Page 4 of Each Their Own Devil (Our Lady of Fire #3)

“I agree,” Bonnie said.

At this, Aleja’s mouth briefly popped open before she could stop herself. Bonnie had always seemed the most reasonable about the Otherlanders’ relationship with the Astraelis.

“She’s right. You don’t remember Sophia. She was my wife. A non-combatant. A healer. But the Astraelis captured her during a raid, and they knew that if I took a blow, it might weaken our supply lines and starve us out. So, they dragged Sophia to the edges of our border under the guise of a prisoner exchange and beheaded her in front of my eyes. The Otherlanders and the Astraelis were once one people, but we are no more.”

Aleja couldn’t speak, and neither could anyone else. She didn’t remember Sophia, but it was clear from the atmosphere—tense, like a rubber band stretched too tightly across the room—that many here had loved the woman whose memory had, until now, been unspoken.

“I understand,” Aleja said, though she knew she couldn’t, not really. “We’ll talk to Val. We’ll be…more forceful this time. We’ll get the truth out of him.”

Nicolas, who could probably feel her desperation through the bond, spoke next. “I was by your side when they killed Sophia, Bonnie. There is no world in which I would let that crime go unpunished, if I had the chance to avenge it. Any alliance we propose with the Astraelis will be a strategic one—or a ruse.”

Aleja had often felt out of her depth since coming to the Hiding Place, even after completing her Trials. But it was not until this moment that she felt like a stranger who had walked into someone else’s home during a funeral, expecting a plate of food and a seat at the table. Of course, she had no idea who Sophia was. She had never seen Roland fight his way across a battlefield. She had never held Bonnie on her first night as a widow or stood behind Orla every time she sent her troops into battle.

Only Taddeas could possibly understand how Aleja felt, but he did not strut around pretending to be anything other than a brand-new High General thrust into a position he did not want. “We’re not torturing him. We’re better than that,” Taddeas said.

“Tell that to Bonnie. Or me, for that matter,” Orla said. “You don’t remember the way my soldiers screamed as they plunged their own swords into their chests to make sure they were dead before the Authorities devoured them. Practically kids, half of them.” She finally stood. With her, came Merit. His dark brown curls bounced around his face as he straightened in an attempt to reach Orla’s height.

“I didn’t dismiss you,” Nicolas said, at the same time that Bonnie voiced some protest that was drowned out before Aleja could tell who it was directed at.

“I understand that, Knowing One. However, I’m angry, and I would like to go before I say something I regret. Do I have permission to leave?” Orla asked.

“No,” Nicolas told her. “And it just so happens that I agree with you. Sit down .”

It was the first time Aleja had heard Nicolas command one of the Dark Saints. Merit was the first to return to his seat, but Orla followed a moment after with a raised eyebrow.

“You’re right, Orla. Whether or not we believe the Messenger, the Third cannot be allowed to stay under her control,” Nicolas went on. “But we also cannot completely dismiss the Messenger’s claims. We will interrogate Val one more time before we resort to torture.”

“Knowing One—” Orla began, but Nicolas raised a hand to silence her.

“Be careful, Envy. You’re about to get everything you want but on my terms. Taddeas, Aleja—as High General and High General in waiting, you’re going to investigate any possible weakness in the Astraelis’s defenses. If we decide to free the Third, then I want to be able to do so with no hesitation. Plan the raid. Merit, can you open the cage?”

“Yes, but I’ll need specific tools,” Merit said, brushing a curl away from his forehead. The motion left another streak of ash over his left eyebrow. “I can forge them, but we’ll have to get the cage here, to the Hiding Place.”

For the first time in weeks, Taddeas shrank back into his chair. Aleja had almost forgotten the shy man who had stumbled over every other word during their first few conversations, until both he and Aleja realized they could indulge their interests with each other without reservation—her, European art history, and him, the military history of northeastern Africa. “Al and I will nail down the strategy. If it comes down to it, we’ll figure out a way to take the Third back,” he muttered.

“Fine,” Orla spat, though there was a current of approval beneath the sharp syllable. A wave of nods swept slowly around the room. Only Aleja and Bonnie were unmoving. As the meeting slowly disbanded, Aleja kept her eyes on the Dark Saint of Bounty, who was the last to rise and straighten her dress.

Orla caught Aleja’s arm as she tried to leave, but just as Aleja expected Orla’s fingers to tighten painfully into her muscles, the grip eased. “I didn’t disagree with you in front of the others because I enjoy it. It’s not personal. But mercy nearly got us all killed last time. I will do whatever it takes to win this war; as far as I’m concerned, you can fuck off with morals so long as there are people out there who want to see us dead.”

“I won’t be merciful.” For a moment, Aleja debated telling Orla that she had promised the Second the Messenger’s heart on a platter, and she had every intention to deliver it.

