The War of Two Queens (Blood and Ash 4)

I wasn’t as special as a Rev, who would’ve apparently grown the damn finger back. But the skin should’ve closed over the wound by now, at least.

Yet more proof that I needed to feed.

My gaze flicked to the metal hip bath that had been brought in at some point today by a small legion of Handmaidens. The damn thing had looked heavy as hell. They had filled it with steaming, hot water that had long since cooled. The Rev Callum had done something to lengthen the chain, allowing me to reach the tub and bathe.

Fuck that.

I knew better than to make use of it, even though I was beyond filthy. The bath was one of two things: a reward or a prelude to punishment. And since I hadn’t done a damn thing to earn it, that left option two. The last time they’d offered me baths was when the Blood Queen’s friends wanted to play with something fresh and clean. Something that didn’t resemble a dirty, chained animal.

So, I would sit in my filth. Gladly.

I lowered my hand to my lap. The breeches were stiff with dried blood. Staring at my hand, seeing the dirtied bandages and what they meant, my heart thudded. Anger trenched itself deep, turning my cold skin feverish. I slammed my bare foot down on the damp, uneven stone. The act served no purpose other than to cause the shadowstone shackles to tighten and for my foot to throb.

I didn’t give a fuck about the finger. My entire hand could be gone for all I cared. It was the ring that was now gone that bothered me. It was what I knew that bitch had done with it and the finger.

She’d sent it to Poppy.

My right hand closed into a fist as my lips peeled back over my fangs. I would rip out her entrails and feed them to her because I couldn’t…

Pressing my head back against the wall, I shut my eyes. Neither did anything to erase the knowledge that Poppy must have seen that. She had to know what that bitch had done, and there was nothing—absolutely, fucking nothing—I could do about it.

But she has Kieran. He would be there for her. And she would be there for him. Knowing that made it a little easier to breathe. To let go of some of the rigid tension in my body. They had each other, no matter what.

Slowly, I peeled back the edge of the soiled gauze, just enough to reveal the faintly shimmering golden swirl across my palm. I exhaled roughly at the sight—at what it meant.

She lived.

I lived.

The sudden click of heels echoed through the dark hall outside the cell. Alert, I let go of the gauze and looked to the rounded entryway. The sound was strange. No one, not even the free-roaming Craven, made that much noise. The Handmaidens were like silent little worker bees. Isbitch’s steps were much lighter, only audible when she was right near the cell. The damn golden Rev was generally as quiet as a wraith. This sounded like a barrat in heels—a barrat in heels that hummed—very poorly.

What the…?

A moment later, she swept into the cell, the clacking of her shoes almost overpowering whatever she was trying to hum. Or maybe she was actually groaning because the sound she made carried no tune. She held a lantern—well, she swung a lantern much like a child would, sending light dancing across the walls.

I recognized her immediately, even though I’d seen her only once, and reddish-black paint shaped like wings had covered her cheeks and most of her forehead as it did now. It was her height. She was shorter than the rest, and that stood out to me because I’d seen how easily she’d handled Delano, a wolven who was at least a foot and a half—if not more—taller than her in his mortal form. It was also her scent. Not the rotten blood smell I picked up from her, but something sweeter. It was familiar to me. I had even thought that when we’d been in Oak Ambler.

It was the Rev who had been at Castle Redrock. No one else followed her now. No Handmaidens. No Golden Boy. No Queen Bitch.

“Hello!” she chirped, giving me a rather jaunty wave as she plopped the lantern on a stone ledge halfway up the wall. Yellow light slowly beat back the shadows in the cell and drifted over the mess of tangled, inky black curls falling over her shoulders.

She turned to me, clasping her hands together. Her arms were bare, and I saw marks there—strange shapes that had to be drawn or inked onto her skin and not in her skin. “You don’t look so well.”

“And you can’t hum for shit,” I replied.

The Handmaiden stuck out her lower lip, pouting. “That was rude.”