Startled, Ashe huffed. “I’ll have you know, I’m hilar—”
“That’s enough, love.” The woman’s hands rose toward the breather and removed it to reveal blonde hair, high cheeks on a cherub face, comely, upturned lips. Lips and hands that had been gentle and loving only recently. Yet now, both looked like they wanted blood. Ashe’s blood.
It was Wren.
“What the fu…” her words trailed off as anger came. What little mist that remained by her side throughout her time on Gargantua darkened with the need for spilling this nymph’s innards. A pressure she hadn’t felt since the moments after killing that servant in the villa. “I should have known.”
“Known what, love?” Wren dropped the breather. “That I was a spy for Solanine this entire time?” She smiled that little bird smile that had drawn Ashe in. Those upturned lips still beautiful. “Our little dalliance was but a side joy from my true task. To make your aetheurgy become pure and prepared. How do you think that servant found you at Soabin’s? Can’t lie, I did enjoy it.”
“A scourge, how? No runes about your body, love.”
Wren smirked as she reached toward her eyes and pulled something away. Her alluring brown irises revealed a crimson pupil. Wren had bloody Burn Form, not Void Form. And she was more exquisite by the revelation.
Ashe inwardly cursed the desire inside her, wanting sex at a moment like this. Make up your godsdamned mind! That’s when she realized she was actually speaking to the mist… O Zenith, I’ve lost it.
She hefted her fists, ready to pummel the whore who had betrayed her trust and did what any self-respecting person might do to save face: she got defensive. “Not that I care or anything.”
The little bird grinned while she drew forth a vial of parch, drinking it. “Don’t lie, love. Your body didn’t. And I’m sorry it came to this, I am. But this is business. How do you think Elian knew about your aetheurgy? Me. I set everything in motion the moment you were found here in Drenth. Lu Har always knew you’d come home. You’re a good toss, just so you know before I make you kneel before the Fallen.”
The mist poked the back of her calf. Now, she returned the grin. “Then come get it.”
Wren rushed her with a burst of aetheurgy. Ashe lifted her left arm, the rune for Aere snapping along her forearm. The mist became a small gale of wind, much stronger than the mist should have created. This is new, she gawked at the increased power she wielded.
The spell caught Wren in dead lunge, picking her up, blowing her back toward the bed in a fury of aether. A nasty crunch against a bed post. Attacking anew, the fierce gale lifted again the woman’s body.
The serving wench who’d been Ashe’s object of affection was balled, tears spilling down her pretty face like a child. “Please,” she begged. Arms curled against her body as if holding onto the invisible binds keeping her aloft. “The Fallen will kill me if I don’t do what he commands. I didn’t want to. Please?”
The keening mist tingled Ashe’s legs. It wasn’t angry now, it was loving. It was sympathetic. It wanted her to forgive this woman, wanted compassion shown. Odd the feeling was. Ashe suddenly felt sorry for Wren. She’d only done what Lu Har had commanded of her. Wren was just a proxy. This wasn’t her. Wasn’t who Ashe was.
Was she? The opposing wants fought inside of her.
And that’s when the fleeting increase of power within the mist died and scattered like dried dandelion petals being blown for luck. “O… shit…”
The bonds holding Wren disintegrated and the lover-revealed-as-a-spy-turned-false-pontificator pitched a fist at her face. Ashe used the woman’s momentum to grab her by the forearm and toss her ass over head. Wren landed on her backside, but was up quickly, aiming a kick that Ashe wasn’t expecting. The boot cracked into her skull and sent her flying into the vanity, her head striking the rounded edge. Blood oozed down her face, stars in her eyes.
Woozy from the collision, a vice-like grip burrowed into her hair and lifted her up. She didn’t have time to suck in her breath before her entire head was submerged into the sink, screaming bubbles of fury. The water sloshed over the rim as she struggled.
“You’re a bigger fool than I thought, love.”
Ashe clawed at the hand holding her head, but Wren put all her weight upon her, the lip of the sink digging into Ashe’s breastbone. Her movements slowed; her body became sluggish as the strain in her lungs pulled every ounce of air to them.
With a last-ditch effort, Ashe released the hand and felt along the vanity for leverage. Water rushed around her as her head rose from the sink, lungs sucking in precious oxygen, but she kept thrusting with her head. It connected with Wren’s pretty nose. Hellfire ran down Ashe’s spine as the nose exploded, wrenching the woman’s neck backward. Wren crumpled to the ground, holding her broken sniffer as blood flowed freely.
Ashe crawled toward the flopping would-be-assassin and jammed her elbow into the woman’s gut. She then clamped her hands around the little bird’s neck. Rage fueled her. Redemption sustained her.
“I was fool enough to fall for you, Little Bird. Won’t happen again. By the way, for all your gusto, you weren’t that great of a toss.”
Ashe heard a gasp, the woman struggled to breathe, and then Wren went limp.
Rolling off the dead woman, Ashe nearly hacked up her lungs under the onslaught of pulmo. Blood poured from the wound on her face, her feet ached like murder. She looked up at the angled mirror on the ceiling—the one tilted just perfectly enough to view the horizontal window on the far wall. The sun was slowly setting, and it left a pinkish-orange glow within the mirror. Peaceful, serene, natural.
Probably should’ve asked her why, eh? Ashe thought.
The door to her chamber opened and Ancantha raced in, pure terror in her button-shaped eyes. “Mistress! Are you alright?”
Ashe stared at the lapin, sudden determination filling her. “Ancantha, give me that godsdamned pink stola.”
XXXIV
Emre
“FINN, WE READY?”
“Of course, love.” Scanning the crowd, Emre found Finn surrounded by a gaggle of women. He held a tray of some cooked meat on a stick, but the women—largely older, and thus attracted to a younger buck in his prime versus their overweight husbands—fawned over the elfirish servant. “I really should be getting back,” he was saying to the hens swamping him.
“Wick, making my way toward you now.”
“Careful, Em, scourges everywhere. Ruane’s dropped the parcel.”
Under the curved stair was a set of doors. A few guests mingled, chatting about useless drivel. Men boasting about asinine victories of sexual conquest or sporting accolades that probably never even happened the way they proclaimed. Equally vapid women soaking up the boasts with giant smiles and false appreciation, more worried about their societal standing than the actual points of conversation.
But the alcohol flowed freely and the one thing all these people had in common: they had to piss.
Based on Wick’s information, the privies were only a doorway away from the kitchen. Though the party was held outside, the privies were housed within the main compound itself because of the plumbing necessary to remove the filth. The double doors stood open and that’s where the guests waited semi-patiently. However, at the far end of the hall, past the four individual private receptacles, was another set of doors which led to the kitchen.
He made for the kitchen when a hand clamped down on his shoulder. Emre turned to find a taller man, maybe a mix of Kanjan and Drenth blood, glaring at him from behind a golden mask. “Hey, friend, line starts back there,” the man’s words were a tad uneven, and the overpowering musk of alcohol streamed off his tongue like a bog.
