Page 84 of Tales of a Deadly Devotion
The hilt in my bag practically vibrating against my hip. Willing itself to be summoned.
I could have sworn I saw Callen give the slightest wince but I couldn’t be certain when the Countess had captured my attention so completely.
She had three ancient blades around her wrist. Only not in a form she could wield. No. They’d been given to her; Kysillians had bargained with this creature. Given over their ancestors’ treasures so easily.
My own blade in the bag at my waist suddenly felt like a dead weight. Sensing the others in the set it belonged to.
‘Kneel.’ The command was soft and mocking from her lips. So consumed by the horror of what she possessed I almost missed it.
The room went silent. The lamps around us guttered out, the wooden floor beneath me groaning and I knew it was under the force of Emrys’s repressed summoning. My own magic raged inside of me at the word. A command it had heard before from different lips. How I’d burnt them to ash.
A command she gave me because she owned those blades. Owned three Kysillian bloodlines. Only I wasn’t born of one of them and she wished to prove it to herself. Wanted to know whose I was.
‘I have business to attend to, Countess,’ Lady Ramsey sighed. ‘You can play another time.’
The Countess’s dark eyes narrowed slightly on me, paying Lady Ramsey not a moment of her attention. I met her gaze, the strange lifelessness of that red. For a reckless moment, I wanted her to see my father in me. To know she’d failed. That her weakness was right here before her.
She didn’t own my blood and she didn’t like it.
‘Brave little thing.’ Her head tilted ever so slightly. ‘Not one of mine then. Yet those hunters and Montagor think you are.’
Hers. As if she owned them. Owned Kysillia’s blood. As if she could bring the ancestors themselves to heel.
‘Their mistake,’ I answered. Voice unwavering as I swallowed down the taste of smoke on my tongue. My rage. Yet I knew she could see it flickering in my eyes. A flash of power that would have sent any sane fey back a step. Only this blood seeker leant closer, as if relishing the warmth.
‘Careful, little Kysillian. Even your great King of the North swore his oath to me in the end.’ She turned that chain over at her wrist. Playing with those small golden disks, as if they were no more than a jewel. ‘Mal Tarour.’
Mal Tarour.The Kysillian from her lips made unease stir inside me. An ancient vow. A mark of trust.No king of my blood.
Only the inflection was wrong. The vow was no kin of my blood. Notking. A promise to never produce another that would see them harmed. A vow my father would have given her to be bound, only … he’d given it wrong.
Kayin. King of the North. My father. He’d survived this blood witch with his blade still intact. Evidence that she wasn’t as powerful as she thought she was.
My eyes darted to Callen where he continued to watch me. He’d know that vow was wrong too, and yet no emotion flickered across his stoic face.
It appeared the Countess wasn’t as clever as she believed. That some things would always be beyond her control.
‘He isn’t here now. Did you misplace him?’ My focus moved back to the Countess. Making a fool of her claim to power. She might have the three swords, but they were nothing without the creatures to wield them. Something she could never do because they would remain in that form without a true heir – because she hadn’t earned their power. Wasn’t worthy of it.
I saw the barest twitch of Callen’s lips but it was the crack in the Countess’s mask I was focused on. Skin too tight and smooth from too many enchantments to retain her youth. She didn’t like the challenge as she pulled back. Too unfamiliar with it.
She turned from me, to where Emrys had moved closer, his eyes full black.
‘Montagor is quite eager to obtain her, Blackthorn. He’s put a steep price on her head. Alive – strangely enough. He must want to play.’
‘I didn’t know you and him were so … cordial with one another,’ Sigrid snorted in answer. As if knowing Emrys would only say something to make this whole interaction worse.
How those dark eyes tracked the Countess like a predator on the hunt.
‘Your payments, Countess.’ Lady Ramsey let a heavy purse fall on the edge of her tea tray, calling an end to the exchange.
The Countess took her time turning on her heel. In no rush to take her prize. ‘Don’t make me collect them myself again, Ramsey. I’d hate for me to have to cripple your other leg.’
Lady Ramsey’s golden gaze was hard with hate as she refilled the port glass Emrys had used. ‘Always a pleasure, Countess.’
I hoped this creature would leave as swiftly as she arrived, only I should have known better than to hope.
‘Oh and Blackthorn … tell Thean he’s to return to me.’ The Countess held out her hand as she reached one of her rebels who offered her gloves obediently. ‘I tire of his games.’