“Good.” Orla released her arm and patted the creases her fingers had made in Aleja’s sleeve. “If you can find some evidence—anything—that the Messenger is telling the truth, then I will back whatever decision you and the Knowing One make to avert the Avaddon. But until then, I advise you prepare yourself for the Messenger’s betrayal.”

Taddeas intercepted her before Aleja could catch Nicolas, who offered her a brief, inscrutable nod before disappearing down the hall behind Bonnie. “Let’s walk,” Taddeas said. “Garm, you too.”

They followed him into one of the sculpture galleries—a hall of soldiers trampling monsters and vice versa, locked in an eternal war. Next to them, Garm looked as though he belonged, like he’d been sculpted out of black marble instead of fur and flesh.

“Is this a good time to tell you I haven’t cracked a single one of the books you gave me?” Aleja asked.

“I find it hard to believe you’d miss the chance for some downtime, nerd,” Taddeas replied, his smile warm but distant.

“Between cutting out my husband’s heart and facing our enemy’s leader, I’m struggling to find time for recreational reading. Are we going to see Val?”

Taddeas nodded, taking a left into a hallway lined with French Romantic paintings Aleja was certain she had never seen before. Most of the artwork in the Hiding Place was pre-eighteenth century. Aleja resisted the pull to stop and examine what was unmistakably a Hubert Robert painting of a Roman temple overtaken by climbing vines. Her expertise was in the Italian Renaissance, but she had always harbored a soft spot for the Romantics. Subdued wall sconces with red shades, minuscule compared to the elaborate frames, cast the hall in a dim burgundy glow.

“Seen this place before?” Taddeas asked.

“No,” she replied.

“Neither have I, and I’ve explored almost every inch of this palace,” Garm chimed in. His tail thwacked Aleja’s thigh hard enough to sting.

“It doesn’t surprise me,” Taddeas told them. “The Otherlanders haven’t had much reason to use this area for hundreds of years. In the last war, it housed prisoners that were too important to be kept in the camps.”

“Excellent,” said Garm, loud enough to cover the involuntary hitch in Aleja’s breath.

“I doubt Val is going to tell me anything he hasn’t already told you,” she said.

“He asked for you specifically. If Nic comes down here first, we might lose any opportunity of Val opening up.”

Aleja hesitated for a moment, then had to take a few running steps to catch up. “I can’t help but notice that you didn’t bring this up until we were away from the other Dark Saints,” she said pointedly.

Taddeas stopped abruptly, and she nearly collided with his chest as he turned to face her. “What Orla and Bonnie said earlier was right. We weren’t there to watch our friends and lovers get slaughtered like cattle by an enemy that hates us. I understand why they’re so hesitant to believe that, just this once, the Messenger might actually be right about something.”

“Orla did say Val might be trying to use me,” Aleja replied. “Couldn’t his asking for me confirm that? Is this a minor act of mutiny, High General?” Her tone carried no venom, only curiosity.

“Not at all. Nicolas knows exactly what I think. But he’s the Knowing One, and the Dark Saints are already fractured over this. Remember, half of us were missing when you first arrived at the Hiding Place. It’s his job to keep us together, and I doubt it’s easy for him—especially when it comes to you. I don’t know how I would react if Jack were in that room with us.”

“What do you mean by that?” Aleja asked, recalling that Taddeas had sent his husband to the Green Country of the fey when whispers of war reached the Hiding Place.

“Come on, Al. You’re both his wife and his High General in waiting. He has to push back on your ideas just as much as he does everyone else’s. And, well?—”

“Say it, Taddeas.”

“Your friendship with Violet is a complication. I’m not going to pretend I understand Violet’s motivations, but if she really is working against us…”

“Then she’ll end up in this prison, in a cell next to Val.” Aleja’s voice hardened. “I’m tired of being betrayed, Taddeas. As far as I’m concerned, she’s one of the enemies now.”

Taddeas’s nod was so subtle that Aleja almost missed it in the murky red shadows. “Understood, soldier.”

As they walked, the paintings gradually disappeared, leaving only peeling wallpaper adorned with a faded pattern of swirling fig leaves. Even the sconces became more sparsely placed, plunging them into stretches of darkness, as if they were traversing outer space and passing the light of distant stars. At first, the hallway sloped gently downward, but now Aleja had to shift her weight to her heels to keep from feeling like she might tumble forward.

It took fifteen minutes for Aleja to realize that a hallway this impossibly long shouldn’t exist in the palace, and another five before they reached a heavy door. Like the massive wooden slabs leading to the throne room, this door was carved—tiny, contorted figures writhing in pain under the shadow of a winged devil.

“There’s no lock,” she said, leaning closer to inspect the carvings.

