Page 53 of A Queen Of Broken Realms
“Mind your words. You are speaking to the Queen of the Shadow Realm.”
Wynter and I may be two different kinds of immortal, but we are both fluent in silent womanspeak.
Wynter’s eyes flick down to the bloody knees of my jeans before meeting my gaze. A little crease appears between her brows.You? Queen of the Shadow Realm?
I shrug one shoulder.Yeah, I know, right? Shit’s wild. But here we are.
Wynter’s eyes narrow.Last time I checked, they had a reclusive dickhead with an obsession for shrunken heads running the show with his witchy Reaper side piece.
Okay, so I doubt Wynter would say it exactly likethat, but it’s the gist of it, I swear. To which the fierce red gleam in my eyes and the wicked curve at one side of my lips in a fang-laced smile says,Yeah, that’s right. And I killed them for it. So maybe you should play nice.
Wynter swallows beneath the sharp edge of the blade. Her eyes dart to my hand over the forehead of her struggling companion in one last, suspicious squint.You’re a vampire?.. But I thought—
“Like I said,” Ashen warns, interrupting us. He presses the blade harder against Wynter’s skin. Her throat tightens as she tries to escape the pain of the sharpened steel. “Mind your words, including the ones you dare not speak aloud. Insult my wife one more time and I will slit your throat. I don’t give a fuck what your Guild of Gilgamesh has to say about it. Now tell us why you are here.”
Wynter swallows audibly, but her gaze doesn’t waiver from Ashen’s. “I’m here to see Ammon. I needepiphyllum oxypetallumand recommendations for a witch, a trustworthy Healer.”
“When was the last time you saw Ammon Hassan?” I ask.
“A m-month ago. Why?” Ashen and I glance at one another and back to Wynter, her gaze flicking between us as rising panic filters into her expression. Her eyes well with tears. “Why?Where is he? Why are you here?”
A fist of emotions tightens around my throat as I fight to not look away from the distress rising in her eyes. “Mr. Hassan was going to come with us to the Shadow Realm to replace our Resurrectionist. We were with him just an hour ago. He was gathering supplies with our friend. We just got here, the door was ajar...”
“Where is he?” Wynter asks again. Her voice is thin and unsteady, like a ribbon twisting in the wind.
I look at Ashen and give him a nod. His head bobs once in reply and he lowers his blade, pulling back the smoke that fills the space around us. He steps to the side and gestures with his hand to the apartment, his expression solemn.
Wynter rubs her neck where a pink line rests, darting a fierce glare at Ashen before she turns her focus to the room ahead. Her steps falter as she sees the blood and the broken vials and Ediye’s crumpled form on the floor. She shoots us a worried glance over her shoulder, her flats crunching through the shattered glass as Ashen follows to bend and check on Ediye.
“Stable,” is all he says, but his expression is grim with warning.We can’t linger, he conveys with a glance, then stands.
Wynter continues further into the room. A horrified gasp seizes the silence and flees her lungs in a keening wail. She rushes out of view toward the body of the elderly apothecary, already weeping in a sound that splits my soul with its notes of desperate loss.
“Sheshama,” she pleads. Ashen and I exchange a fleeting, weighted glance.Uncle. “Wake up,sheshama.”
I watch for a moment as Ashen stands where I can see him, observing Wynter’s distress in the kitchen with a look of helplessness hidden deep beneath his distrust. Wynter’s sobs echo through the room. She needs someone. I look up at my palm, to the man who desperately strains beneath my touch in the prison of his own mind.
“Don’t make me regret this,” I say, letting him hear my voice. He startles but thinks on my words for only a moment before he calms his struggle. His breath comes in pants, his scent enlivening the space between us. It’s salt and woodsmoke and something tropical, a hint of ripe fruit in the sun. An undercurrent of sulfur. Fear. But in his mind, I don’t sense fear for himself. I only see it tied to one word, heavy as an anchor.Wyn. “I’m taking you to her. She needs you.”
The vampire gives a shaky nod, and I pull him forward with my free hand, keeping him blind to me and his surroundings. We crunch across the broken glass, the shards sliding through the sticky blood. I stop when we reach the entrance to the kitchen.There is a Reaper here,I whisper in his mind. He stiffens beneath my hand.If you attack, he will kill you. Just go to Wynter.
The vampire swallows and I remove my hand, darting backward as though releasing a venomous snake. He blinks with confusion and I watch his eyes fall on Wynter, her willowy frame draped over Mr. Hassan’s body as she begs him to come back to life. The vampire’s face crumples for just a moment, and then he drops to her side, wrapping his big arms around her and turning her away from the cooling body on the floor.
I glance at Ashen and hear a groan behind me. Ediye’s limbs move slowly across the broken glass.
“Just stay still, Ediye. We’ll look after you,” I say, rushing to her side to press the towels back down on the wound.
“Who are you?” the vampire asks from behind me.
“Who areyou?” Ashen counters.
“Roman,” the vampire says after a long pause. “Roman Bolosan.”
“Our injured friend is a witch. Ediye. I am Ashen of House Urbigu. And that is my wife, Leucosia of Anthemoessa, Queen of the Shadow Realm,” Ashen says. I feel his pride warm the blue lines in my chest, twinkling the gold in the crescent moon. I meet Ashen’s eyes through the shafts of light and swirling curls of dust. His pride is another demon, at least in the psalms of humankind. But to me, Ashen’s pride is a bright star in his darkness, its light reaching through centuries, barreling past obstacles, slicing through shadow. It’s something Ashen owns, something he cherishes. His love is his most precious art, his pride like a sculpture that shouts that love into the world, and how it could be a sin is beyond my comprehension.
My eyes are still fused with Ashen’s when I notice the slow beat of Roman’s vampire heart stutter in his chest. “Leucosia?.. My maker is Cassian Agnello. But…he said you were dead. Does he know you’re alive?”
I swallow another swell of pain that climbs my throat. “Yes,” is all I can manage to whisper.
