Page 103 of Horns of Wicked Ebony (Deathcaller Duet #2)

W hite gleamed as the sun parted the clouds.

My throne of bones clanked against the hard stone of the wall.

I flared my nostrils, trying not to snap at the males arranging it.

“Scoot it back a foot,” I managed to instruct without vitriol.

Despite the nip of fading winter, sweat slicked my skin.

Yet I didn’t dare remove my armor, not when the Angels could burst through the treeline at any moment.

Appearances were everything, as I learned so many centuries ago. My armor, the chair constructed from fallen Angels, the still-living ones standing on our side, would only serve to infuriate Ishim.

Especially when he found a second one with wispy vanes forever crystallized in a thick lacquer. All that was missing from my mate’s matching seat was a skull for the second armrest.

A group of four females carried it forward, the light catching the feathers and making them glitter like diamonds. Their care far exceeded their counterparts. But with the way the former priestesses worshipped the ground Assyria walked on, it wasn’t surprising.

With reverence, they placed it beside mine. One even used her sleeve to buff out a bit of dirt. Satisfied with the placement, I dismissed the group to their respective positions.

The space between the two guard towers was a flurry of activity. Those with the most powerful eye colors framed the thrones, preparing for the Angel contingent’s arrival.

Araquiel and Banand emerged from the depths of one building, and many gave the Angel pointed side-eyes.

Yet they knew better than to comment on her presence.

The reason they’d been selected wasn’t only for their magic—it was also because they knew the stakes of this meeting.

They’d hide their disdain before the zealous arrived.

After all, we had to show the Angels we were better than them. Now, with females among the army, even Angels—though Araquiel was the only one currently convinced—they couldn’t claim moral superiority any longer.

They’d still try.

The Padisa, chained up in one of the guard towers, had refused to break and join us. She was our pawn in the elaborate game Zahal Ishim and I played. Araquiel, in a show of loyalty, had cut out the Angel officer’s tongue to ensure she couldn’t speak during the meeting once she was dragged out.

All the pieces were falling into place. Yet dread still twisted my gut.

For our pretense to succeed, Assyria had to impersonate the dead Myrza. Therefore, someone else had to pretend to be my mate. Izzenna had volunteered, and given she was the only Deathveiled that mildly resembled my mate, we agreed.

The helmet I’d commissioned for Assyria was too small for her, which was a massive blow. Now, we had to pray that they didn’t fully remember the details of my mate’s visage.

Izzenna sauntered up a moment later. She looked almost right—but just enough wrong to make my skin itch.

Heavy kohl applied around her lashes, long hair unbound and styled in a wild way, and lips dyed a bright red with berries picked from nearby bushes, her carefully chosen facade was all a distraction from her eyes that were slightly off from the infamous burgundy shade.

My nails bit into my palm as she settled onto Assyria’s chair. “Like this?” she asked me.

“That’s fine,” I told her, keeping my tone even when I really wanted to tell her to get the fuck off of it. “Just let me do the talking. Sit there and glare but don’t make direct eye contact with anyone.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, all military formality.

Olet broke through the throng, his long strides carrying him to my side. “A green flag has been spotted on the Angel’s side.”

Bringing my fingers to my lips, I let out a sharp whistle. Everyone ceased their movements and faced me.

“The time has come,” I growled, my tone threaded with the promise of violence. A hush blanketed the Demons as they readied themselves for the confrontation. Females flicked their hair back. Males rested hands on their weapons.

Grem and Zeec trotted toward me, their lips pulled back from their razor sharp teeth and tails wagging. They tasted the tension in the air like it was their favorite treat.

After commanding them to settle at the feet of the thrones, I risked a glance at the second guard tower, where Assyria, disguised as the Myrza, waited.

No windows or slits in stone allowed me to peer into the room where she sat.

The bond reassured me that she was there all the same, though our connection was muted, like every time she became an Imposter.

As much as I loathed even an ounce of disconnect from her, I was glad she was already in form and ready to go. A few of the Deathveiled guarded her as an added measure, should the Angels try to sneak in from the other side.

A horn blew, once, twice, three times, the sound pretentious and scraping at my nerves. Too many times had that noise irritated me. Caused me to lose blood and bodies and sanity.

