Son of Saints: A Dark YA Fantasy Adventure: Renegade Guardians: Book Two

by Kyra Quinn

  He shot a glance towards the long mahogany bar tucked in the back corner of the room a few feet from the tables covered in flesh and food. A row of wooden stools were positioned in a row along the countertop, all but two unoccupied. The seat closest to the wall held a man with a portly waist and round, flushed cheeks. He had combed thin, oily strands of chestnut hair over a lumpy bald head. His round belly pressed against the bar as he leaned in to carry on a lively conversation with the helpless barkeep.

  The other patron, seated in the center of the bar, appeared more out of place than Viktor felt. Unlike the rest of the patrons, the woman hadn’t bothered with a mask or gown. She was not a petite and delicate flower like most of the women. Even seated, her long legs and broad shoulders told Viktor she rivaled him in size and stature. A simple midnight blue cloak covered her body, the hood pulled up over her head. Heavy steel boots covered her feet and shins. Rawhide bracers were laced over her arms. A pair of sabers sheathed in leather scabbard crossed over her back.

  He moved closer without thinking, his feet carrying him towards the seated soldier. He tried to steal a glance at her face, but the woman didn’t lift her gaze. She drummed her fingers against the smooth countertop.

  He slid onto the stool two seats over from the woman. The tension in his own body escalated as if to match hers. The barkeep shot him an apologetic smile and signaled he’d be over after he wrapped up his conversation with the garrulous man. Only then did the woman glance his direction.

  “Maidens with drink trays are all over the palace,” she said, gesturing towards the painted women as though he had missed them. “No need to sit around the bar.”

  Viktor watched as a vampire woman caressed a paint-splattered servant with a predatory smirk. His skin crawled. “I don’t mind waiting. Less risk of anyone requesting a dance.”

  The woman’s tapping ceased. “Who attends a ball with no desire to dance?”

  “Someone who trips over his own feet as often as his tongue. What about you? Not in a festive mood?”

  Her voice chilled. “Not everyone is afforded the luxury of relaxation. So many strangers wandering in and out of the castle pose an increased risk to security.”

  Viktor winced as realization struck. “Are you one of the King’s soldiers?”

  She twisted the stem of her glass in her hand, her eyes locked on the last few sips of rich plum liquid swirling around the bottom of the glass. “I take it you’re not from Wyvenmere.”

  Viktor gave an appreciative nod as the barkeep set a full glass of ambrosia down in front of him. He reached for the drink and swallowed down a few greedy gulps. “Is it obvious?”

  The warrior woman shrugged, her face still hidden beneath the hood of her velvety cloak. “It’s part of my job to notice things.”

  They fell silent. Viktor turned away, aware of the intrusion his chatter must have posed to the soldier’s work. Though her attire wasn’t what anyone might describe as inconspicuous, he doubted she carried her weapons to a ball for amusement. The royals employed her to provide a safe environment for the reckless dalliances of their guests. He’d earn no favor with King Dyius by distracting his guards.

  He took the time instead to study the patrons and their unique scents. He had expected only passive nobles in attendance, but the whiff of magiya in the air suggested otherwise. He leaned against the bar and lifted his drink to his mouth, careful to mirror the casual ease of the other patrons while he scanned the crowd. The translucent wings of a faerie caught his attention first, followed by a whiff of salt signaling a siren or two on the dancefloor.

  But it was the final scent, the one that lingered behind after all others had faded, that nearly knocked Viktor from his stool. His eyes widened as he scanned the ballroom for feathery black wings, but no rogue angels stood out. He knew that smell as well as he knew the saltwater and smog of Mulgrave or his own musk. Holy blood. Blood of the light.

  The hair on the back of his neck prickled. He stole another glance at the woman seated next to him, but she remained fixated on her beverage. No wings protruded from her back. The weapons strapped to her back appeared impressive, but they held no resemblance to the fiery sword he associated with angels. Despite the lack of obvious visual tells, Viktor was almost certain the lingering trace of divinity came from the soldier.

  Before he pondered it further or question the woman, heavy footsteps thudded against the marble floor behind him. Two guards dressed head to toe in sleek steel armor stood behind him. The taller of the two guards stepped closer and spoke, his voice deep and authoritative.

