Page 115 of Artemysia
He appears to be narrating the most exciting story ever, hands gesturing as much as his facial expressions change. His audience of two is clearly enthralled by his tale. The young lady presses a hand to his chest and offers him a small square of pink cake snatched off the trayof a passing server. Riev takes a bite, and she picks a crumb off the corner of his lips. She admires his hair, tucking back a stray strand with her finger.
Riev is being social. And charming.
He’s drunk.
A long, exasperated sigh escapes me. His hair ismineto touch. I’m the only one allowed to—
No. Focus, dammit. He’s not mine. What am I thinking?
I debate if I should push through the crowd toward Riev, or leave him be to follow through on whatever strategy I hope he’s carrying out. Before I can act, the two royals loop their arms through his and lead him out under an archway in the back. No one stops them. Is it another part of the ballroom? I try to think practical thoughts. He must know what he’s doing, right? When I stretch up, craning my neck, the adjoining room looks dark and unlit—it’s likely a coatroom or a staging area for the waiters serving food and drink.
He must have a plan and is still doing his job, though at last glimpse, he was swaying and spilling his drink.
There must be a strategic reason he picked those two, and he will gather information as assigned.
I give him the benefit of the doubt and leave him to it.
Plus, if he’s been drinking, he’s more likely to blow our cover and defy me if I remind him to stay on task. The day he follows a command is the day both rivers freeze over. It’s possible he physically cannot take an order. Gods know we make a scene every time we disagree. Why does it turn me on to fight with him? I fail at all attempts to block the memory of our argument at the cave, with me on my knees, the taste of him in my mouth.
A heated flash of desire burns through my veins.
This is why I can’t get attached. It clouds my concentration, my decisions.
Either way, I force myself to carry on alone.
I glide through the crowd, performing the same low curtsy other women do when joining a clique. How I’m not flat on my ass balancing in these high heels, I can only attribute to my decade of military training.
Politely introducing myself, I move from group to group under thepretense of searching for my errant husband. I eavesdrop on any conversation that might yield vital information. After an hour, I’m driven to the brink of madness listening to royal gossip or how many yards of fabric it took to make one’s dress, and decide that another cocktail is needed to get through the next hour.
Before I can summon a server with drinks, a scream from the entryway behind me has me crouching down to slip out Ivy’s dagger from the holster around my ankle.
Instinctively, I whirl around on my other foot, and I’m armed.
The crowd pulses toward me chaotically, trampling each other, shrieking and shouting. In my high heels, I’m taller than half the people around me, and I straighten up just in time to see one of the guards at the ballroom door gripping his throat. He falls over, spewing blood.
More screams rattle through the ballroom. The other guard wrestles with a guest who knocks into him in his attempt to escape.
I kick off my impractical shoes and dive through the panicking ladies and gentlemen, noticing no one is helping the guard. I’m forced to push people away from me roughly, elbowing a man who grabs me by my waist to trade places with him. Elk turd.
I’m at the entrance. The second guard is down, and a Syf gnaws at his throat.
Down the corridor and up the curving stairway, bodies of other guards and valets are strewn at random. I see my valet.
Gregory. Oh hell. He’s been ripped apart, his insides spilling out of his red uniform. His hand still grasps a short sword. My chest tightens.
Poor guy. He didn’t even want to be here tonight.
Sickened, my gut twisting like a snake, I hike up my dress, bare feet pounding on the cold tiles toward the Syf. He’s feeding on the guard. The sight of the Syf gnawing off and consuming flesh makes me retch.
But I know what to do. I launch myself onto his back, driving all my weight down into the base of his spine to control his center of gravity. As he pitches forward, I yank his hair back and stab him in the neck.
I’ll have to saw off his head with this small dagger.
For a second, I think of the Syf back in Artemysia. So civilized. And as Eira had been, a bit naïve about humans. Curiousabout humans even. They weren’t animals that fed on human flesh. Could I subdue and capture this one instead of killing him? Then again, this is what slaughtered my mother and countless others I used to know.
Still…perhaps there is another way, and I don’t have to kill him.
Leaving one hand on my dagger in his neck, I rip the bottom hem of my dress to use as a restraint. When I let go of the dagger to tie his hands, he thrashes violently, throwing me backward.
