Page 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

C assandra’s consciousness slammed back into her body, jolting her limbs and nearly toppling her to the ground before she felt Ronin’s hands on her shoulders.

Her head pounded, her vision was blurry, and her throat felt like it had been scraped clean with a wire brush.

But the air was clear. Were they out of the mists? And where had Reena?—

Reena .

Cassandra swiveled, half expecting to see the tiger bi-form standing beside her.

But there was nothing but a moat that stretched out so far in either direction that it disappeared into the black mist. Above, the moon shone bright on a cloudless night.

“Where…” she attempted, the words barely a squeak. “Where are we?”

A few paces away, an obsidian bridge crossed the moat to an unexpected sight. “Is that a?—”

“It’s a city ,” Ronin gaped.

It looked more like a sculpture.

On the far end of the bridge, rising up from the middle of nowhere, rings of buildings and cobblestoned streets spread out beneath a domineering castle crafted from the same black stone as the intake tower. Two sharp spires threaded with red polemite pierced the sky like blood-drenched fangs.

Ronin guided Cassandra along the bridge as she peered over the edge into the still, glossy water below. Were the large, shadowy masses shifting beneath the surface real, or was she still disoriented from her journey through the mists?

Her stomach grumbled, her missing hunger roaring to life and gnawing at her insides. How long had they been wandering? And where were the other prisoners from the intake tower?

Guilt pierced her chest; they’d left Reena behind. Although, if Cassandra and Ronin had arrived at this city, perhaps Reena had as well?

The faint din of voices grew louder as she and Ronin reached the end of the bridge. A towering wall of obsidian soared above them, and she caught a hint of movement beyond the lowered iron portcullis. Its holes were large enough for a human or Fae to pass through and she wondered why it was lowered.

What were they trying to keep out?

She glanced at those shifting shadows in the moat, then paused to pick up a small pebble. She tossed it over the bridge, and circles rippled out from where it plinked into the water.

Just as the waves flattened, an enormous, reptilian beast with a mottled brown-and-green scaled body burst upward, snapping a long snout full of sharp teeth inches away from the bridge.

“Guess we’re not trying to escape via the moat,” Ronin grumbled as three more beasts surged toward the bridge and laughter rang out above the city wall.

They’d gained an audience.

Spectators gathered on stone balconies and between the old-fashioned buildings. Whether they were Fae or human or a mix of both, Cassandra couldn’t yet tell. Though she did spy a few pairs of wings, and also saw more color than expected. The prisoners were no longer wearing their gray uniforms.

The portcullis rumbled upward, and a thin male Beastrunner emerged, clapping. He had cropped brown hair and sharp features, all the more weasel-like with his pencil-thin mustache and goatee.

His dark eyes gleamed with amusement, and his nasally tone grated Cassandra’s bones. “My sincerest congratulations on your survival.”

“Are we the only ones who’ve arrived?” Cassandra asked, her heart in her throat at the thought of Reena alone and lost in that terrible emptiness.

The male nodded, pouting. “Even less than usual, I’d say. Remy Wormwood. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He gestured backward as the portcullis clanged to a thunderous halt and the city yawned out behind it.

“Welcome to Tartarus.”

It was a city. Cassandra could scarcely believe it as Wormwood led her and Ronin along the cobbled, upward sloping streets that wended toward the castle.

Candles flickered in lead-glass windows and flames danced in cast-iron streetlamps. Most of the timber-framed buildings seemed to be private dwellings. At least until they came upon the main city square halfway up the hill where two taverns occupied opposite corners.

The more opulent of the two bore a sign that read World’s End in filigreed lettering. Red curtains hung in the upper floor windows above a gold-and-black striped awning and golden double doors.

At the south corner, a hand-painted side reading The Other Place hung above a dilapidated tavern. Outside, wearied Fae gathered in quiet conversation at chipped wooden tables. They were mostly Beastrunners and Deathstalkers, but she did see a scant number of Windriders with both feathered and fleshy wings.

What she didn’t see were any humans.

Ronin scanned every face they passed. Searching for Reena? Selene?

Or Mireille?

“Keep up!” Wormwood called from the other end of the square, his whiskers twitching at his cheeks. “I am sure you are anxious to get some food and rest. All will be possible after he has reviewed your sentences.”

Wormwood turned down another cobbled street, moving so quickly that Cassandra didn’t have a chance to take in her surroundings. He sailed around a corner, arriving at a graveled courtyard that led to the castle entrance. It looked much larger than it had from across the bridge, the two spires rising at least ten stories up. Wormwood ushered them through a large archway. “Come, come, my friends! There’s nothing to fear.”

“Bullshit,” Ronin grumbled.

