The War of Two Queens (Blood and Ash 4)

“I knew it was Atlantian gold,” Casteel murmured.

“It should work,” I said. Just as my blood should also work, at least according to Lord Sven.

She started to remove the ring, hesitated, and then pulled it off as Callum rose slowly. “It’s all I have of him.” Her gaze lifted, eyes shining with unshed tears. “That’s it.”

I said nothing.

I felt nothing as I lifted my hand, palm up. “I need it if you want me to find Malec.”

Pressing her lips together, she reached over and dropped the ring into my hand. I took it, slipping it into the pouch with the toy horse. A shudder went through her, and for a heartbeat, I tasted her bitter grief.

I didn’t care.

“We shall meet at the Bone Temple, beyond the Rise, two weeks from now,” Isbeth said, dragging her gaze from the pouch I’d placed the ring in. “You remember it.”

“Of course.” The ancient Temple was located between the most northern point of Carsodonia and Pensdurth, built before the walls around both cities had gone up. It was where the remains of the Priests and Priestesses were supposedly entombed.

“Then it’s a deal.” Isbeth took a step back and stopped. “I will allow Casteel, the draken, and the wolven to leave. But not Malik.”

“As I already said,”—Casteel’s eyes glowed a bright gold—“he does not belong to you any longer. He leaves with us.”

“It’s okay.” Malik brushed past Kieran. “Go and find Malec.”

“No.” Casteel whipped around, and I knew in an instant that Malik wanted to return to Isbeth. Not for her, but for Millicent. And the eager, cruel light in Isbeth’s eyes told me that Malik would pay greatly for his actions, likely with his life. Malik had to know that.

“You cannot have him,” I told Isbeth. “You want Malec? You will let all of us go, including Malik—” I stopped myself before I said her name. My sister. Before I asked for her. She wasn’t among the Revenants here. If I said her name, I would be putting her in danger.

“Let me pass,” Malik growled, his panic rising and settling heavily on my chest.

“Not going to happen,” Casteel warned.

“I wasn’t asking.”

Casteel pushed him back. “I know.”

I grabbed Malik’s arm. “You’re no good to anyone dead.”

He pulled his arm free, beyond reason, and I thought of Casteel while we’d been in Oak Ambler. How he’d handed himself over to Isbeth. Willingly. For me. No one could stop him. No one would stop Malik, either, and Casteel realized that. His gaze flicked to Kieran.

The wolven struck, slamming the hilt of his sword into the back of Malik’s head. The resounding crack sickened me. I turned to Kieran.

“What?” With Casteel’s aid, he caught Malik’s dead weight. “He’ll be fine.”

“Huh,” Callum murmured, wiping blood away from his mouth with the back of his hand. “That was unexpected.”

“Agreed,” Isbeth drawled, brows arched.

“Him or Malec,” I said. “That’s your choice.”

Her eyes narrowed once more, and then she sighed. “Whatever. Take him. I’ve grown tired of him anyway. You’re free to leave through the Rise like a civilized group of people. I trust that you will not make a scene on your way out.” She turned, lifting her hood. Once more, she stopped. “Oh, and one more thing,” she said. There was just a flick of her eyes.

That was all.

Clariza and Blaz went stiff in their captors’ grasps, eyes so wide that nearly the entire whites were visible. Blood drained rapidly from their faces. Tiny fissures appeared across their cheeks, their throats, and in any visible skin. I stumbled back into Casteel as their skin shrank and collapsed as they fell—as they shriveled into themselves, becoming nothing more than dried-out husks.

A guard nudged them with his boot, and they—pieces of them—shattered.

“Don’t even bother trying to restore life to them,” Callum said. “No one comes back from that.”

Shock seized me as I stared at the strips of dried, decayed skin drifting to the wood. My hands trembled as I lifted my gaze.

“You know what they say,” Isbeth remarked, tugging the cowl of the crimson hood close to her throat. “The only good Descenter is a dead one.”

The roar in my ears returned, hitting my chest, and the essence rose to the surface in a heartbeat. There was no stopping it. I didn’t even try as that familiar taste gathered in my throat, shadowy and full of fire.

Death.

Ancient power throbbed in my bones, filled my muscles, and coursed through my veins, seeping into my skin. I screamed, giving death sound.

Silvery light laced with thick, churning shadows spilled from me. Someone shouted as I stepped forward, the floor cracking, the wood splitting under my steps. The temperature of the room dropped until ragged breaths formed misty clouds. Cold rage left me in a burst of energy—a shockwave of essence hitting the air. The table and chairs turned to dust as the rage slammed into the walls. They stretched under the weight. Plaster and stone groaned. The roof shuddered, and then the walls shattered as the dark, oily sensation spread inside of me. Old. Cold. A harbinger.