War Storm
Page 45

Cal finishes with Davidson, pulling back from their whispered conversation. The premier isn’t coming back with us, not yet. Now that his government has agreed to fully aid us, he has much to organize, and he pledges to follow us back to the Rift in a week or so. But I don’t think that’s what they’re talking about. Cal is too fervent, too on edge, his grip on Davidson tight and unyielding. His eyes are soft, though. He’s asking for something, something small and unimportant to anyone but him.
When the prince walks away, he passes by Mare with long, quick strides. Her brothers watch him go, eyes trailing in the prince’s wake. If they were Calore burners, I think they might set him on fire. The sister is less hostile, but more disappointed. She frowns at his retreating form, lip between her teeth. She looks more like Mare when she does that, especially when her frown deepens into a sneer.
Cal stops at my right, settling into a wide-legged stance, crossing his arms over a plain black uniform.
“You need a better mask, Calore,” I mutter to him. He only scowls. “And she needs to keep to our schedule.”
“She’s leaving her family behind, Evangeline,” he growls in reply. “We can spare the minutes.”
I heave a sigh and examine my nails. No claws today. No need for them on the journey back home. “So many allowances where Barrow is concerned. I wonder where that line is, and what happens when she inevitably crosses it.”
Instead of snarling back, as I expect, he chuckles low in his throat. “Try to spread your misery all you want, Princess. It’s the only thing you have left.”
Gritting my teeth, I clench a fist. And I wish I’d donned my claws.
“Don’t pretend I’m the only one miserable here,” I snap.
That cows him into silence, the tips of his ears flushing a stubborn gray.
With a last embrace, Mare finally finishes all her hysterical nonsense. She turns tightly, shoulders squared away from her brood. Their faces vary, but they all have a likeness. Similar coloring, dark eyes and golden-toned skin. Dark brown hair but for the sister and the graying parents. There’s a common roughness to them, born in their blood. As if they were shaped from earth and we were shaped from stone.
The Red boy keeps pace as Mare walks toward us, tugged along on an invisible leash. He looks over his shoulder to wave back at the family, but Mare doesn’t. I respect that instinct, at least. Her dogged and sometimes ill-advised habit of pressing forward at all costs.
Cal looks up as she passes, stomping her way into the jet. His hand flexes, fingers grazing her arm as she goes. His skin is pale against the sleeve of her rust-colored jacket. But she doesn’t stop and he doesn’t stop her. He only stares at her disappearing form, throat bobbing with the words he can’t find it in himself to say.
Part of me wants to prod him after her with a sharp knife. The rest wants to cut out that heart of his, since he insists on ignoring it and subjecting me to a similar pain.
“Shall we, my future husband?” I growl, offering him my arm. The spikes of my metallic coat lie flat, glistening against one another in invitation.
Cal eyes me darkly, his teeth clenched into a forced grin. Dutiful to the last, he slips his arm around mine, resting his hand below my wrist. His skin blazes with heat, almost too hot to touch. I feel sweat prickle on my neck and fight the urge to shiver in disgust. “Of course, my future wife.”
How I used to want this, I don’t know.
Any revulsion I feel is quickly swallowed by excitement as we board the jet, our steps matched as we climb into the iron hulk. All that stands between me and a reunion with the ones I love most is a few short hours of flight. Squeezed alongside Cal and Mare and whatever dramatic sighs and meaningful stares they might toss at each other, yes, but I can handle it. Ptolemus is waiting.
Elane is waiting.
Even thousands of miles away, I feel the cool balm of her presence, a cold towel on fevered skin. White skin, red hair, all the stars in her eyes, the moon in her teeth.
When I was thirteen, I cut Elane to ribbons in the Training ring. For Father, for even the chance of his approval. I cried for a week afterward, and spent another month apologizing. She understood, of course. We know what our families are, what they demand, what we must be for them. And as the years wore on, such things became expected. Ordinary. We fought daily, hurting each other, hurting ourselves. In Training, with healers at the ready. We desensitized ourselves to the necessary violence of our days. But I wouldn’t do it to her now. Wouldn’t hurt her for anyone on this earth, even with the best healers in the world waiting to attend her. Not for my father, or for my crown. If only Calore felt as strongly for Mare. If only he loved her as I love Elane.
As soon as we’re safely in the belly of the jet, the curved walls lined with cushioned seats and restraints, bolted-down tables and thick-glassed windows, Cal peels away from me. He eases himself down next to his grandmother, holding solitary court at one of the few tabled areas.
“Nanabel,” I hear him mumble in greeting, using the utterly ridiculous and unbecoming pet name.
She looks weary for the first time I can remember. She offers her grandson a kind, private smile as he sits.
I find a seat of my own, favoring a window and a table at the corner, where I can sleep without much disturbance. Our jet is more comfortable than the military transports, though also commandeered from the Piedmont Air Fleet. The inside is white and cheery, accented with yellow and tiny bursts of purple stars along the interior. Prince Bracken’s colors and symbols.
I’ve never met the prince, only his various diplomats through the years, and of course his envoys, Prince Alexandret and Prince Daraeus. They’re both dead now. I watched Alexandret die in Archeon, shot through the skull during the first attempt on Maven’s life. The memory turns my stomach.
An Iral lord stood up, pointed a gun, and fired a bullet at the king sitting two feet to my left. Fired and missed, of course, forcing us to act like the allies we pretended to be.
He should have died that day. I wish he’d died that day.
I can still taste the iron tang of his blood, mercurial upon the stones, gushing in an open river at my feet.
The assassination attempt failed. The rebelling houses fled, retreating to their lands and strongholds. Elane is no warrior and she was already gone, fleeing before the attack. But House Samos had to keep our cover. I still had to stand at Maven’s council—stand because the weasel denied me the courtesy of a single chair—and watch him interrogate her sister. Watch his Merandus cousin spill out her memories before they executed her for treason.
Elane never speaks of it, and I won’t push. I can’t imagine what I would do if Ptolemus met the same fate. No, that’s not true. I can imagine a thousand things. A million different forms of violence and pain. And not one would fill the void. The bonds of Silver blood, when strong, are unbreakable. Our loyalty to the few we love runs bone-deep.
What will Bracken do for his children, then?
I didn’t ask after them, or their treatment in Montfort. It’s easier not to. One less worry in a world full of worries.
My pursuit of silent privacy is interrupted by a hurricane of muscular limbs and cropped blond hair. The Scarlet Guard general sits with a collapsing thump, shuddering the floor beneath my feet.
“You move with the grace of one of those bison,” I sneer, hoping to chase her out of the seat opposite mine.
She doesn’t flinch or reply. The woman just glares at me with a flash of anger, her eyes galaxy blue. Then she turns to the window, leaning her forehead against the glass with a low huff of breath. She isn’t crying. Not like Barrow, who enters the jet with hiccups and red-rimmed eyes.