Page 9 of Each Their Own Devil (Our Lady of Fire #3)

“The whispers that promise the easiest path often conceal the deepest traps.” — The Book of Open Doors , Book III: The Whispers Beyond

If Aleja had slept, she couldn’t remember it. There had only been sneaking back into their bed chambers to see the Knowing One’s eyes glowing in the darkness, but her arrival had come without questions, except for through their bond, which felt knotted between them.

He’d stood, helped her unbuckle each piece of armor, and dropped it to the floor with a thud. His kiss had been deep and painful in its urgency, but they hadn’t fucked even when Aleja dragged his hand between her legs and the knot in the bond was replaced by the pulse of his desire. In the end, she’d come, rocking against his fingers, while Nicolas stroked himself lazily.

After that, there were dreams, but even in them, she was aware that she was half-awake, picturing the Messenger’s mask and Violet’s panicked face, each as inscrutable as the other. They had flown to the army camp in early morning, but the only Dark Saint she had seen so far was Merit, covered in soot, peeking over the burning heart of his forge as he watched them.

“We have a mission,” Nicolas said.

“Mission?” Aleja asked.

“We’re going to the border of the Astraelis realm. One of our scouts received a message from the other side of the wards. Orla’s speculation was right. That attack was not ordered by the Messenger. There are Astraelis among her armies that are dissatisfied with her leadership.”

Aleja had already informed him of this, but even in the chaos of the camp, there were always soldiers listening to what the Knowing One and his Dark Saints had to say. “What? Why would we meet with them? It might foul my deal with the Messenger,” she whispered.

“Garm, where are you? That damn dog doesn’t listen to a word I say anymore,” Nicolas called, looking behind him in the bustle of the camp before turning back to her and lowering his voice. “Because they’re offering a trade.”

“Trade?” she asked.

Nicolas looped his arm around hers and he pulled them into one of the tents. It smelled like the lavender smoke she had grown familiar with during her time with the medics in between her Trials. “Not in front of the soldiers. You saw how they reacted to Val’s presence. We don’t need to let them know we’re consorting with mutineers until we’re sure we have good reason to inform them.”

“Why would we?—”

“The mutineers claim they’re mere days from being able to overtake the Messenger. They say they’re prepared to offer a ceasefire in exchange for something that would do us no harm on the battlefield,” Nicolas said, his voice so low and dark that for a moment Aleja believed she must have imagined the words.

“W-Why the hell would they do that?” Aleja stammered. “It must be a trick.”

“Not if we can convince them to make a bargain with me to seal the deal. They know very well what happens to someone who disregards the terms of a magical contract with the Knowing One.”

As did Aleja. Every time she touched Nicolas’s chest, it was as if she could feel the snake still moving beneath this skin, its fangs seeping poison into the chambers of his heart. “What if they won’t make the bargain?”

“Then we have to make a split-second decision about whether or not the mutineers made a grave mistake in trying to negotiate with us.”

“Nic,” Aleja said, dropping her voice as the clatter of armored soldiers passed along the other side of the tent. “I know you don’t trust the Messenger because?—”

“She is a liar, a murderer, and a war criminal. That’s why I want you at this meeting. If this truly offers us a chance to depose her or even give her own armies the means to take her down, then we need to at least hear them out. An Astraelis army with brand new leadership, or better yet, several parties vying for that leadership, makes it easier for us to defend ourselves. Or push into their territory, if necessary. You’ll still have to fulfill your own bargain with the Second at some point.”

Fuck, she hated this. There was a reason she had given up fencing after a few years, and it wasn’t just because in her early twenties, her knees already cracked every time she stood up off the couch too quickly. While she had been decent enough at strategizing against her opponent, she had always had trouble implementing that strategy. Every time she prepared to make a move, another doubt sprang up in her mind—it was as if instead of committing to a single course of action, she was trapped at the center of a web, seeing all the options before her, but unable to reach for any of them while the fine threads were falling apart beneath her feet.

It was at this moment that Garm pushed his enormous head through the gap at the bottom of the tent and looked up at them. His round eyes darted between her and Nicolas. “What are you doing?”

When she and Nicolas emerged from the tent a moment later, he was in a state that Aleja guessed was somewhere between his Doberman form and the monster he could become. She had seen his paws extend into long almost-human appendages many times, but the sight of it always caused something to curl in her stomach—a primitive human instinct that did not enjoy the sight of a canine with the benefit of opposable fingers.

