Queen of Shadows

  “Holy gods,” Ress breathed.

  Beneath the shadows of her dark hood, Aelin’s grin was nothing short of wicked. “Hello, Ress. Brullo. Sorry to see your palace jobs aren’t paying you enough these days.”

  The Weapons Master was glancing between her and the passageways. “You didn’t say she was back,” he said to Chaol.

  Aelin clicked her tongue. “Chaol, it seems, likes to keep information to himself.”

  He clenched his fists at his sides. “You’re drawing too much attention to us.”

  “Am I?” Aelin lifted a dagger, weighing it in her hands with expert ease. “I need to talk to Brullo and my old friend Ress. Since you refused to let me come the other night, this was the only way.”

  So typical of her. Nesryn had taken a casual step away, monitoring the carved tunnels. Or avoiding the queen.

  Queen. The word struck him again. A queen of the realm was in the Shadow Market, in head-to-toe black, and looking more than happy to start slitting throats. He hadn’t been wrong to fear her reunion with Aedion—what they might do together. And if she had her magic …

  “Take off your hood,” Brullo said quietly. Aelin looked up.

  “Why, and no.”

  “I want to see your face.”

  Aelin went still.

  But Nesryn turned back and leaned a hand on the table. “I saw her face last night, Brullo, and it’s as pretty as before. Don’t you have a wife to ogle, anyway?”

  Aelin snorted. “I think I rather like you, Nesryn Faliq.”

  Nesryn gave Aelin a half smile. Practically beaming, coming from her.

  Chaol wondered whether Aelin would like Nesryn if she knew about their history. Or whether the queen would even care.

  Aelin tugged back her hood only far enough for the light to hit her face. She winked at Ress, who grinned. “I missed you, friend,” she said. Color stained Ress’s cheeks.

  Brullo’s mouth tightened as Aelin looked at him again. For a moment, the Weapons Master studied her. Then he murmured, “I see.” The queen stiffened almost imperceptibly. Brullo bowed his head, ever so slightly. “You’re going to rescue Aedion.”

  Aelin pulled her hood into place and inclined her head in confirmation, the swaggering assassin incarnate. “I am.”

  Ress swore filthily under his breath.

  Aelin leaned closer to Brullo. “I know I’m asking a great deal of you—”

  “Then don’t ask it,” Chaol snapped. “Don’t endanger them. They risk enough.”

  “That’s not your call to make,” she said.

  Like hell it wasn’t. “If they’re discovered, we lose our inside source of information. Not to mention their lives. What do you plan to do about Dorian? Or is it only Aedion you care about?”

  They were all watching far too closely.

  Her nostrils flared. But Brullo said, “What is it you require of us, Lady?”

  Oh, the Weapons Master definitely knew, then. He must have seen Aedion recently enough to have recognized those eyes, that face and coloring, the moment she pulled back her hood. Perhaps he had suspected it for months now. Aelin said softly, “Don’t let your men be stationed at the southern wall of the gardens.”

  Chaol blinked. Not a request or an order—but a warning.

  Brullo’s voice was slightly hoarse as he said, “Anywhere else we should avoid?”

  She was already backing away, shaking her head as if she were a disinterested buyer. “Just tell your men to pin a red flower on their uniforms. If anyone asks, say it’s to honor the prince on his birthday. But wear them where they can easily be seen.”

  Chaol glanced at her hands. Her dark gloves were clean. How much blood would stain them in a few days? Ress loosed a breath and said to her, “Thank you.”

  It wasn’t until she’d vanished into the crowd with a jaunty swagger that Chaol realized thanks were indeed in order.

  Aelin Galathynius was about to turn the glass palace into a killing field, and Ress, Brullo, and his men had all been spared.

  She still hadn’t said anything about Dorian. About whether he would be spared. Or saved.

  Aelin had known she had eyes on her from the moment she’d left the Shadow Market after finishing some shopping of her own. She strode right into the Royal Bank of Adarlan anyway.

