The Shadows

She didn’t seem to care about the repercussions of what had just been said. She didn’t even appear to have heard the words that she was about to become Queen. Instead, she was cradling that long, thin gold box to the chest of her maid’s disguise, her head bowed.

Tears hit the brilliant yellow metal, falling from her eyes.

“You must rule,” s’Ex announced. “You must take the reins of this community and rule it properly. Do you hear me? Snap out of this emotion, and get ready for what is about to happen.”

Her stare shifted up to his. “She was my sister. They killed . . . my sister.”

For a moment, s’Ex recoiled. It was the last thing in the world he expected her to say.

And abruptly, the reality that his grief was shared hit him, and he was strangely touched.

Walking over to the Princess, he cupped her face and lifted it unto his own. After wiping away her cheeks, he bent down and pressed his lips to her forehead.

“Thank you for that,” he whispered.

“What?”

He just shook his head and stepped back. “You.” He pointed to the Chief Astrologer. “You need to take care of her. You believe in your traditions, you hated your lies? Prove it by making sure she survives—in about ten minutes she is going to be your Queen.”

Instantly, the male shuffled around on the floor, prostrating himself and putting his forehead to the bloodied red marble at the female’s feet. “By all that is written in the stars, I shall serve Queen Catra vin SuLaneh etl MuLanen deh FonLerahn until the final beat of my heart and the last breath of my lungs.”

s’Ex sensed the sincerity, and knew that the new Queen was going to be safe. “You have the ceremonial garb in here, do you not?”

The Chief Astrologer answered at the floor. “I do.”

“Get her dressed. In twenty minutes, her mother’s head is going to be at the foot of the throne. Bring Catra there so that the change-of-power ceremony can be completed.”

“What about you?” Catra said. “You’ll be there, too? Please tell me you’ll be there.”

“Worry about yourself, my Queen. You are so much more important than any one individual in this room, this palace, this land.”

With that, he turned and disappeared into the hidden passageway.

EIGHTY-ONE

The cleaning and preservation of a warrior’s weapons were a sacred duty, a way of honoring the connection between the fighter and his tools.

As Rhage sat with his head bent over the second of his two favorite forties, the sweet scent of metallurgical detergent was as familiar as the sound of his own voice.

Across the bedroom, he could feel his Mary’s tension. But she did not say a word.

“I’ll be careful,” he told her, putting the spray can back in his gun cleaning box. “I promise . . . I’ll be really careful.”

He gave the vow even though he knew that personal discretion was only part of surviving a battle. Being aware of your surroundings, watching your back, having your brothers watch out for you as well—all of that helped, sure. There would always be the element of luck, however.

Or destiny.

Fate.

Whatever you wanted to call it.

“I know you will,” she said tightly.

He brought the chamois square up one side of the barrel and down the other. “If I don’t . . . come home, though.”

He stopped there. She was going to know the question he was asking. He’d given her enough to go on.

“I’ll find you,” she choked out. “I’ll find you somehow.”

He nodded—and thought he probably should go over to her, but he couldn’t handle the closeness. As it was, he was on the thin edge of falling apart, and with a flat-out war waiting for him at nightfall, he just couldn’t afford the emotion.

“I simply can’t bear the thought of you getting hurt,” she said as she blew her nose with a tissue and blotted at her eyes. “That bothers me almost more than the dying.”

Well, yeah, because they had been granted that miracle—which would pay dividends when death tried to separate them.

He thought of Trez and wanted to vomit.

God . . . the sight of that male mounting that fucking funeral pyre was a tattoo on his brain.

Abruptly, he dropped his gun and his cloth to his knees. “I’m a horrible person. I’m a really horrible fucking asshole.”

Across the way, Mary sniffled again. “What are you talking about?”

He forced himself to resume cleaning, mostly because if he looked her in the eye, he wasn’t going to say it.

Hell, maybe he shouldn’t say it—although he never could keep things from her.

“I, ah . . . I hated what Trez and Selena went through. The same with Tohr.”

From out of nowhere, he remembered sitting in Manny’s fancy-ass clinical RV and demanding that the doctor save the Chosen.

Like if he just ordered the guy to find a cure it would happen.

Then he had a snapshot of Layla, bundled up outside as the flames had roared into the sky. Pregnant Layla, who was carrying Qhuinn’s twins, for fuck’s sake.