Page 8

Chapter

Eight

T he crackling of the fireplace is the only sound inside the library.

I sit in my usual chair, hidden in the back corner. Years ago, I purposefully reorganized a few of the shelves, strategically creating small open spaces between the books to give myself a perfect view of the door. Anyone walking into the room would believe it was empty, but I’d spot them immediately.

Flipping through the pages of an old tome, I multitask by trying to stretch out my calf muscles. Remy’s always reminding me of the importance of working out any lingering stiffness that could prolong an injury. Thinking of the captain of the guard leaves a hollowness in my stomach. I know him well enough to know he meant what he said. He isn’t going to let his suspicions go.

I push the thoughts away, returning my attention to the book in my hands.

Not knowing where to begin my search for information on the whisperer, I started by digging through the historical section. I’d read most of the texts before, but wedged behind several volumes, I found an old leather-bound book titled History of the Verran Isles . After wiping away the dust, I brought it over to my chair and began reading.

The worn paper is rough against my fingers as I flip through the pages, my breath catching when I spot a familiar image. An illustration of a man with a hood pulled over his head, dark feathered wings stretched out behind him, and a silver scythe in his hand. My eyes dart to the caption.

The Fates have always been jealous of the beauty of those they called the Soul Collectors. When the Fates created their new children, the Gods, they found inspiration in the feathered wings of the reapers.

The image is hauntingly similar to my own reaper. He’s not mine , I remind myself. Phantom tingles on the back of my neck tempt me to search the library for his pale blue gaze. He’s not here. It’s just a picture.

My fingers trail over the wings. No doubt the scratchy paper is a poor substitute for the real thing. Where do they go when he’s not using them? How did they disappear so fully beneath his cloak? There wasn’t even an outline… I know the Gods sometimes have wings, but I’ve never seen them in person. The divine are nothing if not secretive.

The reaper’s threat flashes through my mind. From the inception of the Angel of Mercy, I’ve known the risks. Discovery was always a possibility. But Della and I have taken measures to ensure nothing can connect the two of us. When we started, it had been years since she and I had spoken publicly. My falling out with Leona and all of those connected with the late queen was well-known.

If I’m caught, at least it won’t lead back to her.

I don’t even believe Baylor will be upset about the actual murders. Instead, his anger will stem from being made a fool. His own pet betraying him in such a public way won’t be something he can brush off.

I’ve been practicing my cover story since last night, in case the reaper follows through on his threats. But for some odd reason, I don’t believe he will. From what I’ve seen, he could steal from Baylor without my help. However, I get the sense there’s something else he wants from me. Whatever he’s seeking, he won’t get it by having me imprisoned.

I’ve allowed my mind to wander as I’ve flipped through the pages, but one fragment of a sentence catches my attention, making the hairs on my arms stand up.

“The whispers made me do it.”

The fireplace crackles again, causing me to jump in my seat. Shivers worm their way down my spine as I trace my fingers over the words, wishing their meaning could be absorbed through touch alone.

Could this be referring to the same weapon Darrow and the reaper were discussing? My heart beats faster as I read the rest of the section.

Death of Claudius, the first God of Life.

Many have guessed at the motives behind why Philo, first God of Love, chose to slaughter Claudius, but none can say for certain. The murder shocked all residents of the Verran Isles. The Gods, our newly risen saviors, were seen as indestructible until Philo, the gentlest of them all, drove a sword through the heart of Claudius.

From that day on, Philo became known as the God of Love and Hate.

Many have questioned how the seemingly ordinary sword was able to slay a God. Some have claimed it must have been enchanted, while others believed any blade in the hands of a God would become a God Slayer. It is unknown what happened to the weapon after Claudius died. All we know for certain is that when Philo was asked why he murdered Claudius, he claimed, “The whispers made me do it.”

My eyes rove over the words again, positive I must have misread them. This can’t be accurate. It’s well-known that Claudius died in the war against the Novians five thousand years ago. Out of the countless historical texts I’ve read and the dozens of tutors I’ve studied with, none of them ever recounted a different version of events.

Until now.

My brows pinch together. Could the other texts have gotten it wrong? Or was this author simply mistaken? I flip back to the cover, realizing there’s no indication of who wrote it. Eying the tome wearily, I begin to feel strangely uneasy about the idea of being found with it.