“This door is warded,” Taddeas explained. “It will only open for two people—the Knowing One and his High General. I suppose you count as well. If anyone else tries to enter or leave without one of us, that carving gives a rather optimistic depiction of what will happen to them.”

“Pleasant,” Aleja muttered.

“It’s an effective deterrent.” Taddeas pressed his palm against the only smooth stretch of the door. A hum of energy rippled through Aleja as the door parted down the center, splitting like a tree cleaved by a lightning strike.

Garm trotted in first, and Aleja followed. The door closed behind them, knitting itself back together.

While the rest of the palace usually smelled of wood polish, incense smoke, and the comforting mustiness of an old museum, this space reeked of rotting cabbage. With the intensity of her Dark Saint senses, Aleja nearly gagged, forcing herself to swallow the bile rising in her throat. “Gods, that smell is a war crime alone.”

Even Garm gave an uncomfortable hiccup.

“Believe me, I’ve complained,” Taddeas said. “Strangely enough, it gets better around Val. I wouldn’t dare say it in front of the others, but I swear, it’s like the Astraelis exude pleasantness. No wonder humans equate them with angels.”

“You don’t hate him,” Aleja said, carefully choosing her words.

“I’m not sure how I feel,” Taddeas muttered. “But I understand complicated relationships with your parents. I came out as gay in the early eighties, remember? Let’s just say it took a while for them to accept that I was never going to fill their house with grandchildren. Maybe you’ll understand for yourself once you speak to him.”

It was only a few more steps to a stark cell shielded by a shimmering ward. Inside, an enormously tall man in a winged mask, missing several lower feathers, sat atop the only chair. Across from him was a cot with tightly tucked sheets that either had never been slept in or had been meticulously made. A half-empty tray of food rested near the edge of the ward.

Val’s bandaged arm was clean, but Aleja couldn’t look at the stump where his hand had been without recalling the sickening plop it had made as it fell into the bloody mud. Again, she swallowed hard against the acid rising in her throat. When a low growl escaped Garm’s throat, she shot him a sharp glance. It was at this sound that Val finally looked up, his winged mask nearly immobile—a stark contrast to the way it usually seemed to mold itself to his face.

“Oh! You came,” he said. His voice was ragged, but his shoulders perked up at the sight of her.

“I did,” she said. “Better me than one of the other Dark Saints. They think I’m a fool for entertaining you; better you don’t prove them right.”

Val rose, and though Aleja should have been used to it by now, her primal instincts still reeled at the sight of his full height. Taddeas was tall, but Val loomed at least a head taller. He had thinned considerably since Aleja had last seen him. His robes, cobbled together from mismatched pieces of Otherlander clothing, hung askew on his broad shoulders, emphasizing his gaunt frame.

Garm growled again, and Aleja shushed him.

“I’ll have to ask that the hellhound leave,” Val said.

“No.”

“What I have to say is sensitive. I’d really rather it be just you Dark Saints.”

Taddeas glanced at Aleja. “Your call.”

She stopped herself from sighing. “Go wait by the door, Garm. Don’t try to pass through the wards without us, understand?”

The dog whined but obeyed, his nails clicking against the stone floor as he retreated. Aleja listened to the sound fade, trying to calm herself. She’d thought the weight of her new life as a Dark Saint had hit her when she answered her first call, but this was another reminder of just how much now rested on her shoulders.

Val scratched at the pale skin where feathers were missing from his mask. “As I’ve told you before, my mother may have the Third, but without me, it’s doubtful she’ll find a way to coax the First into appearing in a form in which she can be killed. I made great strides in my research while in the Astraelis realm, but unlike the Second, the First does not speak to us. So I couldn’t study her directly.”

“I know this, Val. Get to the point,” Aleja said.

Val shifted his weight, one hand clenched around the edge of his patchwork robes. “Well, this problem is easily solved in the Hiding Place if I were allowed to study the Second.”

A laugh rose in Aleja’s throat, but she forced it down. Beside her, she could practically feel the tension radiating from Taddeas’s rigid stance. “I’m sorry,” she said after a stunned pause. “Did you actually think that was going to work? Your mother has expressly said she plans to kill the Second. Do you think there are any circumstances where we would allow you access to him?”

Val’s pout was accompanied by a twitch of the feathers on his mask, like a bird springing to attention at the yip of a fox. “I’ve explained this to you both already, and I’ll explain it to the Knowing One, should he decide to step foot here. My mother’s cause is your cause. The squabbles between our peoples can come later. If she does not succeed, we all die.”

