Page 17 of Shadows and Flames (Twin Blades #2)

Chapter Eleven

ELIáN

Three years after her

T hey did not want us to see their faces.

When Tom and I met with our employers for this contract on the outskirts of Morova.

They kept us to a barn, insistent we meet in the middle of the night.

The five of them wore cloaks, for goddess’s sake, like commissioning the murder of their fellow merchant and biggest rival was some sacred ritual.

Our race was few, as was the Vyrkos, but our rarity was even more apparent in the human lands.

Where they were the majority, and most looked at us with fear, lust, or a combination of both.

They were interested or disgusted by the unknown, afraid because of tales brought back and twisted. Or, accurate ones as well.

Now, I straightened my collar. The fabric was a deep violet with amber embroidery woven over it and down my shoulders and chest. Using quick fingers, I tightened the belt in the same motif, closing the jacket over me while leaving underneath bare.

We were to close in, tonight, if the moment presented itself.

“This must be treated delicately. With no witnesses and his guards unaware.” The cloaked merchants had instructed my brother and me as if we were stupid.

I could feel Tom’s eyes rolling in the quiet barn as we faced the men and received the first half of our payment.

They had not said who they were, but I recognized the sea salt clinging to them underneath their colognes and perfumed clothing.

Wealthy but still taking voyages. So, not that wealthy.

My hair was dry now, after my quick bath, and it shone as I gave it one last comb. The oil left it slick, smooth in the light of the setting sun streaming through the small window near the mirror. My face was freshly shaved, and the rings in my ears were polished.

I gathered up the top third of my hair and tied it back. Shorter strands still escaped, framing my temples, but I just sighed and tucked them behind my ears.

And breathed.

Smoke came with the action, and it took a few more rounds of breath before I got it under my control.

Tonight. I, Mother willing, would see my queen.

After years of searching, traversing three continents and enduring crossing the seas, I would meet her deep stare.

Feel her in my arms and hear her voice, not just in my dreams.

I would not accept any alternative.

I locked eyes with myself in the mirror, pulse thumping visibly in my throat, and marked this moment.

I had dressed for the occasion, blending in with Morova’s upper class to get closer to Paschal Von Herron.

I disguised myself as a sheep for this hunt, but I had also dressed for her.

My attire was not the pearlescent sort common among Morova’s upper echelon, but the bright Zonoran colors were vibrant and expensive enough.

Would she recognize me? Would she be able to see how I craved her? Loved her?

My throat began to tighten with worry, words unspoken to anyone but myself, and I coughed to clear it. I would not treat her as I had when I was her Shadow. I would share my thoughts, and I would be honest about my emotions. I would not hold back.

And if she still sent me away?

A heavy hand clapped my back, jolting me out of the memory of her screams as I rode away from her. My greatest regret.

“Do you have any more of that oil?” Tom asked, appearing beside me in the smudged glass of the mirror. He was dressed in similar finery, though his jacket was more revealing than mine.

I pointedly eyed his exposed chest. “Is that how we are getting close to Von Herron?” I reached beside the sink and handed him the hair oil I brought with me and used sparingly while away from the Well.

Tom poured some in his palms, rings clacking as he warmed it between his hands.

His hair was so different than mine, but the oil had a similar effect, leaving his locs smoothed and glistening.

The remnants left on his hands, he rubbed in and patted against his collarbones and down his sternum.

“Seems like one of the easiest ways to get him alone. If you stay close, you’ll be able to sense when I’ve got him. We can slip away then.”

“And what is my role?” I accepted the small glass bottle and put it back near the faucet.

Tom scoffed and did a few last tugs on his jacket. “You act as if we haven’t been Shadows but a day, brother.” I was the one to roll my eyes this time, and more quietly, gaze going soft, he added, “You will have your queen to worry about.”

My jaw clenched at the mention of her. He did not say her name in my presence. I was not sure if he ever did, but I was grateful for this. Until she was mine again, I did not want to hear her name on another’s lips.

“Yes,” was all I said, and because my brother knew me better than anyone else, he did not press me for more.

