Valyn shook his head slowly as the others looked on. “Penellaphe,” he said softly. “I know you care for my son greatly. That you would do anything for him. And I know that you are powerful—more so than the whole of our armies. But this is too much of a risk. One my son would never want you to take.”
“You’re right. Casteel would never want me to take such a risk, not even for him. Not even when he would do the same if it were me who had been taken. But he also wouldn’t try to stop me.”
Valyn’s eyes slammed shut for a brief moment. “Then I will go with you.”
“Absolutely not,” I said, my heart stopping. His eyes flew open. “You know exactly what she will do if she has you in her grip. Eloana knows exactly what the Blood Queen will do.”
Silence fell around us as Valyn stared back at me. He knew that I spoke the truth. Not only did Isbeth blame both of them for her son’s death and Malec’s entombment, but she would do it just to lash out at Eloana. I would not have his blood on my hands.
“As your Queen, I forbid it,” I stated, and he turned his head, a muscle ticking under his temple at the outright demand—the pulling of rank. “At noon tomorrow, we will take Oak Ambler, and then I will leave for Carsodonia while the Atlantian armies continue on as planned,” I told him—told them all. “My mind won’t be changed.”
Chapter 11
Casteel
One more time.
Exhaustion dogged me as I braced a hand on the wall and slammed my foot down as hard as I could.
Bone cracked and gave way.
“Thank fuck,” I muttered, breathing heavily.
The Craven that had found its way into my cell this time had been nothing but skin and bones—brittle bones.
I lowered myself to the floor. Or my legs gave out. One or the other. Dizzy, I reached into the gore, pulling the shin bone free. One end was more jagged than the other. Perfect. I could sharpen it even further on the edges of the chains, where the hardened spurs were.
The weapon wouldn’t do much when it came to the Revs or even Isbeth. A false god was a god for all intents and purposes, but it could do some damage. Bloody damage.
I kicked the remains away, knowing that whatever Handmaiden would eventually show up and remove it before it revived wouldn’t look too closely at the Craven.
Leaning back against the wall, I took a breather. Only a few minutes. I needed to stay awake, even though I wanted nothing more than to sleep. To dream of Poppy.
But that hadn’t been a dream. At least, not a normal one. I should’ve known that it was something different. Poppy had looked far too real. Felt too real—too soft and warm. It hadn’t occurred to me that we were dream walking until I saw her eyes.
Saw how they were different.
By then, we’d begun to slip away from each other, and I had wasted the opportunity to tell her…
What would I have told her? Where I might be held? Which was somewhere…underground. Not really helpful information there, but I could have told her what Isbeth was. Someone may know if a demis had the same weaknesses as a god or goddess. I could’ve…
A spasm ran through me, tightening my muscles painfully.
I needed to feed.
The barbed ache of hunger chewed away at me, and with the only sound the trickle of water, my eyes drifted shut. I must’ve dozed off. Or passed out. Either was possible, but the sound of footsteps pulled me from the nothingness. My eyes snapped open, taking far longer than usual to adjust to the dimness of the space as I shoved the Craven bone behind me. The steps weren’t the shuffling click and drag of a Craven, nor obnoxiously loud as that Handmaiden’s had been. The rhythmic, lazy stroll ceased as I focused on the void of the entryway. At first, I saw nothing but shadows, but the longer I stared, I realized that the shadows were too thick. Too solid.
Awareness prickled over my flesh as I began making out the figure in the darkness. Tall but otherwise shapeless. The shadow drifted forward into the weak glow of the candlelight—the cloaked shadow.
I stared, heart starting to pound. The cloak was black and long, more like a shroud, and the hood was situated so the face was nothing but darkness. Much like the one I’d worn in Solis when I hadn’t wanted to be seen. The one that had given me the moniker of the Dark One.
This wasn’t a Handmaiden that stood before me. And the cloaked figure was too tall to be Callum.
It didn’t move.
Neither did I as acid churned in my gut.
The cloaked figure lifted hands to the hood, lowering it.