  “The King will see you now, traveler.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  By the King's Blade

  The endeavors of the brave are guided by Rhayer. The wise, however, pray to Namis for guidance.

  -The Sacred Texts, 103:54

  Viktor and Jett exchanged skeptical glances. They trailed behind a pair of armed guards through the twisted stone corridors of the palace. As much as he’d wanted to escape the ballroom full of debauchery, he hadn’t expected to find himself in front of King Dyius so early into the evening. Ambrose had indicated their audience with the King would have to wait until after the festivities ended. But everything was a game to the royals. The element of surprise increased the fun.

  The hallways the guards marched them through weren’t the ones they’d toured with Ambrose. Each step took them deeper into the labyrinth, Viktor’s lungs constricting more until claustrophobia tightened his throat. The flicker of the candles cast ominous shadows against the stone walls. Viktor reached for the hilt of his sword, only to allow his hand to drop by his side.

  Relax, he willed himself. Not everything is a demonic threat. Not that he didn’t have plenty of reason to worry about such an attack. Had the chaos from the Shadowrealm reached Wyvenmere yet? How had the King handled the increase in demonic activity? Even the most powerful man in Astryae had to have a price. The unanswered question left him uneasy.

  They followed, and Viktor thanked Anja—or whoever remained to listen—for Jett’s presence in his life. Remiel’s absence had left a hollow pit in his chest and a nagging insecurity in the back of his mind at every turn. If he had to face the threats to come alone, he didn’t know if he could have withstood the pressure. He didn’t always agree with Jett’s brash nature or kill-first-question-later approach to things. But the fall of his footsteps next to Viktor’s eased the tension in his body.

  He pushed his sleeves up to his elbows and willed himself to focus on winning the King’s favor. Jett’s magical egg might earn them an audience with King Dyius, but they’d need a stronger pitch to convince him to aid them. What could two shifters offer a king who had access to anything his heart desired with the snap of a finger? Would the lives of the innocents mean anything to a man who lived so elevated and distant from the rest of Astryae?

  As the guards pushed open a set of heavy gold doors, Viktor realized there was only one way to find out. They trailed behind the soldiers into a library so grand Viktor couldn’t help but wish Aster had come with him. Festive string music filtered out into the hallway the moment the doors swung open. Oak bookshelves covered every wall, not a single space bare. A brick fireplace crackled towards the back of the circular room. Gold and marble pillars supported a massive domed glass ceiling, the stars overhead like tiny splatters of paint against a black canvas. A round navy rug covered the center of the glossy maple floor. On the rug’s center stood what could only be the King of Astryae, Ambrose and the Queen flanking his sides.

  They filled the outer edges of the library with people, none of whom spared so much as a glance towards the books behind them. Scantily clad women draped in sequined dresses and jewels worth more than his entire estate fawned over men in tailored suits and tall hats. Birdlike masks disfigured their faces, their stare eerie as they watched Viktor and Jett enter the room. The musicians froze, and a tense silence overtook the private party.

  At first glance, King Dyius appeared every bit as
mighty and impressive as Viktor had expected. He stood with his spine erect, his head held high as his pale blue eyes swept over their faces. A long midnight blue robe hung over his broad frame, his strappy sandals weaved with strands of silver. Only when they neared did Viktor notice the crooked way the heavy silver crown sat atop his head.

  “Welcome!” the king boomed, then hiccupped. He cleared his throat. “Welcome, travelers! It is a pleasure to welcome two of this era’s most important shifters to our humble abode.”

  Viktor snorted. Ambrosia lingered on the King’s breath, his eyes glassy. If they hoped to have a conversation of any significance with the man, it’d have to wait until after he sobered.

  Jett seemed to share his thoughts. He took a step back and shook his head, his eyes flickering between Viktor and the trio of royals. “This should wait until morning.”

  “Nonsense,” the woman to his right spoke. Her voice was softer than Viktor had imagined, but she retained a tone of finality and dominance that caused him to freeze. A gentle smile parted her lips, but it was the flash of copper in her eyes when she glanced towards the crowd that caught Viktor’s attention. “Now is as good a time as any. Is there something you’d like to speak to us about?”