  She had business to attend to, and though they’d been minutes away from closing for the day, the Master of the Bank had been more than happy to assist her with her inquiries. He never once questioned the fake name her accounts were under.

  As the Master talked about her various accounts and the interest they’d gathered over the years, she took in the details of his office: thick, oak-paneled walls, pictures that had revealed no hidey-holes in the bare minute she’d had to snoop while he summoned his secretary to bring in tea, and ornate furniture that cost more than most citizens of Rifthold made in a lifetime, including a gorgeous mahogany armoire where many of his wealthiest clients’ files—including hers—were kept, locked up with a little gold key he kept on his desk.

  She’d risen as he again scuttled through the double doors of his office to withdraw the sum of money she would take with her that night. While he was in the anteroom, giving the order to his secretary, Aelin had casually made her way over to his desk, surveying the papers stacked and strewn about, the various gifts from clients, keys, and a little portrait of a woman who could be either a wife or a daughter. With men like him, it was impossible to tell.

  He’d returned just as she casually slid a hand into the pocket of her cloak. She made small talk about the weather until the secretary appeared, a little box in hand. Dumping the contents into her coin purse with as much grace as she could muster, Aelin had thanked the secretary and the Master and breezed out of the office.

  She took side streets and alleys, ignoring the stench of rotting flesh that even the rain couldn’t conceal. Two—she’d counted two butchering blocks in once-pleasant city squares.

  The bodies left for the crows had been mere shadows against the pale stone walls where they’d been nailed.

  Aelin wouldn’t risk capturing one of the Valg until after Aedion was saved—if she made it out alive—but that didn’t mean she couldn’t get a head start on it.

  A chill fog had blanketed the world the night before, seeping in through every nook and cranny. Nestled under layers of quilts and down blankets, Aelin rolled over in bed and stretched a hand across the mattress, reaching lazily for the warm male body beside hers.

  Cold, silken sheets slid against her fingers.

  She opened an eye.

  This wasn’t Wendlyn. The luxurious bed bedecked in shades of cream and beige belonged to her apartment in Rifthold. And the other half of the bed was neatly made, its pillows and blankets undisturbed. Empty.

  For a moment, she could see Rowan there—that harsh, unforgiving face softened into handsomeness by sleep, his silver hair glimmering in the morning light, so stark against the tattoo stretching from his left temple down his neck, over his shoulder, all the way to his fingertips.

  Aelin loosed a tight breath, rubbing her eyes. Dreaming was bad enough. She would not waste energy missing him, wishing he were here to talk everything through, or to just have the comfort of waking up beside him and knowing he existed.

  She swallowed hard, her body too heavy as she rose from the bed.

  She had told herself once that it wasn’t a weakness to need Rowan’s help, to want his help, and that perhaps there was a kind of strength in acknowledging that, but … He wasn’t a crutch, and she never wanted him to become one.

  Still, as she downed her cold breakfast, she wished she hadn’t felt such a strong need to prove that to herself weeks ago.

  Especially when word arrived via urchin banging on the warehouse door that she’d been summoned to the Assassins’ Keep. Immediately.

  CHAPTER

  12

  An emotionless guard delivered the duke’s summons, and Manon—who had been about to take Abraxos for a solo ride—
ground her teeth for a good five minutes as she paced the aerie floor.

  She was not a dog to be called for, and neither were her witches. Humans were for sport and blood and the occasional, very rare siring of witchlings. Never commanders; never superiors.

  Manon stormed down from the aerie, and as she hit the base of the tower stairs, Asterin fell into step behind her. “I was just coming to get you,” her Second murmured, her golden braid bouncing. “The duke—”

  “I know what the duke wants,” Manon snapped, her iron teeth out.

  Asterin lifted an eyebrow, but kept silent.

  Manon checked her growing inclination to start eviscerating. The duke summoned her endlessly for meetings with the tall, thin man who called himself Vernon and who looked at Manon with not nearly enough fear and respect. She could hardly get in a few hours of training with the Thirteen, let alone be airborne for long periods of time, without being called for.