And what about the sword it mentioned? Is it merely another falsehood, or could it be the same weapon the reaper is searching for? If it is a God Slayer, there’s only one reason to obtain it. He claimed he wanted to use it to avenge an injustice, which begs the question, which God does his master have a vendetta against?

A horrifying thought occurs to me.

Hypothetically, if Baylor was in possession of a God Slaying weapon, what are the chances it’s only a coincidence that no one has seen the Goddess of Illusion since he rose to power?

When she disappeared, her husband Triston crowned himself king, but his brief reign was marked by ruthlessness and chaos. I was only a few months old when Baylor raised an army and marched on the palace, launching a brutal battle that ended with Triston dead.

In the following weeks, everyone waited for an Heir to step forward. Gods are notoriously secretive about every aspect of their lives, especially their Heirs. Most hide them away, letting them be raised by adoptive parents until they are old enough to defend themselves. But when no Heir appeared, Baylor took the crown for himself under the agreement that if the Goddess or her Heir ever came forward, he’d hand the throne over to our rightful ruler.

But in all these years, it’s never happened. Everyone has always believed that if a God dies before producing an Heir, the Fates would choose one. That they haven’t done so here has led many people to speculate that Maebyn is either still alive, or she must have given birth to an Heir before she died. We’ve been waiting to see which of those theories will prove true for more than two decades.

Nausea stirs in my gut as another sickening thought occurs to me. If Maebyn’s Heir finally did come forward, there’s no way Baylor would willingly give up his throne. He’d keep it through whatever means necessary.

Oh Gods… Did I make a mistake? Should I have agreed to help the reaper steal the sword? But is the reaper and the God he serves any more trustworthy than Baylor? I flip back to the page I’d been reading and my eyes catch on the same line once more.

The whispers made me do it.

My hands tremble as I push the book away from me. It tumbles to the floor, landing face up on the picture of the reaper, his silver scythe gleaming in the dim light.

Hugging my knees to my chest, I take deep breaths as I try to be rational. This book is just one historian’s account. I don’t even know if it’s true. And I have no proof that the weapon they’re describing is the same one the reaper is trying to steal from Baylor. All of this could be a coincidence.

It’s fate , says a quiet voice in the back of my mind.

A shiver runs through me. I know the Fates work in mysterious ways. I can’t help but wonder if I’ve felt their interference over the past week? Meeting the reaper. Finding this book. It all reeks of divine intervention. But why would they be pulling at the strings of my fate? I’m no one of importance…

Voices filter through the stacks as a small group enters the library. Peering through my peephole to the door, I spot Lady Bridgid, Kaldar’s niece, standing with two of her friends. Her golden blonde ringlets bounce as she throws her head back, laughing at something one of her companions said.

My mouth twists into a grimace as I make myself invisible. The familiar prickling sensation covers every inch of my skin, setting my nerves on edge. The discomfort is worth it, though. These are the last people I want to be found by.

My foot lands on the book as I rise from my chair. Without giving myself time to think about the implications of my actions, I pick up the old volume and shove it into my satchel before continuing on my way. My feet silently pad over the plush carpet as I slip through the stacks, hoping to escape without drawing the attention of the courtiers. Unfortunately, instead of moving to one of the nearby tables, they continue to stand in the doorway, blocking the exit.

“He truly said that?” Lady Naomi asks as I try to find a way past them.

I’m not surprised to see her and Lord Darcus following Bridgid around. They’re all children of council members and have frequently accompanied their parents to the palace over the years, always sticking close together. There was a time when I tried to nudge my way into their group, since we’re all close in age, but they’ve never been welcoming toward me.

By calling me his pet, Baylor ensured I was alienated from the rest of the high fae, who are notoriously snobbish. A pet is not an equal. And the rumors about my questionable lineage certainly didn’t help matters. While Lord Nigel Pomeroy has never publicly confirmed I’m not his child, it’s been widely speculated that my mother was an adulteress. I’ve heard the insults the courtiers whisper behind my back.

Bastard.

Whore’s daughter.

Bridgid looks gleeful as she nods excitedly to her companions. “Uncle Kaldar assured me that the king is going to announce his new bride at the anniversary ball.”