Neither Aleja nor Taddeas bothered to make their silent conversation covert. When she glanced at him, one scarred eyebrow was raised in question. Gods, she wished he would tell her she wasn’t ready for this and send her back upstairs, where she could visit her grandmother and listen to the deep crash of a dream-ocean against a dream-shore. But she was a Dark Saint now. Somewhere in the world, men were running from beasts of fire and shadow she had unleashed. If she didn’t act, they would die—and so would Josephine with her smeared eyeliner and Fleetwood Mac posters; Paola, who so tenderly cared for her patients; and Louisa, who had bargained away an immortality-granting fig for the chance to live a single, normal life.

“Even if Taddeas and I agreed, there’s almost no chance the other Dark Saints would let you anywhere near the Second. You’ll have to find another way,” she told Val.

“And how can I do that? If you’re going to keep me trapped down here, then you might as well kill me—because we’re all dead anyway!” Val waved his arm, but the gesture faltered. Even with his eyes obscured, Aleja saw the moment he caught sight of the bandages in his peripheral vision and dropped his arm sharply to his side.

“If you could give us some sort of proof—” she began.

“My equipment remains in the Astraelis realm. Your proof will come when the First explodes like a dying star and destroys us all,” Val snapped.

“You have to give me something , Val. All we have to go on is your word. Our librarians deny it. The Hiding Place has been in a state of magical decay for years, and those effects are noticeable. If the Avaddon is so much worse, why can’t we feel it?”

“Both my mother and I have sensed the magic—only the Astraelis are attuned to the First’s…moods. Perhaps my mother more than most, having eaten from the First Tree—what you Otherlanders might call the Tree of Knowledge.”

“But you must have some proof—in your laboratories, right? What about your luminariums?” Aleja said, recalling the small glowing orb she and Nicolas had once recovered from the Third’s realm. It had contained information Val used to mislead anyone who might try to chase him. “Maybe if you gave the librarians one of them?—”

“I destroyed most of my research when I left the Astraelis realm, thinking my mother still meant to kill the Second,” Val said glumly. “You’ll just need to have faith in me, Wrath.”

“I’m an Otherlander,” Aleja spat. “We don’t have faith.”

“You’ll need to this time.” Val’s voice was sharper than she had ever heard it. It felt like a blade tip pressing against her sternum, pushing in just hard enough to be uncomfortable. “Because the consequences if you don’t will end us all.”

“I don’t know if I can do that, Val,” Aleja muttered. “I know how your mother has tricked me in the past.”

The edges of his mask quivered. “I’ve heard the stories too. The truth is, I no longer know what I can say to convince you. Go ask the Second. Perhaps he will confirm it for you. Will you have faith in him?”

“A scientist who asks me to have faith?”

“Yes.”

The silence that followed was broken only by the wards’ low, electrical hum. Aleja exhaled slowly, the weight of her next words heavy in her chest. “I’ll talk to the Knowing One. How close to the Second would you need to get?” she finally asked.

“I don’t know,” Val said, his tone subdued now. “Close enough for my instruments to take measurements. Into the cave where the Otherlanders keep him, that’s certain. And I’ll need the help of the Dark Saint of Sloth—Merit, is it?”

Taddeas snorted with derision. “Forget the other Dark Saints, Val. If you think the Second is going to let an Astraelis get that close to him, you should pray we let you stay in this cell. He has magic even we don’t fully understand. There would be no one to stop him from claiming your life.”

“Then he too must be convinced,” Val said. “I don’t know how else to impress upon you that?—”

“We know,” Aleja said, her molars grinding so hard it felt as if they might crack. “I’ll speak with the others. In the infinitesimally small chance I can convince the other Saints to go along with this—gods, I can’t believe I’m even asking—what instruments would you need?”

“Send Merit down, and I will guide him through blueprints.”

“We’ll do what we can,” Taddeas said. “Do you need anything else, Val?”

Aleja turned her head away at the question. Whether she should be kind or cruel to a prisoner was a moral dilemma she had never considered before her Trials, and she wasn’t particularly fond of it now.

Val sighed. “A book, perhaps. Surely you don’t think I can escape this place with a handful of paper, do you?”

“I’ll see what I can do. Come on, Wrath,” Taddeas said.

As they turned to leave, Aleja couldn’t help but glance over her shoulder. Val had already returned to the small chair, his arms folded across his chest. In their absence, the wings of his mask sagged, drooping to either side of his face. Yet, Taddeas had been right: the air in this place smelled faintly of chrysanthemums and jasmine in the rain.

“Do you think he’s…?” she began as they rounded the corner to find Garm waiting for them by the intricately carved wooden door. His front paws were folded beneath his chin, tail thumping lazily against the stone floor.

“I think we have to choose between two bad decisions and hope we pick the one that doesn’t get us killed,” Taddeas said.

“Very helpful, Tad.”

“This is war. Why do you think I did everything I could to avoid having to fight in it?”