I stalked to the far side of the wall, glaring down at the approaching Angel party. Ishim rode at the head, his dapple gray horse tossing his mane. The metal decor dripping from his reins tinkled. I rolled my eyes at the ostentatious display.

Behind him, the group fanned into a V, spreading through the sparse trees. More emerged behind them, and I made a quick count of their numbers—forty total. Among them, I noted was Korona Ioath’s brother, Vaeron.

My nails dug into my palm.

The male had the power to speak a single word and command all those within earshot to do what he bid. Like other mind magics, the only way to combat it was to plug ears with shadow or have something bite into flesh to ground oneself in reality.

I didn’t want Assyria anywhere near him.

Under my breath, I relayed an order to prepare for what Vaeron might do.

That he was present now had concern twisting my gut.

His sister used him like her personal pet.

Rather than assisting Ishim—where his magic would have been most useful—he gallivanted around the Angel Realm.

They didn’t call him the Issaraeth, Mindbreaker, for nothing.

Then, I returned my attention to the swarm of insects.

“You requested a meeting,” I tossed down, keeping my tone bored.

The Zahal leaped from his mount, boots thudding against the earth.

In three long strides, he was staring up at me.

The long plumage at the front of his helm dipped with the motion.

Like me, he’d come dressed to make appearances, though his polished silver attire left nothing to be feared, unlike the horns of wicked ebony that curled from the black skull over my face.

He said nothing, just offered me a hateful glare, as more of his companions dismounted and joined him in looking up at us like the Gods we were. I quite liked seeing them beneath me—where they were supposed to be.

“You may approach,” I announced before he could speak again. Spinning on my heel, I stomped toward my seat.

A cold calm settled over me as the whispering of feathers filled the air. I glanced up, finding the sun at its zenith. The shadows they cast were minimal as they landed in front of us, those charged with protecting their leader making a quick assessment of our positions.

Ishim’s focus immediately landed on my throne of bones, then sliced to the one beside it. A muscle jumped in his jaw, visible in the space beneath his helm since it provided no protection whatsoever.

Idiot.

But then, a slow, sinister smile spread across his face. “Halálhívó, you have been busy indeed.”

He snapped twice, and a female emerged from behind Vaeron, carrying a rolled slip of parchment.

Kneeling, she handed it to the Zahal. As she returned to her spot, the Korona’s brother tracked her every movement, like he was on the precipice of leaping forward to ensure she didn’t run.

The heat in his expression reminded me so much of how I’d first looked at Assyria.

The female’s shoulders were tense beneath her white armor. Silver hair knotted high on her head disguised nothing as she skirted Vaeron, bumping into other soldiers rather than arcing closer to him.

Interesting.

Ishim made a show of unfurling the paper, drawing my attention back to him. He turned it about and glanced between the two bone chairs.

A laugh—more forced than genuine—barked out of him. I wished he’d get on with whatever the fuck he was trying to pull.

“Oh this is good. Divine, even.” His attention returned to me as he let the paper snap shut.

He handed it to Vaeron, who tucked it into his breastplate without a second glance, like he had no need to read the script his sister’s menagerie had written.

“You see, Halálhívó, our Seers have predicted this moment exactly. This meeting. The second chair made of the bones of our people. You animals are so predictable.”

“So?” I drawled, sinking onto my throne and gripping the skulls at the front. Even in death, his female assisted me in rattling him.

His ice blue eyes flashed with righteous anger before he smoothed his expression again. A deranged grin rose as he crossed his arms. “So, that means the rest of what the Goddess showed her will also come true.”

Unease curdled in my veins, but I forced myself to focus on maintaining my cool, derisive demeanor. My hold on the skulls tightened until I feared they’d crack beneath my palm. “Whatever you think, Ishim. We know how your predictions have gone in the past.”

He lifted a single brow. “Quite well, if I remember all the times we ambushed you correctly.”

I gritted my teeth to contain the words that wanted to bite out. Counting to ten, I willed myself to calm before addressing the Angel’s leader again. “What do you want, Ishim? Other than to retrieve those who you deem traitors?”