Two obsidian staircases bracketed the soaring foyer, past which she heard the booming, sinister tones of gathered male voices.

Wormwood led them into a throne room trisected by lines of thick black columns. Fae males cloaked in furs and leather filled the hall, armed to the teeth with polished stone weapons hanging from their backs and hips. Tall, iron candelabras bathed the room in pockets of light and shadow, and at the far end, an enormous obsidian throne veined with red polemite sat empty atop a stepped dais.

The Fae warriors—Cassandra wasn’t sure what else to call them; they appeared dressed for war and had an air of authority she hadn’t sensed from the Fae in the streets—stilled as she, Ronin, and Wormwood passed, though they didn’t pause their conversations.

Multiple pairs of eyes crawled over her glimmering white feathers. Reactions to Ronin were mixed, some faces pinched with distaste, while others widened in awe.

Wormwood clapped his hands, seeking the hall’s attention, then arranged Ronin and Cassandra on either side of the aisle.

Flashing a slimy grin, he took to the dais. “Well, Brethren. What a joyous day! It has been some time since the Emperor sent us new citizens.” He snickered, and the warriors—the Brethren—laughed along with him. “The ledgers confirmed there were more. May their eternal souls find peace within the Tartaran mists.”

Cassandra’s chest ached. She hadn’t spied Reena anywhere within the city walls. She was losing hope that her friend had made it here.

Wormwood continued, “But these two fine specimens have survived! And I’m sure you’re all as anxious as I am to reveal their sentences and see what the Koenig has in store for them.”

The males roared, stomping their feet and pounding their chests.

Footsteps sounded from the entrance and the frenzied shouting was replaced by creaking leather as, to a one, every male in the hall swept to their knees and bowed their heads.

Next to the throne, Wormwood genuflected as well, snapping at Cassandra and Ronin. She dropped down, draping her wings along her back, then tugged Ronin’s wrist, forcing him to reluctantly follow.

Keeping her head tucked, she dared a side-long glance at the hulking, shirtless Windrider male who stalked up onto the dais. Well, she assumed he was a Windrider. He certainly wasn’t a Deathstalker—no tell-tale serpentine features—and he didn’t have the musky, animal scent of a Beastrunner. But where his wings should have been, two long scars snaked down his shoulder blades.

He turned in front of the throne, then raised his palms to signal the kneeling crowd to rise. Wheat-colored hair fell past his broad shoulders and his sapphire eyes were ringed with smudged kohl. He was strikingly handsome, even with the vicious scars marring the bottom half of his face. As if the flesh there had been burned away. Above his leather pants, a baldric of knives crossed his chest and, from a strap on his back, he pulled a colossal obsidian warhammer. Markings in some ancient language were etched down the handle, and inlaid into the head was a heart-shaped gem of crimson polemite.

Despite the scars and missing wings, immense power flowed from the piercing gaze he swept across the crowd. It snagged on Cassandra’s wings, and confusion twisted his ruined features as he leaned his hammer against the throne.

Cassandra swallowed, willing her heart to stop pounding. Could he tell what she was? What she’d been?

Wormwood spoke up. “As you may have guessed, I serve the Koenig. I act as a sort of…translator.”

Cassandra didn’t dare ask why the Koenig needed a translator, but Ronin had no such qualms.

“Oh, yeah?” Ronin crossed his own massive, tattooed arms and held the Koenig’s flinty gaze. “He can’t speak for himself?”

The Koenig’s wide lips pulled back to expose a row of pearly white teeth. A shark’s grin. Cassandra shuddered as a mangled lump of gray flesh rolled out between parted lips.

Someone had cut out his tongue.

Wormwood slithered down from the dais, his murky brown eyes drinking up Ronin’s broad chest. “They took his tongue at the same time as they took his wings. But despite those limitations, he has managed to maintain authority in Tartarus through sheer force of will. And violence, of course. That’s the only currency that matters here. You’ll see. But we must warn you” —Wormwood leaned in close enough to touch his nose to Ronin’s bulging shoulder— “he does not tolerate insolence. Nor insubordination. He may let you pass today because you’ve just arrived, but his patience is extremely limited. I would not advise testing it.”

Ronin sniffed, uncrossing his arms and holding the Koenig’s gaze as the male made a series of hand gestures toward Wormwood.

“Yes, yes.” Wormwood bowed obsequiously. “My apologies for the delay, sire.” He turned back to the prisoners. “Ronin Matakos, the Butcher of Aethalia. Your reputation is legendary enough to have slipped past these wards. So curious to find an Imperial darling here.” Wormwood gestured toward Ronin’s torso, raising a single brow. “Please confirm your sentence.”

Ronin pulled aside his collar, exposing his V-shaped brand.