On Garm’s torso—black metal against black skin—was a set of chest armor made to fit him at this size. While the coiled red serpent usually appeared on the front of Otherlander armor, Garm’s was on the back. He dug his back heels into the dirt and launched himself into a spin. “Merit says I’m the first hellhound to go to battle in half a millennium.”

“That could very well be true,” Nicolas told him. “You’re my only hellhound. Before I was the Knowing One, there were a few that served the one who held the title before me, but they were mostly sent to the human realm to collect bargains on her behalf.”

“Not me,” Garm said proudly. “I serve the Lady of Wrath.”

Nicolas pinched his brow, as though he had regretted every word he had ever spoken to Garm. Aleja smiled. “That’s right,” she told him. “Now, lead us to Orla and Amicia.”

It had been days since Aleja had seen the Dark Saint of Lust away from the watchful eye of the medics. Her hair was cropped again, pale blonde against her scalp—the wispy strands that had been growing out around her pointed fey ears had been trimmed away.

At first glance, Aleja didn’t notice any obvious signs of Amicia’s injuries, until she pushed off the tree she had been leaning against as Nicolas and Aleja approached. Even from this small motion, it was obvious that Amicia favored her left side. Still, her green eyes were bright beneath her eyelashes.

Orla must have caught the way Aleja stared. “I told her it was too soon for her to return to the camp, and yet here she is. Send her back to the palace, Nic, or you’re going to be down to five Dark Saints again before you know it.”

“I’m fine,” Amicia said, “Nice outfit, Garm.”

Garm had to bend down to sniff her outstretched hand. At this size, his wagging tail was an actual menace—Nicolas dodged as it swung near him.

“Thank you,” Garm said, with a sloppy kiss to Amicia’s face. The Dark Saint of Lust laughed softly, but there was nothing coy about the way she fell back, wiping slobber off her cheek with a look that was equal parts fondness and disgust.

Amicia hobbled toward them, pushing past Garm with a gentle hand. The first person she embraced was not the Knowing One, but Aleja. “ There you are. What happened with the Messenger? Tell me everything.”

“Amicia, have some decorum,” Orla said.

“Never,” Amicia replied, crushing Aleja’s chest. “It’s all right, you can tell me later. Come to my chambers and we’ll share some wine. Don’t invite the Knowing One. You’re okay, right? After the Trials, I never got to ask if you were okay. The Second made them horrible for me, and I can only imagine with how he despises you?—”

“Amicia, come on. We have work to do,” Orla said with a softness Aleja rarely heard. She had to admit to herself that the more Orla disliked her, the more she wanted to do something that would make her nod in approval. Aleja leaned into the hug harder for a moment before letting go and returning to Nicolas’s left side.

It felt like her natural place.

It made her think of the First Tree.

She wondered what she would do if she had a fig in her hand that would grant her all of her missing memories—of Nicolas, of Orla, of Amicia, of Bonnie. Even of the Messenger. She was Alejandra Ruiz, the daughter of a woman whose name she didn’t care to honor, the granddaughter to Catalina Ruiz, cousin to Paola Ruiz, the sometimes-best friend of Violet Timmons, and the new bride of Nicolas, the Knowing One. Would Aleja take a bite out of a piece of fruit and realize she was no longer herself?

“Aleja?” Orla said. “Tell your husband that this is ridiculous, and we should ambush this group of Astraelis while we have the chance. If you give the word, I can have a band ready in less than fifteen minutes to wait for our command.”

“Ambush?” Aleja muttered. “No, this could work for us. Even if we decide not to let them walk away, we should take the chance to learn everything we can from what they have to say. Wait, why are you asking me this? Where is Taddeas?”

“Busy with our defenses,” Orla said flatly. “Something Amicia is supposed to be helping him with because she used up all her damned magic to stop the rest of us from dying—thank you very much for that, dear Saint of Lust, but please report back to the High General.”

“I’m fine,” Amicia said, waving her hand. It was clear this argument had been had so many times that all the spite had been drained from it. “I’ve been useless for days. If the healers press another damp towel against my forehead, I will lash out.”

Aleja did not like that Orla’s eyes snapped to her at this statement, like a final appeal to authority. “What do you think?”