I roll my eyes, doubting the validity of her claims. Kaldar has been pushing for a new queen since Leona died, but Baylor has never expressed a serious interest in the matter. It’s barely been a year.

“Isn’t it too soon?” Darcus asks, parroting my own thoughts.

“Is he supposed to mourn for the rest of his life?” Bridgid’s nasally tone fills with petulance as they move further into the room, finally clearing out of the doorway and giving me an opening to escape. “He’s ready to move on. Besides, it’s not his fault she never gave him a child.”

I grab hold of a nearby bookshelf, digging my nails into the wood to avoid accidentally reaching for her skull and cracking it against the stone fireplace. I need to get out of this room right now before I do something I’ll regret. Slowly tiptoeing across the creaky floors, I try not to attract any attention as I head for the door.

“Do you seriously think he might choose you?” Naomi doesn’t quite manage to hide the blatant envy in her tone as she joins Darcus on one of the plush couches.

Bridgid chuckles, leaning against the side table. “Let’s just say we’ve been spending a lot of intimate , quality time together.”

“You fucked him?” Darcus gasps, leaning forward as his eyes go wide.

My body freezes. I’m only two feet from the door now, but I can’t force myself to move any further. My gaze is glued to Bridgid’s face as she makes a show of looking around the room. The others lean forward, desperate for her answer.

Her expression turns smug. “Many times.”

The trio descends into a fit of squeals and exclamations, but my own reaction is far different.

In the entire time we’ve been together, despite his many other crimes against me, Baylor has never strayed until now. Does he sense the distance I’ve put between us over the past year? Can he tell something is different?

I wait for my jealousy to ignite, but there isn’t even a spark. The confirmation of his infidelity should devastate me. A few years ago, it would have. But there’s no sinking sensation in my stomach, no catch in my throat.

Instead, I feel nothing.

A small flicker of hope flares in my chest at the realization. I never thought I’d be happy to not feel anything. A smile plays at the corner of my mouth, invisible yet genuine. Perhaps I’m finally done mourning a counterfeit love.

“What about the wraith ?” Darcus asks, shuddering as he speaks the name. “We all know how attached he is to his precious pet.”

“Shhh!” Naomi swats his arm as she glances around with fearful eyes. “The wraith could be anywhere. I don’t want to end up on her kill list.”

Bridgid bursts out laughing and Darcus chuckles, but his face pales slightly as he glances toward the door.

“Did you hear what she did to Lord Varish?” Darcus asks. Shame rises in my throat at his reference to the man Baylor had me slaughter.

“Don’t speak that traitor’s name,” Bridgid warns. “He deserved what he got.”

“Of course,” they say in unison, both nodding fervently.

No doubt their strong reactions are due to fear of ending up like Varish. Even among friends, you can’t be too careful with your words. It doesn’t matter that he wasn’t a traitor, or that he was telling the truth about his daughter. If Baylor decides someone has committed treason, no one can question him.

“But that’s exactly why the wraith is no competition for me,” Bridgid declares. “No one would put a violent bastard on the throne. Trust me, she’s nothing. She can’t even keep him satisfied anymore.”

I guess that confirms that he has noticed the differences in our relationship recently. Still, something about Bridgid’s demeanor today strikes me as odd…

The way she’s dressed doesn’t match her usual style. The gown she’s wearing is dark burgundy, an unflattering color on her bright complexion and vastly different from what she usually wears. The courtiers tend to dress in pastels, like Lady Naomi’s soft pink ensemble or Lord Darcus’s yellow tunic.

But the color isn’t the only thing strange about Bridgid’s gown. The plunging neckline hangs awkwardly against her small chest and the thigh slit is far more daring than anything I’ve seen her in before. It actually reminds me of something I’d wear. Now that I think of it, it’s shockingly similar to one of my own… Did she steal it?

That would explain why it doesn’t fit her properly. Where my body is all shapely curves combined with lean muscle from countless hours of training, Bridgid is naturally willowy. She has that straight, waifish frame that’s so popular among the upper-class.

I bite my lip, struggling to hold back a burst of laughter. Is this how she finally managed to capture Baylor’s attention? By emulating me? I don’t know whether to applaud her or feel sorry for her. Either way, I’m glad her efforts have paid off. Let her have Baylor as long as I can have my freedom.