  Viktor shifted his weight, unsure how to proceed. He had no words to explain it, nothing concrete to reinforce his suspicions, but the hairs on his arms rose to attention. Something wasn’t right. Why did the pale, almost translucent hue of their eyes strike him as so familiar? And that scent—

  “You three are not passives.”

  He hadn’t meant to say the words aloud, but they had fallen from his lips before he’d caught himself. All eyes turned to Viktor. His heart raced as he straightened his composure and fought to mask his panic.

  The queen’s painted lips curled into a smirk. “No, we are not. But that isn’t what you came here to talk about, is it, love?”

  King Dyius hiccupped once more, holding up a hand. “Queen Moara is right, gentlemen. Why don’t we get down to business so we can all return to the party, eh?”

  Queen Moara’s face flashed with something between annoyance and concern, her lips pursed into a thin line. Though an elegant lace mask decorated in sapphires covered most of her face, any man a thousand miles away could tell the queen’s beauty rivaled any sunset. She pushed a thick platinum curl behind her ears and sighed in surrender to her husband.

  Ambrose, however, reached for his father’s arm and asked, “Are you sure this is the best time?”

  King Dyius jerked away. “Now, later, does it matter when we break the news?”

  “These men have traveled a long way—”

  “Wolves,” he interrupted with a sneer. “Not men. Wolves. Distance is irrelevant to their kind.”

  “We traveled on foot like any other man,” Jett retorted.

  “I have the blisters to prove it,” Viktor muttered under his breath. His blood boiled as he glared at King Dyius and Queen Moara. Despite the tension crackling in the air like lightening between them, neither of their faces betrayed a single wrinkle or crease of concern. Only Ambrose shifted his weight, his movements uneasy.

  The king brushed away their protests with a wave of his hand. “The answer is no, gentlemen. Let’s rejoin the party.”

  “Ambrose has a point, dearest,” Queen Moara said, her tone more intrigued than defiant. “Where is it you boys came from?”

  “Boys?” Jett growled.

  The queen snickered. “I realize a century feels like a long time to your kind, but it’s hardly a blink of the eyes for mine.”

  “What are you?” Viktor asked again, indifferent to how rude his inquiring might come across. “Angels?”

  Queen Moara cocked her head, a sly smile stretching her lips. “No wings here, muffin. Although you’re closer than I would have expected. I take it you’ve met an angel?”

  “One or two. I can smell the divinity in your veins from here. This whole palace reeks of it.”

  “Easy, wolfie,” Ambrose warned. “Most men who insult a king’s castle while at court never leave.”

  Viktor held up his hands in front of his chest. “My apologies, Majesty. I intended no insult.”

  Queen Moara gave a soft tsk. She clasped her hands together in front of her, the candlelight flickering off the gems of the rings decorating her bony fingers. “While it may not be the answer you had hoped for, my husband has provided you with our official position on the matter. Whatever tension you’ve sensed between the Gardens and the Shadowrealm has not reached Wyvenmere, and we have no reason to believe it will. You are welcome to stay and enjoy the festivities, but King Dyius and I will provide no military support for your mission. I’m sorry, gentlemen.”

  Viktor’s chest tightened as his lungs burned and struggled for air. They hadn’t given them a chance to plead their case or offer Jett’s stupid trinket. The King had dashed all their hopes with a wave of his meaty hand. His face warmed as his blood boiled. It couldn’t end. Not after everything they’d suffered through to reach this moment.

  He expected Jett to protest, but the older wolf hung his head towards his chest and murmured, “As you wish, Your Majesty. I can only hope you’ll reconsider as the threat draws closer.”

  “What about the veil?” Viktor snapped, no longer able to hold himself back. All eyes turned to him, the queen’s eyebrow raised.

  “I beg your pardon?” Moara tilted her head.

  “The veil into the Shadowrealm,” he said. “If you share some special connection with the divine, I assume you know how to reach it.”

  Queen Moara and Ambrose exchanged a glance Viktor couldn’t decipher. Jett tensed next to him. His mouth curled into a frown.

