Page 42 of Each Their Own Devil

“I’m well aware,” the Messenger said.

Aleja made the first motion to stand, realized her legs were still shaking, and decided to lean casually on her left elbow. “You should thank me. They demanded your son’s life. If I hadn’t broken him out of our prisons when I did, his head would be on a spike in the Hiding Place right now.”

“Val?” the Messenger said sharply. It was enough to let Aleja know that the Messenger might have been aware that mutineers had attempted to deal with the Knowing One, but not what they had demanded in exchange. “Where is he?”

“Attempting to break into your armory, I expect,” Aleja said with what she hoped was a nonchalant sigh.

The Messenger shook her head, and red mist shed from her mask. “My son may be a genius in some respects, but in thematters of warfare, he’s an irredeemable fool. Come, then. Your timing is not ideal, but what’s done is done.”

“What about what’s left of them?” Aleja said, gesturing toward the two Principalities that still had discernable corpses. “Won’t there be others?”

“A small group was tracking you. They figured out where you were going and managed to sneak through the gap in the wards Val created before I arrived. There won’t be more for now.”

“Wait,” Aleja said, as she rose to her feet. Not for the first time, she was struck by the ease with which her Dark Saint body recovered from what would have taken her weeks to heal from as a human. “Are you seriously telling me that the mutineers are brave enough to break into your home, knowing you were only minutes behind them, and you’re…unconcerned?”

“Not unconcerned. I just have my priorities. Would you care for dinner, Lady of Wrath? Let’s make history tonight. It will be the first time an Astraelis has hosted a Dark Saint in her home since the moment the Second turned his back on us and created the Hiding Place as a refuge for rebels and villains.”

Aleja was nothungry until a plate of bright golden potatoes speckled with pepper and a steak with a perfectly pink interior that smelled of lemongrass was placed in front of her by a magical servant. The small creature resembled the librarians of the Hiding Place, only their faces were covered by pale orange hoods, matching the robes that swathed bodies barely as tall as Aleja’s waist. Her ancestors had conjured similar creatures—magical constructs with no will of their own who existed only to run their estates in Miami, Mexico City, Havana, and Spain.

The smell of the food hit her, and she realized that it had easily been a full day since she had eaten. She debated whether satisfying her hunger would be worth the slow, cramping death that would follow if the Messenger poisoned her.

To distract herself, she tossed a chunk of potato to Garm, who was snoring by the fireplace. When that wasn't enough to quell the clawing pangs in her stomach, she summoned one of the small fire creatures she had occasionally practiced conjuring at the palace to wake him.

“Hm. Pretty,” the Messenger said as Aleja’s raven managed to glide for a few seconds before being snuffed out. Even without Nicolas near, it was still flecked by gem-like shades of violet and dark blue. “Has the Second given you some horrible new trick to use against us?”

“That knowledge is beyond the scope of our agreement,” Aleja told her, because she thought it sounded cool.

The Messenger didn’t bother to cover her yawn. “Val, why is her magic like that?”

Val glanced between them, the feathers of his mask stiff. “It’s not something I’ve paid attention to,” he finally said. “Otherlander magic is too chaotic for my tastes.”

“Agreed. Eat, Wrath,” the Messenger said from the head of the table. “If I wanted you dead, I could have let the mutineers kill you.”

“She’s right,” Violet whispered, to the right of Aleja. “You’ll need your strength.”

“Strength for what?” Aleja hissed back, her voice echoing against the grand vaulted ceiling of the dining room. Like the other rooms she’d seen of the Messenger’s home, the architecture couldn’t be compared to any era of human artor architecture. Everything felt stretched out, like a warped photograph.

“Yes, Mother. I am also curious about that,” Val said.

“I have the Third in the stables, Val,” the Messenger said. “Why don’t you go entertain yourself with him after our meal?”

“You brought the Third here?” Violet interjected. “Why?”

“As has been so aptly demonstrated for us tonight, my armies are not fully aligned with my plans, Violet. This realm can no longer be considered a safe place for the Third,” the Messenger said, slicing into her steak.

“Therearestill those who are loyal to you,” Violet shot back.

Aleja looked between them. It was one thing to have accepted that Violet had betrayed the Otherlanders in favor of the Messenger, it was another to know that Violet had apparently been given insight into the Messenger’s deepest concerns.

“You never answered my question,” Aleja said. “I’m here. I brought your son. Our only hope to save any of our lives is for Val to figure out how to find the First and get her to assume a form in which she can be killed. As much as I want to sit around eating steak in my enemy’s dining room, the apocalypse approaches. If we only have a few months to figure this out?—”

“We have about a week,” Violet said quietly. “Or, at least, that’s what the Authorities think. They can feel the magic of the First’s coming death even more intensely than the Messenger can.”

Aleja couldn’t stop herself from dropping her fork. It hit the edge of her plate, sending it flipping over the edge of the table. The small golden potato Val had been raising to his mouth shared a similar fate, plopping to the table with a splat.

“That’s impossible,” he said. “Even with my most pessimistic calculations?—”

“Your calculations were wrong,” the Messenger said. Unlike the others at the table, she seemed to have no trouble poppinganother piece of meat into her mouth. “Or rather, you did not have all of the information you needed at the time. Having the Third in our possession has been enlightening.”

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