“Life. Wonderful. And your crime?”

“Treason,” Ronin grunted.

Wormwood squeaked out a laugh. “Bold, given your history. Well, I don’t need to ask about your skills, do I? You’ll join the Brethren. The Koenig can always use another powerful male to add to his peace-keeping force.”

At the throne, the Koenig nodded.

Wormwood glanced at Cassandra’s shirt. “And you, prisoner 161803? What is your name?”

Cassandra bit the inside of her cheek, wondering if she should lie. But no one in here would’ve known her or that she’d been human before she arrived. “Cassandra Fortin.”

Wormwood’s whiskers rustled as he stared excitedly at her left breast. Cassandra blew out a breath and pulled aside her shirt.

“Yes, yes. Just as I suspected.” He whispered in the Koenig’s ear, and the male’s kohl-lined eyes widened then darted to Cassandra, examining her more intensely. Her heart hammered so aggressively she was sure the Fae around her could hear it. “You’ve been given a death sentence.”

Gasps scuttled through the hall.

“Yes,” was all she said.

Wormwood scratched a whiskered cheek, his eyes sliding toward the Koenig. “Why?”

Cassandra shrugged. “Perhaps the Emperor is jealous that my wings are so much prettier than his.”

Wormwood’s face broke into wide grin. “They are that, indeed. A beautiful color, too. Rather rare.”

Cassandra drew her chin up, waiting to see how this played out. She wasn’t about to confirm or deny anything .

“Your sentence is rather rare as well. Did you know that?” Wormwood cocked his head. “In the seven centuries of the prison’s existence, very few had been given a death sentence. What’s the point? Life within the wards is akin to death. Even those who receive less than a life sentence typically choose to stay here rather than chasing their freedom in the mists.”

“Who carries out the sentence?” Ronin asked, reaching for Cassandra’s hand.

Wormwood shot the Koenig an amused smile. “Who do you think?”

Faster than Cassandra could blink, the Koenig tore a knife from his baldric and whipped it toward her.

A gloved hand appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and grabbed it a hairsbreadth from Cassandra’s heart.

Outraged shouts burst through the hall, and she fought to catch her breath as a cloaked figure stepped in front of her.

“Executioner’s appeal,” a lovely, melodic female voice said, barely audible above the din.

“Quiet!” Wormwood roared, silencing the crowd. “What did you say?”

The female turned toward the Koenig’s translator, revealing a slice of her profile. Ronin blew out a long, ragged breath.

“Executioner’s appeal,” the female said, louder. “She demands an executioner’s appeal.”

Wormwood frowned. “Well, that’s just absurd. Surely, we need not—” His words died on his lips as he faced the Koenig, whose expression was murderous. Murderous, yet resigned. As if hearing these ancient words from this tiny female, barely taller than Cassandra herself, had thwarted all his plans.

Wormwood regarded the Koenig’s swirling hands with rapt attention, his indignation falling with each flick of his master’s fingers. He loosed a heavy sigh. “Very well.” He swept a judgmental sneer from Cassandra’s head down to her toes. “Little good will it do her. Do you agree to this, prisoner 161803?”

Cassandra had no idea what in the name of Stygios she might be agreeing to. “I?—”

“May I speak with her first, sire?” the female asked. The Koenig crossed his arms and gave her a curt nod.

Swiveling heads followed as Cassandra let herself be led into the shadows behind a column. Ronin remained by the dais, looking as if someone had punched a hole through his ribs and scooped out his insides.

The female removed her hood, and Cassandra finally got a look at her face. It was possibly the most beautiful she’d ever seen, all pale ivory skin and sharp cheekbones, full lips and glowing silver eyes.

“Mireille?”

Mireille didn’t even question how Cassandra knew her name. “There is so much I need to tell you, but we’ll have time for that later. For now, all you need to know is this. I’ve just given you the chance to defy your sentence.”

“How?”

“By defeating the Koenig in armed combat.”

Cassandra nearly doubled over in hysterics.

Mireille gripped her shoulders. “I know that sounds absurd, but it’s how the Koenig himself earned his title. Every prisoner who is given a death sentence has the opportunity to thwart it and win that hammer.” Cassandra glanced toward the black weapon with the glowing polemite heart. “Do you trust me?”

Cassandra scarcely knew how to answer that question. Ronin’s story had not painted Mireille in the best light. But there was something strangely familiar about her.

Plus, she had just saved Cassandra’s life.

The word yes fell from her lips before she could question it.

Relief softened Mireille’s features as she closed her eyes and nodded. When she reopened them, Cassandra could’ve sworn she saw flames blazing within their mercury depths.

“I need you to listen to me very, very carefully,” Mireille said.

“And then do exactly as I say.”