Page 33 of The War Queen's Daughter

Chapter 18

The chase exhilarates, a primal thrill that washes away the court’s oppressive weight and numbing nothingness. Zenthris is a blur of motion, leaping over rooftops, down to alleyways, then up again to the next street and onward. He disappears and reappears among the shadows, though I never lose the sense of him, keeping pace. I push against the inactivity that makes me tired too quickly, despite the exercise I’ve been getting every day, and I stretch myself past my body’s resistance, embracing the ache.

I’ve missed this so much.

The scent of damp earth and night-blooming jasmine suddenly overtakes the city’s dominant odor, filling my lungs, mingled with the wild, magnetic scent of him as he stops abruptly, and I catch him at last.

But he’s not interested in a personal moment. Zenthris crouches, gaze locked on something below us, body loose and ready for whatever it is we’re here for.

I realize I’ve followed him to something I know nothing about. And I don’t care, either. This is life. This is the only kind of freedom I’ve felt since leaving Heald.

We’re not alone any longer. I sense them before they appear from the dark to join us, four shapes, one hulking and familiar as Kell nods to me. But I catch the twist of the drakonkin’s lips, his disapproval and know that Zenthris’s invitation was without consulting the others.

I give them short attention, a pair of skinny twins, their sharp eyes taking me in as the genderless duo—are they girls or boys?—huddle together and stare. There’s a young man with a scar cutting his face in two, pulling him askew, though his grin is welcoming. As for the girl, I know her, too.

“Apple,” I say in a whisper.

She beams back at me and nods.

Because, of course, it’s her, the child I saved in the market. But she moves with such grace now, no longer fearful, and suddenly I’m grasping Zenthris by the arm and jerking him around to face me.

Nose-to-nose, I hiss into his mouth. “You set that up.”

“I did,” he whispers back. “I wanted to see what the princess of Heald was made of.”

“I could have let the guards have her.” I’m about to toss him off the roof, I’m so angry.

“But you didn’t.” Zenthris stares back, amber eyes warm and gold even in the cool moonlight. “Youdidn’t.”

I let him go, leaning away. He seems to take that as some kind of sign.

“Remalla of Heald,” Zenthris says, his voice a low, teasing rumble. “Meet the misfits.”

They nod, the twins waving. I feel my nostrils flare in irritation before turning back to him.

“So,” Zenthris continues, his smirk returning. “Ready for some real fun? A proper night out?”

I am, curse me to the fire. I nod.

And follow again, only this time I’m not amused.

He leads us through a series of narrow, winding back streets, the smells of damp stone and that heavy scent of jasmine. We’re a long way from the market now, deep in the wealthy area of the city. The large, flat rooftops make our passage easier, not harder, and when Zenthris again pauses on one very close to the innerwall that marks the boundary to the Citadel’s outer court, I know our destination has to be, if not a nobleman’s home, at the very least a wealthy merchant’s.

The ostentatious manor house dominates its block, the back a manicured lawn the size of a small park, though not nearly as large as it might be if not so close to the Overking’s seat. The moonlight barely compares to the bright glow from below, the house fully lit.

This is some kind of raid, I assume, and I’m not irritated anymore. My blood thrums with anticipation. My people, the Heald, are masters of the swift strike, the calculated attack, after all. And though I am a princess, I have no qualms about taking from those who cannot keep what they have. The spoiled and weak deserve to lose, as we’ve proven time and again on the battlefield.

While not necessarily a war for property, per se, the laws of a soldier still apply to the spoils of peace.

Zenthris lays out the plan, his voice low and precise, his movements economical. He is a natural leader, and his crew listens intently.

“Two, take the bedroom window.” The twins nod, their combined identity a fleeting oddity. “Apple,” he winks at me when he uses the nickname that I’ve apparently given the girl, “stand watch.”

She inhales to argue, but he boops her nose with the tip of one finger.

“It’s important,” he says, low and sweet.

She crosses her little arms over her chest and sticks her tongue out at him.

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