pass out in the Astraelis realm and no one in the Hiding Place would ever know her fate. When she tried to look down at her feet, she might as well have been staring into the star-filled sky for all that the world seemed to rotate around her.

“Aleja,” came Garm’s rough growl. He nudged his head into her shoulder. “You can stop this. It used to happen to Nicolas too, back when the curse was consuming his heart. Take a deep breath.”

“I can’t,” Aleja rasped. She had ruined everything—ruined their chances of winning the war before it started, ruined her shot at a life with Nicolas where she would drag him to every museum in Italy while he recounted the bargains he had made through history.

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