“If anything, Amicia’s presence will help Orla keep the peace. Come on, we’re wasting time,” Nicolas interjected. As he spoke, the shadows around them thickened, coalescing into dense shapes. Aleja’s mind had grown accustomed to this sight, but her body still reeled as the interplay of light and dark warped unnaturally, making the sun overhead feel out of place.

Garm let out a high-pitched whine at the appearance of the Umbramares—the black horse-like creatures Nicolas crafted from shadow. Though they ran on hooved legs, their bodies were too slender, and their muzzles too long and pointed to convincingly mimic horses. When they neighed, Aleja couldn’t tell if the sound was one of excitement or protest. Nicolas had once explained that he lent the shadows a sliver of will, but the Umbramares’ violet eyes betrayed nothing of his emotions. Four of them now stood waiting.

“I’ve never ridden one alone before, and unfortunately, my unfinished art history degree did not offer electives in equestrianism,” she hissed to him as the other Dark Saints drifted away.

“You rode an Avisai alone last night,” Nicolas pointed out. “It’s exactly the same, but you probably won’t die if you get bucked off.”

“I think I’d rather splatter as I hit the ground than let Orla have a memory of me falling off one of your shadow ponies,” Aleja muttered.

“We all had to spend a lot of time in close quarters during the last war. Believe me, that would be one of the least embarrassing things Orla has seen you do,” Nicolas said, but the words were accompanied by a frown so quick that Aleja only caught it from the slight dimple that appeared to the side of this mouth. Whatever openness Nicolas had felt about talking about Aleja’s past life was gone. “You’ll be fine. It’ll be slow going to the border. Just sit up straight, and keep your heels down and your legs relaxed against the Umbramare’s side. They’ll follow my lead.”

“Great,” Aleja said; the thought of pushing Nicolas to let her ride with him again while Orla was in earshot was worse than the thought of clumsily pulling herself atop the closest Umbramare’s back. Just as Aleja decided she had to nudge it with her heels, as she had seen in movies, the creature took off after Nicolas’s mount.

She gasped, but the sound was lost to the rolling thunder of hoofbeats against the pebbled ground. There was a time in Aleja’s life when it would have been a relief to escape the claustrophobia of Bonnie’s forest, dense with brambles, but the field they entered only forced Aleja’s eyes to flicker to the sky in search of Thrones.

Nicolas’s Umbramare eventually slowed, allowing Aleja to pull up beside him. Ahead, Amicia and Orla pushed on, occasionally turning their heads to one another, in a conversation shouted over the wind.

“Garm, go make sure they don’t kill each other before we get to the meeting place,” Aleja said. With a nod that caused bands of reflected sunlight to dance over the surface of his helmet, Garm picked up his pace, tongue lolling from between his jowls.

“See? You’re a natural,” Nicolas said. The movement of the Umbramare beneath him lent a deep vibrato to his voice.

Aleja hadn’t failed to notice the additional shadows brushing against her thighs. “Technically, you’re letting me cheat. You don’t seem nervous about this meeting.”

“It’s a defense mechanism. If I’m focused on acting like I’m not afraid, it gives me less mental space to panic.”

Aleja snorted. This was unfortunate, as they were currently riding through a swarm of gnats. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“The Astraelis wouldn’t come to us unless they needed something. If they’re trying to negotiate, it means we have the upper hand.”

“To what end?” Aleja asked, trying not to sound resigned. A part of her wanted to retreat back to the safety of the palace, to wander forever among the paintings of saints, heroes, and demons, none of which could betray her.

“To whatever end we can, dove.” Nicolas dug his heels into his Umbramare’s sides, and the creature picked up the pace. Aleja’s mount followed, and she hunched, trying to lower her center of gravity as they tore across the meadows that led to the wards around their realm.

The Astraelis, like the Otherlanders, could punch small holes through the wards with little effort. Larger ones, like the magic that had let their troops in, were dangerous and likely to backfire on the caster, not to mention almost impossible to create undetected. They only did it when they believed they truly had cause to—like their last skirmish, conducted while the Otherlanders were still reeling from the previous attack.

Her Umbramare was the last to catch up to where the others had paused atop a very low hill that looked down on the wards. Garm’s hackles stood on end, pushing up against his helmet in a mane of dark fur. Aleja followed his gaze downhill; as promised, the band of Astraelis was small—five in total, unless there were others hidden among the sparse vegetation.

