Page 239 of A Queen's Game
Gone were his flowy shirts and decorative pants—he wore the outfit of a Satiroan guard, the leathers looking as if they fit his body better. “With half the guard in the city looking for the clip, this is our only chance to get Elyse.” He looked out into the main living area of her suite, glowering.
As he turned to move toward her desk, Elyse took her chance. She needed to leave. She needed to find Wynn. Or Wyltam. Or Keyain.
Anyone.
Gods, Az was a prince—a beastly prince with horns. How did no one know?
Azarys cursed, leaning over her desk as she reached the doorway. “She knows.”
Elyse darted out, finding her father standing with his arms crossed, leaning against the table as Sylas appeared from her bedroom.
“Knows what?” her father asked.
She inched along the wall, her hold on aithyr strong, careful not to stumble on her unseen feet.
“My position—our kind. Fuck,” Azarys swore, “the blood’s fresh.”
There was a pause, Elyse almost to the door. She just needed to reach it, and then she could lose them in the castle halls.
“Her tea and seat are warm.” Azarys appeared in the doorway. “Goddess, you’re here, aren’t you?”
Elyse stumbled at his address, not expecting him to guess that.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” her father said. “Elyse isn’t capable of that magic.”
“Yes, she is,” Sylas said, fear lining his features. His gaze met hers, realization brief on his expression before he turned to Azarys. “But I can’t sense her.”
Azarys walked into the room, looking around, as her hand landed on the doorknob. She pulled, but a gust of wind from Azarys slammed it shut. “There you are.”
Faster than she thought possible, Azarys sprinted at her as she ripped open the door, flooding aithyr into her strength to beat his wind as it whipped past her again. The shifting of focus dropped her invisibility, and she ran into the hallway.
Elyse made it three steps when his arms wrapped around her waist, stopping her even as she flooded herself with aithyr. Azarys grunted with effort before his teeth met her neck, her body going limp as he bit. Confused, she realized it was where he bruised her during sex.
“Goddess,” he murmured, brushing back her hair with a hand. “I know you’re scared, but I’m here. I’m taking you with me to Chorys Dasi.”
The sensation wore off, but Elyse pretended to remain limp as Azarys’s grip loosened. Behind her, she heard Sylas and Gyrsh yelling from the other room.
She blocked out everything—her panicked breathing, the yelling voices, Azarys’s grip on her—and gave herself to aithyr. The energy flooded her, eager and searching every inch of her body, and then she grabbed ahold of it, thrusting it out as a concentrated gust of wind directed at Azarys.
He flew backward into the wall with a crunch. Elyse turned, watching as he slumped down, unmoving against the cracked wood paneling. She covered her cry with her hand.
Sylas appeared in the doorway, staring from Elyse to the unconscious Azarys. He stepped outside, shutting the door behind him. Flames appeared in his hand, melting the handle. He turned to her. “Run.”
Elyse shook, staring at Sylas as he bent over the unmoving Azarys. He looked up, his eyes wide with fear. “Elyse, you need to run. Hide,” he hissed, looking over his shoulder as her father began pounding on the door.
A second later, the door flew out, hitting the wall across from it. Her father appeared in the doorway, face laced with fury. “You stupid bitch,” he hissed, eyes burning on Elyse.
And she ran.
Her legs carried her down the hall, her father close behind. Trails of aithyr flowed around her, appearing and disappearing into the walls and floor. Some seemed to follow her as she ran. Her father was faster than she realized, unable to lose him, even as she darted down the stairs to the first floor. Not a person was in sight—no guards, no nobles. Gods, what the hells was going on?
Elyse ran through the doors leading to the courtyard, her father snagging her shirt, but she shot lightning at him from her hands as she ran.
Though her breath heaved, she forced herself to calm as she stepped into the garden path. When she reached out to the aithyr, it answered as if to say, “Here, come here, it’s safe.” She followed the pulling tendril, running off the path and into a dense section of lilacs. A branch caught her shirt, feeling the fabric tear as she ripped herself free. Elyse arrived in a small clearing at the center of the bushes, revealing a massive statue of a canine creature. Its body was made from stone, carved to look like twisting vines, sitting on its haunches and poised as if it would attack. Two large, thorny antlers protruded from its head, ending in elongated spikes.
Elyse listened to its calling, watching the aithyr swirl around the beast. Tentatively, she brushed her hand over the stone. Was it alive? It felt alive.
Her father swore, his footsteps carrying through the gardens away from Elyse. She took a shallow breath, her hand grazing the beast’s side. Had it helped her? The stone remained unmoving with her touch. It was just a statue—and aithyr was just energy.
