Page 23 of With Wing And Claw

‘Would you agree to a trial period?’ she said slowly.

Nicanor’s smile was full of sharp angles. ‘Depends on how long you wish to make it.’

‘A year?’ If she was still alive after a year, he would most certainly deserve some credit for the achievement. ‘I’m willing to make a bargain for that duration. Once it expires, we can reconsider and tweak the agreement if necessary.’

He held out a slender hand without further commentary.

‘Wonderful.’ She grasped his fingers without hesitation, the motion so familiar it made even this hurried decision feel like a reassurance. ‘I’m guaranteeing you the position of Lord Protector of the Crimson Court for exactly one year, in exchange for …’

‘… my loyalty to the crown and the best of my abilities to get this court under control,’ he filled her expectant silence. ‘Do we have a bargain?’

She drew in a deep breath. ‘We have a bargain.’

The surge of magic was blindingly bright, blazing whiter and whiter between their palms until she could see the outlines of bones through the skin and flesh of their fingers. Hours seemed to pass before finally,finally, the familiar sting of pain shot through her wrist. The light receded in the same moment, as if swallowed by her skin.

The bargain mark it left behind was a dark purple.Red for destruction, blue for healing– she could see the sense of it.

‘Congratulations to me,’ Nicanor said, face deadpan, as he swung his legs to the ground and finished his drink in a single gulp. ‘To you, too, for that matter. Time to get to work, then, Your Majesty?’

‘First order,’ she said, throwing him a death glare, ‘is to stop calling me Your Majesty. Second order …’ She rose as well. The unmistakable relief was so strong she feared for a moment her knees would buckle. ‘Make sure someone finds Bereas and stops him from breaking into my rooms. If you need to chop off his head to calm him down, so be it. Everything else can wait until the afternoon.’

Chapter 7

Whatever complaints one mighthave about Nicanor of Myron’s house, he was undeniably brutally efficient.

By the time Thysandra had scarfed down a quick breakfast of bread and goat’s cheese, Bereas had been given a stern enough talking to that he had relinquished the notion of glorious revenge for the foreseeable future. A handful of fae had taken up position around the entrance of the ruined bone hall to prevent anyone from entering the Labyrinth. Some of Nicanor’s most trusted people had been appointed to replace the slain commanders of other regiments, and orders had gone out to pause all unauthorised activity among the military, especially battle preparations of any kind.

Perhaps most important of all, the news of the new Lord Protector’s appointment had spread through the court like wildfire. Which meant that everyone Thysandra encountered on her way through the wine- and perfume-scented corridors, every envious courtier and grudge-bearing rival, knew she was no longer a lone ruler with a target between her wings.

It wasn’t enough to feel safe. It was never enough to feel safe. But it took an edge of urgency off her fear, and that was already more than she’d dared to hope for.

The archives were her next destination, she’d decided once she’d left Nicanor’s chambers and taken stock of her plans. All the demon murders in the world hadn’t changed anything about the precarious food situation the court would soon find itself in, and as long as she didn’t know how bad it was, she could hardly expect to solve it. The archivists could get her numbers. Once she had those …

Well. She’d see.

I could kill a few more people? she could already hear Naxi suggesting, the voice in the back of her mind accompanied by a vision of guileless blue eyes.Fewer mouths to feed means your provisions will last longer. That’s simple mathematics.

An annoyingly stubborn smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she descended the next flight of stairs.

Not that she should be thinking of Naxi, of course. Naxi was wholly irrelevant to the daily reality of this court. Soon she might not even need any demon assistance anymore, if it turned out she could keep herself alive perfectly well without it, and—

‘Thysandra?’ a voice yelled behind her.

Her hand already lay against the dark red of her dress.

Miraculously, though, the curly-haired male jogging towards her from a lush courtyard did not seem about to murder her in cold blood; if anything, he gave the impression he was about to complain about a hair in his soup. Symeon, she recalled after a moment, or at least shethoughtthat was his name. In any case, there were so many Symeons at the court that it was a reasonable guess.

‘Yes?’ she said tartly, wondering if she should be making a point of using the proper titles of people who weren’t close allies. ‘Is it urgent?’

‘Quite, yes.’ The young male rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. His skin was so dark she only then noticed the bloodstains on his fingers; his black leather trousers and velvety, half-buttoned shirt of the same colour made it hard to estimate just how bad thesituation was. ‘It’s about that gory mess the Alliance’s demon left behind. Usually we’d send the servants to clean it up, but … well, you know …’

No more humans.

No more servants.

For the bloody gods’ sakes. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to curse Emelin and her meddling or shake this fool and his utter lack of problem-solving capacities until some bright ideas miraculously fell out of his mind.

‘I suppose you know what a mop is?’ she said.