  “Why?” Queen Moara asked, a hand locking on her hip. “If you have come to us to plead for help in stopping the demons, what do you seek from the realm of chaos?”

  Viktor lifted his head to meet her gaze. “A friend. The Dark Mother captured him a few weeks ago.”

  “He’s as good as dead already.”

  “No!” Viktor roared, a touch louder than he’d intended. “Forgive me, Queen Moara, but he’s not dead. Not yet. And we need his help if we’re to survive the onslaught to come.”

  It was Ambrose’s turn to smile. “Oh? How talented can he be if Daeva has already captured him?”

  Viktor clenched his jaw and willed himself not to knock the smug smile from the pampered royal boy’s face. “She captured him doing what I’d expect of any of you—fighting for our people.”

  The King shook his head, his eyes clear. “Look around you, wolf. There is no fight here. Not now. Never. We are the gods chosen people. Whatever fate befalls the mortals of Astryae won’t reach inside our borders.”

  “How can you be so certain?” Viktor asked, taking a step forward. “If your seer had the ability to predict our arrival and request, how can she miss the conflict brewing in the air? There is no one left to protect Astryae but its inhabitants. The gods are gone.”

  King Dyius’s eyes flashed onyx before returning to their pale, milky blue. His teeth curled into a cold, sobered smile. “Not all the gods, boy. It is admirable how much you long to play the part of a hero, but it won’t atone for the sins of your past.”

  Moara stepped forward and placed her hand on the king’s forearm. “I believe this conversation has ended, gentlemen. But please, enjoy the festivities while you’re here.”

  The doors behind them reopened, and a trio of guards marched back into the room. Viktor’s eyes darted between Jett and Dyius, his blood cold. He opened his mouth to protest, but the tiny shake of Jett’s head deflated his hope like a balloon in his chest. He dropped his head to his chest and followed the guards from the room and back towards the party. They reached the staircase, and the sound of his name made Viktor freeze.

  Ambrose strolled towards them with his hands in the pockets of his breeches. A lazy smile curled his lips. “If you two don’t mind sticking around for a while, Mother has invited you to join us for dinner to
morrow evening.”

  Viktor raised a brow. “Why? It’s clear she doesn’t believe us.”

  Ambrose shrugged. “I believe she intends to invite the court seer. Perhaps you’ll find the answers you seek over a plate of Astryae’s finest roast.”

  He didn’t give Viktor a chance to respond. He called out another patron’s name and strolled away with his arms open, leaving Viktor frozen in place as his thoughts spun. It was a long shot, especially with how quickly they had dismissed his request. But long shots were the only shots they had left.

  * * *

  Viktor and Jett lurked around the ball for another few hours. Jett spent most of the evening propped against one of the marble pillars guzzling down glasses of ambrosia while he spun wild tales of his travels to charm the young noblewomen. Their visit with the king had left a bitter taste in Viktor’s mouth, and he found he had no interest in free drinks or pleasant conversation with the sheltered, simple minded party-goers. A small part of him hoped Wyvenmere perished first in the war.

  Viktor lingered against the back wall next to a framed oil painting of the goddess Esyn breathing life into a mermaid. Dancers twirled around the room in swirls of color, their eyes sparkling more than the jewels around their wrists and necks. Most of the gowns alone had to cost more than he and Remiel spent in a year’s time.

  The lively orchestra of music he had enjoyed when he first arrived now grated on his nerves. He nursed a silver goblet of room-temperature ale, unable to bring himself to drink more than an occasional sip. Failure washed over him in waves. Why had he let Jett talk him into wasting so much time on a fruitless mission? Since when did anyone rely on the King for help in dire times? Remiel still needed him, and his time at the castle had placed him no closer to finding the veil.

  “Pardon my asking, but are you all right, sir?” a slurred voice heavy with accent appeared behind him.

  Viktor spun on his heels to find a petite woman with hair and eyes akin to fire watching him with a concerned frown. The tall glass and silver goblet struck Viktor as out of place in her doll-like hands. Soft satin the color of the ocean at night hung from her shoulders down to the floor, her flesh the color of snow. No gloves covered her small hands. Instead of a mask, a sheer black veil covered her face from her eyes down. The veil did little to hide her pointed features.