The party was loud.

As all of such events were. As the trained dancers took their final bows, we, the guests, clapped pleasantly.

Several, including Tom, murmured to each other about how impressive the entertainment was, and as the young women in fluttering, shimmering skirts walked elegantly away from the raised dais in the ballroom and the quartet began again to play, I assessed the crowd again.

She was not here.

The scent of a Lylithan alone would be distinct enough, but I would know the aroma of her anywhere.

It was imprinted in my senses, the feel of her hair between my fingers dug into my skin.

I resisted the urge to clasp my hands behind my back, like a Shadow on duty, and instead, crossed my arms, leaning slightly backwards as a bored aristocrat.

Slipping uninvited into the reverie was easy, not that our employers were any help. They wanted as little involvement with us as possible, thirsty for power but unwilling to soak their hands with blood.

No matter. The taste of blood was one of the few pleasures I had in these years without my queen.

My brother beside me used his charming smiles more sharply than the curved blade of his shamshir, fangs a bright white that drew the guests like moths to a light.

Another talent of his, thankfully, was forgery.

In less than an hour, Tom had replicated the invitations to the birthday celebration of Paschal Von Herron, ushering another year while also welcoming him home from his voyage to Savya.

I was moderately skilled in this sort of subterfuge, but I much preferred sticking firmly to the shadows.

But I would admit this method had its uses.

He was standing near the table laden with Morovan delicacies.

Breads of all shades and toppings including white fish spreads, olives, tomatoes and cheeses.

A tower of glasses filled with sparkling wine was constantly reconstructed as guests imbibed.

A chef, dressed in their own luminescent jacket finer than most common folk who lived in the city owned, carved from a large cut of beef, showcasing the fine and expensive meat.

Tom turned away from me, giving me his back, and I meandered my way through the crowd. I marked the guards, dressed in steel armor and Morovan maroon. The guards surrounding us lacked the Morovan inscription a fluttering hummingbird, on their armor.

Von Herron, as we had suspected, was not alone for a moment, implanting himself in the center of the reverie and greeting guests who huddled around him, hungry for tales or a chance at his riches.

Or maybe both. I had done some reconnaissance of my own on Von Herron, finding him to be a largely self-made man.

Once an apprentice of one of the very colleagues who conspired against him.

Finely woven fabric in rich, jewel-toned colors that had become as synonymous with Morova as the tiny hummingbird.

There was a shine to it. Something in the thread used, or the dye, I was not sure.

I had traveled here enough to have my own safehouse, but it was often just a transition point.

I held no true interest in this place or its people.

Even for this contract, I was passively collecting information as a means to an end.

My spine snapped straight, then. The young man playing the pianoforte rose to a clanging crescendo, or perhaps that was just my blood rushing in my ears.

Pink peppercorns, the wind over the ocean, and a cool, deep darkness. It made me shiver, the knowledge of her presence, and from my corner near the back, where I had been monitoring the guards as they made circuits around the space, I saw her.

Zoko and Mother take me, I saw her.

My queen had just crossed the threshold, she and her cousin already swept up in a group of women laughing and reaching for glasses of the Morovan sparkling wine. But, she was watching me. Saw me.

The dress, if such a simple word could be used for what she draped her body with, was a deep jade color. The green of the trees surrounding my father’s home in the verdant shades of an evening in the summertime. When life was at once full and sated and also happily turning to rest.

White and gold beads made up the middle, hinting at her navel but obscuring at the same time, and more green softly cradled her breasts.

Long gloves in the same shade reached up to her elbows, but I knew the delicate sharpness within her touch.

Could feel her nails scraping my scalp when I closed my eyes.

And her hair was… gone.

Instead of the twin plaits or the bountiful mass of curls, there was a rippling layer of waves slicked down and small loops meticulously placed by her ears.

My heart felt as if it had punched through my chest, flying straight toward her. My mouth watered, my cock stiffened, and I wasted no time stepping toward her. The reason for my nightmares and the inspiration for my dreams.