Page 44 of Tales of a Deadly Devotion (Tales of a Monstrous Heart, #2)

Chapter Twenty-Two

Kat

Beware the witch in the west who makes promises in blood. With no age or name. Who cares little for the world, only for the power she can drain from the beings who wish to save it.

A blood witch who cares little for her soul in her bargain for power. Why she lives eternal, to never face the ancestors for her crimes.

Warning from the western shores – The Crow’s Foot, 1856

Gideon slipped his hands into his pockets, despite the tension in his limbs and the faint sting of his power against my skin. As unsettled as the wishing stone beneath my clothes.

‘In my bounds, my company is my own business, Countess.’ Lady Ramsey smiled as she took another sip from her teacup. Those golden eyes hard and cold, filled with nothing but distaste for the creature before her.

‘For now.’ The Countess’s mirth was slow and predatory. ‘Still a cripple I see, Ramsey. Not enough coin for a good healer?’

Sigrid straightened and I could swear I heard her teeth grind.

‘To what do we owe the pleasure of your interruption, Countess?’ Gideon offered before Sigrid did something to turn the already tense room into a bloodbath.

I noticed the Kysillian remained still, those eyes pinned on me as if I was the last being he expected to see here. We had that in common at least.

‘Gideon, you’re supposed to be dead.’ The Countess pulled the leather gloves from her hands, holding them out to one of her rebels who took them obediently. Her fingers decorated in jewelled rings, but her skin stained red up to the knuckle, her nails long and tinged black. Marks of blood worship.

‘I tried my best,’ Gideon offered darkly.

‘Still tempestuous.’ Her answering laugh was small and seductive but it pulled too tightly at the corner of her mouth.

As if a spell had been brushed on her flesh so it didn’t crease.

‘I thought some of your mother’s meekness would have rubbed off on you.

Alas, I think Blackthorn’s arrogance won that battle. ’

‘Lucky me.’ Gideon’s answer was dismissive but I didn’t miss the weight of her words.

She knew Gideon was Blackthorn’s. Apprehension prickled inside of me, at just how much she knew. Only I should have saved my worries for myself as those blood-red eyes focused on me.

No matter how rebellious you wish to be in this life. No matter how many fey you seek to save … that witch isn’t the saviour of anyone, my love. My mother’s words came into my mind. Another warning come too late.

‘I’ve never seen a Kysillian female,’ she noted coldly, her attention like an unwanted caress over every inch of my face. ‘I thought you’d be prettier with all the fuss you’ve caused.’

The slight glanced off me. Having troll hissed at you most days had that effect. Yet my lack of reaction didn’t stop her assessment.

‘Females are quite rare, aren’t they, Callen?’ she asked, making a jolt of surprise move through me before I could control it. Callen was a sacred name. Of Kysillia’s line. One of the ancient king’s names, one of the wielders of the sacred blades.

The Kysillian’s expression remained blank, his arms folded before him with little interest. ‘Quite.’

What was a Kysillian doing at the Countess’s heel? Only the question felt like a betrayal. The same question I should have asked my father. He’d been in service to her too. Once. An impossibility.

The Countess pursed her painted lips, running a stained finger along her own jaw in contemplation. ‘Quite a mess Emrys made in those Council chambers, Gideon. If rumour is to be believed.’

The wishing stone fluttering against my breastbone and it was then I saw it, the ring on her finger. So out of place amongst the gold ones. The dark metal carved with small ancient runes, a blood stone in the centre.

The pinching sensation. The wrongness of it. An object from a different time. She was wearing a Verr relic. Everything in me wanted to recoil, yet my magic bit viciously into my bones in response to the threat. In a way that it had never responded to Emrys.

‘I’m certain Montagor deserves more credit than Emrys,’ Gideon answered indifferently, but every inch of him remained tense.

‘I wonder what the King’s two bastards could have been fighting over?’ Her lip curled as if knowing everything but wishing to see us squirm. ‘I hope dear Emrys isn’t losing his control, Gideon. You know how I’d hate for us to have to have a … problem.’

‘What do you want, Countess?’ Gideon demanded.

She turned that ring over on her finger.

The two men by the door gave the barest flinch as if they could feel it.

Callen remained stoic but it didn’t fool me into believing he was unaffected.

‘The late Lord Blackthorn gave me his word Emrys would be useful. Then again … Emmaline’s use ran out quite quickly. ’

Even if I could only see Gideon’s profile, it was impossible to miss the pain that cut deeply into his expression. The groaning of his metal fist beneath his glove.

