Page 10 of Each Their Own Devil

Garm tried to bound into the room before Nicolas could fully escape, forcing them to squeeze past each other. “Not on the bed,” Nic called from the hallway, but it was too late. A massive Doberman with floppy ears was already leaving splotches of drool on the satin sheets, squirming to get comfortable. He let out a low whine when Aleja stepped away, moving to the drawers in search of clothes from her human life that seemed appropriate for a war council.

“You saw Violet,” Garm said. Aleja’s eyes flicked briefly to the locked box containing the bone Violet had given her. Alongside it were the Astraelis fig a sick woman had paid in her bargain to the Knowing One and an Unholy Relic, sliced from Aleja’s own hand centuries ago.

“I did,” she said simply. Usually, she was comfortable keeping close counsel with Garm, but even mentioning Violet now felt like swallowing fabric that clogged her throat.

Garm yawned, baring sharp teeth before pawing at Nicolas’s favorite pillow. “Did she try to kill you?”

“No.”

“Then maybe she’s not so bad after all.”

“You’re too quick to forgive,” Aleja said. Garm could threaten to tear someone’s throat out two sentences before calling them his best friend. “Have you seen Bonnie yet?”

“Yes. She’s been in her cabin, cooking. I’m pretty sure she’s fried no fewer than thirty sausages since the sun came up. Even I had to walk away.”

“So, she’s coping perfectly well then,” Aleja muttered, fastening the last few straps of her armor over her clothes. She had lost her second weapon—a black sword nearly identical to Nicolas’s—in the last Trial, but the Knowing One kept an array of daggers tucked throughout the room. Aleja had quickly learned to test any cushioned surface before sitting down. Stuffed into an unused blanket in the armoire, she had found a thin stiletto dagger she could roughly place as from the Italian Middle Ages. The blade was too needle-like for her usual sheath, but it tucked comfortably into a red sash she’d looted from elsewhere in the palace.

“I visited your grandmother,” Garm said. Of all people, aside from Violet, her grandmother was the last person Aleja wanted to be reminded of at the moment. She had yet to learn if her grandmother knew she was a Dark Saint, and as far as Aleja was concerned, she was already fighting a war on one front. There was no reason to open another.

“What did she say?” Aleja asked reluctantly.

“She misses you. She can’t find your dreams anymore.”

“That’s for the better,” Aleja mumbled, shifting the dagger into place. “I’ll go visit her soon. Come on, we’re going to be late for the meeting.”

Perhaps it was the presence of all six current Dark Saints and the Knowing One that had wrestled the palace into submission. Though the painting-lined hallways—shifting and merging as if guided by some unseen intelligence—were often dangerous to roam, Aleja walked through the Gothic galleries with sure footing, Garm at her side.

The murmur of voices reached her only as she turned a corner and stepped into another era. Renaissance paintings of centaurs, women with tender eyes, and Roman gods draped in satiny red fabrics seemed to watch her as she approached Nicolas’s office.

Bonnie and Taddeas’s conversation halted the moment Aleja appeared. Two sets of weary eyes turned her way, and the heavy silence that followed told her that their discussion had likely centered on her. “Is everyone already inside?” she asked, aiming to steer the conversation away from any mention of her whereabouts.

“Yeah. I’ll see you both in a moment,” Taddeas said quickly. He slipped into the room with a swiftness that made it clear he intended to leave Aleja alone with Bonnie.

Aleja’s dark eyes moved to Garm. “Be a good boy and go inside, would you?”

Once the door with the stained-glass rose clicked shut, Bonnie’s shoulders slumped in a rare show of vulnerability. “What did Violet say?”

“The Trials were not kind to either of us, Bonnie. We had to betray each other in the second one. We both said and did horrible things, and I…” Aleja hesitated, choosing a carefully crafted shade of the truth. She had rehearsed this speech in her head, but time had been short, and even in her mental reenactments, it had never sounded convincing.

“That wouldn’t be a good enough reason for her to leave. She must have saidsomething,” Bonnie pressed.

“She thinks the Messenger is right, and we’re all going to die.”

Aleja had only seen Bonnie’s eyes harden a handful of times, and it was usually followed by large, thorny plants erupting from the earth to impale whoever had earned her anger. But this time, the expression vanished before Aleja could decide whether she needed to take a cautious step to the left.

“So, the Messenger really isn’t keeping her prisoner, then?” Bonnie asked.

“No.” Aleja shook her head. “I wish I could tell you more, but it all happened so fast, and?—”

Bonnie silenced her with a sudden hug, her arms flung tightly around Aleja’s neck. Beneath the rye-and-wheat crown woven in her hair, Bonnie smelled of warm bread, freshly tilled soil, and bright green tomato leaves. “Remember what you promised me,” she whispered. “Come on, let’s go to the meeting.” And just as quickly as the embrace began, Bonnie pulled away.

Nicolas’s office was empty, but Aleja knew the hidden hallway that branched to the left, leading to a war room unused for centuries until now. Bonnie trailed behind her, avoiding eye contact with anyone as she quietly settled into a seat next to a withered houseplant that instantly perked up in her presence. Though the table was round, Nicolas and Taddeas were unmistakably the focal points, their heads inclined together as they seemed to converse entirely through furrowed brows.

Across the room, Merit and Orla lounged in throne-like chairs. Merit, with his brown curls and angelically androgynous features, appeared distracted, idly twirling a strand of hair around his finger. His face and hands were smudged with gray soot from the forges at the army camp, from where he had evidently been summoned.

Orla, in contrast, fixed Aleja with a sharp gaze as she entered. Once adorned with bangles, her forearms were now encased in gold bracers set with emerald-green stones. Two gold ear cuffs rose into sharp points through her vivid red hair, giving her a fey-like appearance. The only Dark Saint absent was Amicia, presumably still under the care of the healers.

Aleja hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to sit or stand, before deciding that if she was going to be reprimanded, she might as well be comfortable. The chair scraped against the floor as she pulled it back and sat down. At the center of the table stood the figurines of the Astraelis—Thrones, Authorities, and Principalities—that had once made her feel as if she were staring at a double-exposed photograph. The miniature figures shifted subtly: Thrones tossed back their lion-like heads, while the many wings of the Authorities flapped unevenly.

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