Light footsteps hurry toward the room, bringing everyone’s attention to the door. Morwen rushes inside, her cheeks flushed. She stops short when she sees the group of courtiers huddled together, her gaze immediately landing on the one person I know she hates interacting with.

Lady Naomi.

Morwen and Warrick were the product of an affair their mortal mother had with a wealthy high fae lord, who just so happens to be Naomi’s father. Despite being half sisters, Naomi has never publicly acknowledged the relationship. In fact, she’s taken every opportunity to destroy any hope of a familial bond between the siblings.

“My apologies for the interruption,” Morwen murmurs, dipping into a curtsy and dropping her gaze respectfully. “Have you seen Lady Iverson? His Majesty needs her.”

Bridgid’s expression sours.

“Are you sure he didn’t ask for me?” Her voice rises several octaves higher than before. “I’d be happy to go to him.”

“No, my lady,” Morwen answers politely. “He requested Lady Iverson.”

Naomi scoffs. “Maybe you heard him wrong with your deformed ears.”

A flush stains Morwen’s cheeks as she adjusts her hair to hide her slightly pointed ears, the feature that marks her as half fae. Naomi’s lips curve into a cruel smile as she openly delights in her sister’s discomfort.

“Oh, you’re terrible, Naomi.” Bridgid playfully swats her friend’s arm.

“She’s not wrong, though,” Darcus interjects. “Those ears are ghastly.”

Deciding it’s time to announce my presence, I release the illusion and appear right next to the small group.

For a moment, everyone stares at me in silence as the blood drains from their faces. Then Naomi leaps off the couch, pushing her friends out of the way as she runs for the door, her screams echoing through the halls. Meanwhile, Darcus dives toward the floor, using his hands to cover his head as he rocks back and forth.

“Holy Fates, protect me,” his muffled voice whispers into the carpet.

Only Bridgid stands her ground. Her hard eyes meet mine as she lifts her chin in a show of bravery, but the pulsing vein at the base of her throat betrays her fear. I have to admit, in moments such as this, there’s some sick part of me that enjoys the terror I inflict.

“Thank you, Morwen,” I say, unable to stop the wicked smirk that curls my lips. “I’ll join Baylor immediately.”

Bridgid’s fists clench as I say his name. The only people who have ever been permitted to use it were myself and Leona. To everyone else, he’s “Your Majesty.”

Morwen nods. “He’s waiting for you in his study.”

My mirth fades immediately.

When he calls me to his private chambers, he wants to use my body. But when he asks to see me in his office, he wants to stain my hands with blood.

After his most recent request, I didn’t anticipate another this soon. Baylor has already given me four names this year. As his paranoia grows, so does his list of enemies.

Pushing those thoughts away, I offer a parting shot to Bridgid and Darcus. “Enjoy your reading. One always learns the most enlightening information in the library.”

Her eyes go round as she realizes how indiscreet she’s been. Savoring the hatred blooming across her face, I follow Morwen out the door. I stopped yearning for the friendship of courtiers long ago. Instead, I delight in garnering their fear. It’s much more useful.

“You shouldn’t taunt them,” Morwen warns.

“They deserved it.” I shrug. “I’m sorry for what she said to you.”

She shakes her head. “It’s nothing.”

I disagree, but it’s not my place to correct her. I know from experience that brushing off those types of comments can be its own form of coping.

“The king is angry today,” she continues. “I don’t know what’s wrong, but he’s been this way all morning. Most of the servants are avoiding that wing.”

I can relate to that. His bad moods are terrifying.

“Does it have anything to do with whatever Warrick pulled Remy away for earlier?” I ask.

“I’m not sure, but it’s possible.”

“Would you mind taking this to my room?” I ask, handing her my bag, which contains the book I stole.

As she takes it, the strangest urge bolts through me. For a moment, I want to rip the satchel from her hands and refuse to part with it. Brushing off the odd instinct, I release my grip on the bag, telling myself it would be madness to take such a conspicuous text into Baylor’s study.

“Good luck,” she says as we reach the stairwell that leads to the king’s private floor.

“I’ll need it,” I whisper.

Taking a deep breath, I begin my ascent alone.