Emmaline’s use ran out. No. She was dead and this creature cared nothing for it.

‘Let us not forget your mother’s years haven’t been fulfilled.’ The Countess threw the words over her shoulder as she moved around the small space, surveying the side table and shelves for any secrets they could hold.

As if it was her own territory.

The threat was clear. Gideon owed her, or his blood did. This creature had plans; nothing had changed them. Not the suffering of the fey or Montagor’s activities. She didn’t care.

‘You need to train your fighters better, Countess,’ came the dark, terse voice of Emrys as he entered the room.

The rebels at the door shifted to lay a hand on their blades but he ignored them.

Callen gave not even the barest flicker of interest. No, he watched only me still, waiting.

As if sensing the threat in me. Sensing the fire that slumbered in my bones.

Emrys’s shirt was open, clearly not bothering to button it in his haste to get up here.

Making me wonder if he could have sensed this from below.

How the thin fabric clung to his damp skin.

Blood glinting on his knuckles as he moved towards Lady Ramsey, snatching her untouched glass of port off the table and draining it in one.

‘Since when did you involve yourself in fighting pits, Emrys?’ The Countess’s smile was filled with dangerous delight as she moved across the room with a dancer’s grace. Close to Emrys as he dropped the empty glass back on the table.

So close her fingertips rested against his abdomen, her long nails biting into his skin ever so slightly as if to keep him in place.

My magic burnt in my fingertips, forcing me to curl them into fists.

To let my nails bite into my palms. A strange feral urge moving through me and then I was the one grinding my teeth.

This was worse than that awful Lady Lovell. My magic coiling deep in my gut, willing me to strike.

‘A new hobby,’ Emrys answered, peering down at her with such cold boredom. Just as I’d seen him deal with the Council.

‘Is collecting dangerous beings another?’ She raised a brow, turning her head to see me, her eyes filled with disinterest. Only my magic’s focus was on how fractionally lower her fingers on Emrys’s skin had slipped. Almost playfully near his waistband.

My jaw ached with the urge to bare my teeth. Territorial urges I wasn’t familiar with rising in me too viciously. My flame flushing my skin.

‘I’m certain there isn’t anything about Miss Woodrow you don’t already know,’ he answered, easily.

‘Such formality.’ She tutted, only I saw the ripple of whatever magic enchanted her flesh. The barest flash of her displeasure.

She didn’t know as much as she wished, because my father knew this monster and he’d hidden me well.

‘I doubt the elders in their far mountains know about you.’ She thankfully let her hand fall away from Emrys’s chest. ‘They’re quite fond of their females, I hear. Despite your … inadequacies to save your own kind. Isn’t that right, Callen?’

I ignored the slight. Kysillian lack of fertility was a well-known fact. If she wanted to hurt me, she’d have to be more creative than insulting my useless womb.

The lamps dimmed ever so slightly, a cold biting at the air with Emrys’s anger, but I didn’t need him to save me. Not from this creature.

‘Indeed,’ Callen answered, voice deep and empty.

As if sensing that resilience in me and the fury in Emrys, the Countess moved closer, folding her arms as she considered me. ‘However, the barren creatures always do make the best playthings.’

She would know. This creature who played with others’ lives as if she were a god.

Then she reached up to brush an imaginary strand of hair from her face.

I thought she wished for me to flinch, anticipating attack.

To be unnerved by that Verr relic in the space between us – but then I saw the bracelet slip down her wrist. The gold chain gleaming.

Only it wasn’t the chain, but the small discs that hung from it.

Each marked with a rune I knew better than my own name.

Ralmev . The marks of the ancestors. Runes that decorated the seven sacred blades gifted to the Kysillian kings by Kysillia. My heart sank to my boots, my magic churning with confusion inside of me.

The hilt in my bag practically vibrating against my hip. Willing itself to be summoned.

I could have sworn I saw Callen give the slightest wince but I couldn’t be certain when the Countess had captured my attention so completely.

She had three ancient blades around her wrist. Only not in a form she could wield. No. They’d been given to her; Kysillians had bargained with this creature. Given over their ancestors’ treasures so easily.

My own blade in the bag at my waist suddenly felt like a dead weight. Sensing the others in the set it belonged to.

‘ Kneel .’ The command was soft and mocking from her lips. So consumed by the horror of what she possessed I almost missed it.