Page 60 of A Queen Of Broken Realms
Ashen glances toward us. I hold my hand up and twinkle my fingers. He flashes a brief smile before focusing back on coaching the group practicing with their swords.
“A Reaper in love with a vampire,” Aglaope says with a grin as she shakes her head. “Only you would wind up in such a circumstance and get away with it.”
“I do love getting away with things.”
Aglaope chuckles. “I know, sister. You always have. Perhaps some things do not change, no matter how much time passes.”
A whistle sounds from below, its pitch different from the other arrows.
My sister’s grip is a vice on my wrist. The cup falls from my hand, spilling blood and the scent of cardamom and honey and anise across the floor, spattering across my shoes. Aglaope wrenches me toward her as an arrow lodges in the pillar where my head had been leaning, the shaft swaying, the stone cracked beneath its silver point.
My eyes are wide when I meet Aglaope’s gaze. The red vampiric gleam of protective rage shines back in hers.
Chaos erupts below and breaks the spell of fear and fury between us. We turn to the yard just as Cyrus kicks the back of a demon’s legs, sending him to his knees in the dust of the archers’ quarter as soldiers with swords and arrows point to my attacker. Ashen stalks toward the demon, the aggressor’s mouth twisted in a bloody grin from someone’s punch.
The rage I feel from Ashen is a mirror of my own. It’s reflecting beneath my skin, heating my flesh. Crimson light films my vision. I fold my hands into fists and press them to the stone railing. “Gassan tiildibba me zi ab,” I yell into the courtyard. My voice fills the space like a cauldron. I smash my fist against the stone. “Alsi kunusi.”
Queen that gives life to the dying.
I have called upon you.
Flame erupts on Ashen’s sword and smoke surrounds him, but through it we still see the slash of his blade across the demon’s stomach. The man screams, that grin twisting into agony as Ashen reaches into the wound and pulls out a handful of viscera. Intestines tumble into the dust and Ashen grabs my attacker’s hair with his bloody hand, forcing the demon to look down as he then grinds his organs beneath the heel of his boot. Ashen whispers something to the demon that I can’t hear, the sound drowned by the man’s distress. The Reaper shoves the aggressor to the ground. Zida rushes from the shadows, Ashen moving out of her path as she draws back and strikes the man across the chest. She draggs him through the circle toward an arched door, his intestines trailing in their wake like pink rope as his weakening wails climb the stone walls.
I meet Ashen’s gaze, the waning fear in his eyes coloring their depths with a brighter flame than rage. I try to give him a reassuring smile, but I can’t seem to bring it to life.
“Perhaps some things cannot change, no matter how much we wish them to,” Aglaope says.
CHAPTER23
There’s not much that we can do as Ediye heals and regains her power, and when she wakes she has nothing that leads us closer to understanding the next moves of the Nephilim following the attack at Mr. Hassan’s. Wynter and Roman are given a suite they rarely venture from, and Wynter has made it clear no Resurrectionist will be provided until Ediye recuperates enough to spellcast for whatever healing services she and Roman require. And until we get our Resurrectionist, the Council will not be complete, though I do manage to secure Cole as my lead advisor. Between Ediye’s recovery and the attack at the training ground, I’ve been keeping a low profile, and Ashen grows restless between interrogating anyone remotely related to the archer and the hidden threat of the Nephilim still lurking in the Living Realm. While I spend the days in Ediye’s suite as she steadily improves, he stalks the Shadow Realm with a surly iron fist. His disquiet rests in my lapis and gold mark like an ember, always burning.
It’s late on the third day of Ediye’s recovery when I return home with Urtur at my heels, entering a dark and quiet suite. I stand unmoving for a moment in the silent space, feeling a little unsettled by the weight of everything that needs to be done but the inability to actually do it. I pour a glass of fangria from the jug in the fridge and settle on the couch with the Book of the Fatespeaker on my lap, trying to make sense of the weathered pages, the ancient symbols, the random sections of translations from Dingir to Sumerian or Latin. But truthfully, it’s hard to make much headway learning a new language or deciphering ancient incantations with this sense of restlessness lapping at my bones.
It might seem a little surprising, but it’s very a welcome interruption when Ashen bursts through the door like a true fallen angel, all smoke and sparks and bottomless fury. The door slams shut behind him and Urtur’s tail thumps against the fur rug as though this is all perfectly normal.
I shut my book and watch as Ashen unstraps the scabbard from his body and thunks the sword onto a side table with a tense fist. He stalks to the sideboard, his snakeskin wings fluttering behind him as he moves within a cloudy black haze. He pulls a tumbler from the shelf, pouring a glass of brandy that he downs and immediately replenishes.
“Good day?” I ask with a sly smile as I set the book on the coffee table and sit up, uncrossing my legs. Ashen scowls at me over this edge of his glass, bright crimson rings surrounding the black flame that burns in his pupils. My smile broadens. “I see the wings are back. To whom shall I relay my thanks?”
“Duman,” Ashen says, spitting the name out as though it’s rotten on his tongue.
My head tilts, my eyes narrowing. “Duman? From House Mushussu?” Ashen nods once, finishing his drink only to fill it once more. “What’s wrong with him?”
“He was put out by the lack of a hunt this year.”
“Hunt? Hunting what?”
Ashen levels me with a look that says ‘you don’t want to know’. My guess would be crawlers, though who knows what other prey lurks in the fog. “Duman got drunk inBit Akalumand decided to take matters into his own hands. He released all the hyenas. I have spent the last few hours with Cyrus rounding them up.”
“Why didn’t you come and get me? I could have helped.”
“No,” Ashen says, the fury flaring in his eyes. “It should not be up to you to sort out the childish behavior of those demons who cannot fall in line.”
Rage and frustration flow from Ashen and coat the room, even when he takes another drink, the liquor doing nothing to dull his agitation. He paces and glares at the window, the door, the ceiling, anywhere but me. Which, naturally, is exactly where I want it. All that danger and desire should really have a focal point, and vampires make very willing targets.Verywilling.
“Why don’t you put all that fury to better use, demon?” I ask, trying to keep the wicked smile from my lips. Ashen darts a glance at me, not breaking his irritated stride.
“I have no interest in ripping his limbs off for a second time tonight,” Ashen growls.