As she had surmised, all were Principalities, standing tall in their winged masks. One wore the robes of a mage, shimmering with opalescent waves of pale blue and pink. Their last battle had been too chaotic for her to recognize any details of their masks. Had they watched her burn their comrades to death on the field?

The thought struck Aleja with enough force to make her feel unsteady as she climbed down from the back of the Umbramare. She had killed before, but each time had felt monumental— a sharp turn in her life, where the road she had come from disappeared behind her, leaving her with no way of finding a path back to the person she had been. But she had barely wondered if she should feel guilt for the Astraelis she had taken down on the battlefield. Dove , Nicolas called her. Always the first to push for peace. Could she survive a second war without betraying the woman she had once been?

Orla nudged her side. “Focus, Wrath. Put on your game face.”

“I don’t have one of those,” Aleja muttered, doing her best to flatten the line of her mouth.

“Stop whatever you’re doing right now and forget I said anything,” Orla said, then sighed. “I still say we kill everyone down there before they get the chance to do the same to us, but it’s clear I’m outnumbered. Are you doing the talking, Knowing One?”

“Yes. Don’t make a move without my signal,” Nicolas said. He did not dismiss the Umbramares as she had seen him do in the past. Their eyes blazed with violet fire—a color so unnatural that it was difficult to stare at for too long. Aleja’s attention returned to their small party, with Amicia at the rear, looking paler now that they were out of the forest’s mottled shadows, with Garm hulking beside her.

The mutineers had chosen their meeting place well. The sun hovered over their mage’s right shoulder, casting long shadows that looked like windmills from the silhouette of their winged masks. If it came to blows, she and the other Dark Saints would need to get behind them to avoid a fight with the sun in their eyes.

“Knowing One,” the mage said. The words might as well have been spat on the ground. Behind him, the wards between their realms shimmered almost imperceptibly. If it were not for the gap between them, sending rippling waves of magic from their point of entry, they might not be visible at all.

“I need no introduction, but I can’t say the same for you,” Nicolas said with a bored sigh, as if he’d been expecting little in the way of an interesting conversation. “What is the name of the Astraelis who disobeys the Messenger and meets with the Otherlanders on their territory?”

Though the mage’s face was hidden, his chin moved slightly from the left to the right as he took in their small party. Garm panted slightly from the run, but the effect did nothing to make him seem vulnerable. Each shallow breath left his throat with a low rumble that smelled of sulfur.

“You can call me the Dissenter,” the mage finally said.

Nicolas shifted his weight onto his left leg. “That’s what you have called us Otherlanders for millennia and now you want to claim the title for yourself? Try again, with some creativity behind it.”

The Dissenter’s—or whatever he was to be called—mask twitched slightly, and Aleja had to stop her eyes from darting to Nicolas. He had been so insistent on hearing the Astraelis out, but now he was… goading them. But the answer came to her without needing to tug on the marriage bond in question. He was testing the Astraelis. Seeing how desperate they were for the Otherlanders’ help.

“No,” the mage said, this time with his mask steady.

“Yes,” the Knowing One told him. His wings widened slightly behind him, but aside from that, he did not shift again. “There will never come a day I entertain an Astraelis who calls himself a rebel, a dissenter, or a revolutionary in the land that the Second created to defend the Otherlanders when we broke ranks. So, choose a different name or try to run back through that hole in the wards and see how far you get before my hellhound rips you to shreds.”

Garm took a step closer, his hot breath brushing against the back of Aleja’s neck. The mage who would be called the Dissenter did not turn to look at his comrades, but they did not share his discipline. There was a rustle as several feathered masks turned to one another, a series of silent questions passing between them.

“Well?” Nicolas said.

When the mage’s lower lip twitched slightly, Aleja realized that these mutineers had come prepared to negotiate at any cost. “Fine,” he snapped. “You can call me Merivus. What I’ve heard about the Otherlanders is true—you’re all a bunch of brutes.”

“Brutes that you are desperate to bargain with,” Nicolas said. “So go on. Let’s assume you summoned me with a black candle. Tell me what you wish me to grant you and make an offer.”

One of the Astraelis standing behind Merivus shifted. Though his hand came no closer to the sword hilt hidden by his robes, Aleja noticed the way his fingers flexed in anticipation. Her palms warmed with magic, but Nicolas’s warning to Orla applied to her as well.

“It was not our faction that decided to attack your realm—we would not be so foolish—but our goal is the same,” Merivus said. “We want you to kill Val, the traitor currently in your custody.”