  She breathed in through her nose and out her mouth, again and again, until she could retract her teeth and nails.

  Not a dog, but not a brash fool, either. She was Wing Leader, and had been heir of the Clan for a hundred years. She could handle this mortal pig who would be worm food in a few decades—and then she could return to her glorious, wicked, immortal existence.

  Manon flung open the doors to the duke’s council room, earning her a glance from the guards posted outside—a glance that held no reaction, no emotion. Human in shape, but nothing more.

  The duke was studying a giant map spread across his table, his companion or advisor or jester, Lord Vernon Lochan, standing at his side. Down a few seats, staring at the dark glass surface, sat Kaltain, unmoving save for the flutter of her white throat as she breathed. The brutal scar on her arm had somehow darkened into a purplish red. Fascinating.

  “What do you want?” Manon demanded.

  Asterin took up her place by the door, arms crossed.

  The duke pointed to the chair across from him. “We have matters to discuss.”

  Manon remained standing. “My mount is hungry, and so am I. I suggest telling me swiftly, so I can get on with my hunt.”

  Lord Vernon, dark-haired, slim as a reed, and clothed in a bright-blue tunic that was far too clean, looked Manon over. Manon bared her teeth at him in silent warning. Vernon just smiled and said, “What’s wrong with the food we provide, Lady?”

  Manon’s iron teeth slid down. “I don’t eat food made by mortals. And neither does my mount.”

  The duke at last lifted his head. “Had I known you would be so picky, I would have asked for the Yellowlegs heir to be made Wing Leader.”

  Manon casually flicked her nails out. “I think you would find Iskra Yellowlegs to be an undisciplined, difficult, and useless Wing Leader.”

  Vernon slid into a chair. “I’ve heard about the rivalry between Witch Clans. Got something against the Yellowlegs, Manon?”

  Asterin let out a low growl at the informal address.

  “You mortals have your rabble,” Manon said. “We have the Yellowlegs.”

  “What an elitist,” Vernon muttered to the duke, who snorted.

  A line of cold flame went down Manon’s spine. “You have five minutes, duke.”

  Perrington rapped his knuckles on the glass table. “We are to begin … experimenting. As we look to the future, we need to expand our numbers—to improve the soldiers we already have. You witches, with your history, allow us the chance to do just that.”

  “Explain.”

  “I am not in the business of explaining every last detail of my plans,” the duke said. “All I need you to do is give me a Blackbeak coven under your command to test.”

  “Test how?”

  “To determine whether they are compatible for breeding with our allies from another realm—the Valg.”

  Everything stopped. The man had to be mad, but—

  “Not breed as humans do, of course. It would be an easy, relatively painless procedure—a bit of stone sewn just beneath the belly button. The stone allows them in, you see. And a child born of Valg and witch bloodlines … You can understand what an investment that would be. You witches value your offspring so ardently.”

  Both men were smiling blandly, waiting for her acceptance.

  The Valg—the demons that had bred with the Fae to create the witches—somehow returned, and in contact with the duke and the king … She shut down the questions. “You have thousands of humans here. Use them.”

  “Most are not innately gifted with magic and compatible with the Valg, as you witches are. And only witches have Valg blood already flowing in their veins.”

  Did her grandmother know of this? “We are to be your army, not your whores,” Manon said with lethal quiet. Asterin came up to her side, her face tight and pale.

  “Pick a coven of Blackbeaks,” was the duke’s only reply. “I want them ready in a week. Interfere with this, Wing Leader, and I’ll make dog meat of your precious mount. Perhaps do the same for your Thirteen.”

  “You touch Abraxos, and I’ll peel the skin from your bones.”

  The duke went back to his map and waved a hand. “Dismissed. Oh—and go down to the aerial blacksmith. He sent word that your latest batch of blades are ready for inspection.”

  Manon stood there, calculating the weight of the black glass table—if she could flip it over and use the shards to slowly, deeply cut up both men.

  Vernon flicked his brows up in a silent, taunting move, and it was enough to send Manon turning away—out the door before she could do something truly stupid.

