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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

C assandra followed Mireille through the sun-dappled city, taking the time to review her surroundings. A luxury which Wormwood had not afforded her last night when she’d arrived.

This morning, there were more Fae—citizens? prisoners? Cassandra didn’t know what to call them—gathered in weary groups on stoops and before storefronts. They lowered their conversations whenever Mireille and Cassandra neared, passing establishments so ordinary Cassandra nearly laughed despite her circumstances: grocers, tailors, salons and barber shops, even a bookstore.

Cassandra wondered where that inventory would have come from. Did the Koenig summon books with his magic warhammer, or were there authors behind the wards that supplied the stories?

Xenia would have been so curious.

That hole beneath Cassandra’s ribs widened as thoughts of Xenia turned to thoughts of Reena turned to thoughts of Tristan.

All she wanted to do was return to Mireille’s apartment, crawl back into bed, and slip into an unconsciousness where she wouldn’t be forced to think about everyone she’d lost.

The last thing she wanted to be doing this morning was sword training.

So she was pleasantly surprised when they arrived at a bathhouse instead. “What are we… I thought we were starting training this morning?”

“We are,” Mireille said flatly.

Cassandra’s spirits dipped again as Mireille led her around the back of the building, then into a humid hallway lined with metal doors.

“What is this place?” Cassandra asked, swatting away steam.

“Used to be a gymnasium. The Koenig and his Brethren trained down here before they built themselves a grander space up at the palace.”

“How do you have access to it?”

“I crafted a potion to soothe the proprietor’s migraines and he was so grateful that he offered to let me use any room whenever I wanted.”

Mireille opened one of the doors and gestured for Cassandra to step through.

It was a simple room with nothing more than a dirt floor and a rack of equipment on the wall.

Mireille plucked up two stone practice swords, then handed one to Cassandra. Her arm dipped.

“The real ones will be heavier,” Mireille warned. “Did you exercise at all in the intake tower?”

Cassandra flared her wings in annoyance. “I was working on other areas. Trying to make sure I was capable of carrying these things so no one would be able to tell I’ve only been a Windrider for—” she canted her head, calculating “—two weeks.”

“You’ll need to work even harder to carry them through a fight.”

“I know,” Cassandra sighed.

“So, what kind of training do you have?”

“My father instructed me in hand-to-hand combat and dagger fighting when I was younger. Before he died.”

Grief darkened Mireille’s features, and Cassandra wondered if something had happened to her own parents.

She was on the verge of probing when Mireille cut her off. “Show me.”

“What, just like, come at you?” Cassandra burbled a nervous laugh. She’d fought Fae before. Mostly Deathstalkers. But that was a lifetime ago. In a different city.

In a different body .

“Yes,” Mireille said, lifting her sword. “Try to get a hit on me. Every time you succeed, I’ll give you a five minute break.” The corner of her mouth curled upward.

The smile died on her lips as Ronin padded into the room, then leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his broad chest. Cassandra hadn’t seen him since last night. He’d left the apartment this morning before she’d woken up.

“Glad you could join us,” Mireille said, her eyes still focused on Cassandra.

“ Are we glad?” Cassandra grumbled. “Not sure I want an audience for this.”

“Ignore him. You’ll have a larger audience during the appeal. The loudest of which will want nothing more than to see you lose. You might as well get used to it.”

Ronin nodded subtly, and a little flicker of pride flitted through Mireille’s mercurial gaze.

“All right,” Cassandra muttered, raising her sword. “Here goes nothing.”

It was, quite literally, nothing.

For nearly an hour, Cassandra attempted to get a hit on Mireille as the she-wolf parried and pivoted and knocked away every single strike, barking commands.

Keep your sword up! Stop signaling the direction of your blows! Plant your feet!

By the time Mireille called it, Cassandra was a sweaty mess. Her muscles quivered as she dropped the practice sword, then folded in half and rested her hands on her thighs.

Mireille hadn’t even broken a sweat.

Cassandra thought she was in good shape. But maybe she’d only been in good human shape. And she cursed her new Fae body. What good were magical healing abilities if they didn’t offer instant pain relief?

“Honestly, you did better than I expected,” Mireille said with a wry smile, clapping a hand on Cassandra’s shoulder.

Cassandra glanced up, breaths sawing through her open mouth. Her wings drooped on the dusty floor, her back muscles just as spent as the rest of her.

“I can tell you were trained for combat with a dagger and not a broadsword,” Mireille said. “It’s a different fighting style. You’re trying to get too close. And you’re overusing your thrusts. You’re fighting against the sword.”

“It’s fighting against me!” Cassandra rose from her crouch and knocked away Mireille’s hand.

Mireille’s face hardened. “You must embrace it. So well that it becomes an extension of your arms, your body. We need to work on your muscle tone, too.” She grabbed a bottle from her sack and handed it to Cassandra, who sucked down the entire thing, water streaming down her chin.

“And that’s where I come in,” Ronin chimed in.

Cassandra groaned.

Mireille toweled off, taking a wide path around Ronin as she walked toward the door. “Good luck.”

“Where are you going?” Cassandra asked, panicky. She didn’t want to be left alone with Ronin and his torture exercises.

“I’ve got catching up to do at the shop.” Mireille jutted her chin toward Ronin as she left the training room. “She’s all yours.”

Ronin pushed off the wall, clapping his hands together. He looked exhausted. Like he hadn’t slept at all. And she could guess what he’d been doing all morning. Searching the city for Selene.

She wanted to ask if he’d found any leads. Wanted to ask why he hadn’t solicited Mireille’s help.

But he cut her off before she could.

“Sword down, Cass,” he said, with a hint of a weary smirk.

“Time to power up those new Fae muscles.”

Later that night, Ronin eased into the apothecary shop, reaching up to muffle the bell. Was he doing it out of some generosity of spirit, not wanting to disturb Mireille and Cassandra from their rest? Or was it because he didn’t want them to know he’d returned so late and ask where he’d been?

Or why he looked so disappointed?

He’d spent the entire day—except the hours he’d been training Cass this afternoon—canvassing the city for clues to Selene’s whereabouts. Nobody he’d spoken with recalled seeing a petite white wolf bi-form with Ronin’s coloring.

There’d been a flash of hope when his interrogations had led to a Deathstalker male who’d arrived around the same time as Selene’s arrest. But whatever the male had seen during his journey through the mists had traumatized him. He could barely remember his own name, let alone the other prisoners he’d been sentenced with.

It was okay, Ronin assured himself. It was fine . This was a city of thousands. His search would not end today.

He could have asked Mireille, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. Some stupid impulse to protect her. Though based on her chilly reception, he didn’t know why he assumed she’d even care.

He tiptoed through the darkened shop and up the stairs, scenting dried mint, rosemary, lavender and other musty, earthy smells he didn’t recognize.

He creaked open the apartment door, then stopped short.

Mireille sat at the kitchen table drinking tea, a chess board mid-game spread before her.

She tensed when he walked in, but kept her gaze glued to the pieces.

This was fine , too. She’d been absent from his life for far, far longer than she’d been present. Avoiding her, avoiding thoughts of her, had become second nature.

But catching her now, the long copper waves cascading down her black silk robe, the delicate fingers clutched around her mug, the shrewd eyes studying the board of a game he’d taught her to play…

For a moment, he forgot how to breathe. His control slipped, and the sense memories bombarded him.

Snow falling in giant, fluffy flakes against a cold, black night.

The smoky warmth of a fire.

Throaty laughter and ivory skin and quicksilver smiles.

And a feeling in his chest like he’d finally come home.

He stood in the doorway, struck dumb by the ghosts of their shared past, and scratched at his left pectoral.

“Close the door,” Mireille said, not looking up from her game. “You’re letting the heat out.”

Ronin did as she’d asked, then turned toward his room.

“Did you find anything?” she asked quietly.

“How did you?—”

“Cassandra told me.” She took a sip from her mug.

“No. Nothing useful.”

“I’m sorry.”

And either she was the world’s greatest actress—a remnant of her days as a spy for Imperial Affairs in the Northern Territories—or the sympathy in her tone was genuine.

“What are you drinking?” he asked, ambling over to the table.

“Vodka.”

“Out of a chipped ceramic mug? Classy.”

“Yes, etiquette is our chief concern here in Tartarus.” She caught his gaze and the teasing smirk on her face raked nails across his heart. “Do you want some?”

He heard the subcontext.

Do you want to talk about it?

“I…”

He shouldn’t. He couldn’t . Cold indifference. That’s what he’d promised himself.

It was the only way to survive her again.

His wolf whined and tore at his insides, making his opinion on Mireille’s offer really fucking clear.

Ronin shook his head and turned down the hall. Behind him, Mireille let out a ragged sigh.

Before he entered his bedroom, he said over his shoulder. “You still play.”

It wasn’t a question, but Creator, it felt like one.

“I play every night after I’m done in the shop,” she said.

“When do you dance?”

“I don’t. Not anymore.”

The admission sliced deeper than her teasing. She’d been so skilled—the most talented dancer in Kheimos. In all of Ethyrios, really. Not to mention, she’d loved it. So much that she hadn’t given it up even when her assignments with the IA had monopolized her time. Why would she give it up now, when time was her most abundant resource?

He wanted to ask, but was too tired, too anxious.

Too cowardly.

It was probably his fault. All of this was. Mireille’s incarceration, Selene’s arrest, Cassandra’s training failures, and?—

“Check the taverns,” Mireille said, cutting through his self-loathing. “Most prisoners have visited at least a time or two. Perhaps one of the bartenders or servers has seen her.”

“And if they haven’t?” Ronin’s voice nearly broke.

Mireille turned her attention back to the game, her fingers lingering atop the white queen.

“Then you may have come to Tartarus for nothing.”