  They were halfway to her room when Asterin said, “What are you going to do?”

  Manon didn’t know. And she couldn’t ask her grandmother, not without looking unsure or incapable of following orders. “I’ll figure it out.”

  “But you’re not going to give a Blackbeak Coven over to him for this—this breeding.”

  “I don’t know.” Maybe it wouldn’t be bad—to join their bloodline with the Valg. Maybe it’d make their forces stronger. Maybe the Valg would know how to break the Crochan curse.

  Asterin grabbed her by the elbow, nails digging in. Manon blinked at the touch, at the outright demand in it. Never before had Asterin even come close to—

  “You cannot allow this to happen,” Asterin said.

  “I’ve had enough of orders for one day. You give me another, and you’ll find your tongue on the floor.”

  Asterin’s face went splotchy. “Witchlings are sacred—sacred, Manon. We do not give them away, not even to other Clans.”

  It was true. Witchlings were so rare, and all of them female, as a gift from the Three-Faced Goddess. They were sacred from the moment the mother showed the first signs of pregnancy to when they came of age at sixteen. To harm a pregnant witch, to harm her unborn witchling or her daughter, was a breach of code so profound that there was no amount of suffering that could be inflicted upon the perpetrator to match the heinousness of the crime. Manon herself had participated in the long, long executions twice now, and the punishment had never seemed enough.

  Human children didn’t count—human children were as good as veal to some of the Clans. Especially the Yellowlegs. But witchlings … there was no greater pride than to bear a witch-child for your Clan; and no greater shame than to lose one.

  Asterin said, “What coven would you pick?”

  “I haven’t decided.” Perhaps she’d pick a lesser coven—just in case—before allowing a more powerful one to join with the Valg. Maybe the demons would give their dying race the shot of vitality they had so desperately needed for the past few decades. Centuries.

  “And if they object?”

  Manon hit the stairs to her personal tower. “The only person who objects to anything these days, Asterin, is you.”

  “It’s not right—”

  Manon sliced out with a hand, tearing through the fabric and skin right above Asterin’s breasts. “I’m replacing you with Sorrel.”

  Asterin didn’t touch
the blood pooling down her tunic.

  Manon began walking again. “I warned you the other day to stand down, and since you’ve chosen to ignore me, I have no use for you in those meetings, or at my back.” Never—not once in the past hundred years—had she changed their rankings. “As of right now, you are Third. Should you prove yourself to possess a shred of control, I’ll reconsider.”

  “Lady,” Asterin said softly.

  Manon pointed to the stairs behind. “You get to be the one to tell the others. Now.”

  “Manon,” Asterin said, a plea in her voice that Manon had never heard before.

  Manon kept walking, her red cloak stifling in the stairwell. She did not particularly care to hear what Asterin had to say—not when her grandmother had made it clear that any step out of line, any disobedience, would earn them all a brutal and swift execution. The cloak around her would never allow her to forget it.

  “I’ll see you at the aerie in an hour,” Manon said, not bothering to look back as she entered her tower.

  And smelled a human inside.

  The young servant knelt before the fireplace, a brush and dustpan in her hands. She was trembling only slightly, but the tang of her fear had already coated the room. She’d likely been panicked from the moment she’d set foot inside the chamber.

  The girl ducked her head, her sheet of midnight hair sliding over her pale face—but not before Manon caught the flash of assessment in her dark eyes.

  “What are you doing in here?” Manon said flatly, her iron nails clicking against each other—just to see what the girl would do.

  “C-c-cleaning,” the girl stammered—too brokenly, too perfectly. Subservient, docile, and terrified, exactly the way the witches preferred. Only the scent of fear was real.

  Manon retracted her iron teeth.

  The servant eased to her feet, wincing in pain. She shifted enough that the threadbare, homespun skirts of her dress swayed, revealing a thick chain between her ankles. The right ankle was mangled, her foot twisted on its side, glossy with scar tissue.

  Manon hid her predator’s smile. “Why would they give me a cripple for a servant?”