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

by Kyra Quinn

  “Have we met?”

  “Of course, dear. We met a moment ago. I am Lady Iris of Clan Sova. Your companion and I were acquainted during the glory days of Clan Kinzhal.” She cocked her head, her eyes sweeping over him. “Though if I’m correct in my assumptions about your identity, you’re too young to remember those well. Pity.”

  Viktor tensed, his heart racing. “And what do you know about who I am? I haven’t offered my name yet.”

  “No, but gossip travels fast around the palace. Everyone’s talking about the premonition about the heir to Clan Kinzhal turning up at the King’s door.”

  Fire burned up Viktor’s neck to flood his face. “The seer is mistaken. I am heir to nothing but a small plot of land in Mulgrave.”

  Lady Iris dropped her voice. “Starbright has rumors, too. Rumors of what tragic fate befell the wolf clan after Norrix and Grace were murdered. I’ve heard many horror stories about how they ate themselves apart from the inside.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” he growled, his eyes shifting around to ensure no one else had overheard. “What do you want?”

  She offered a dramatic sigh, her hand placed over her chest. “The same thing Jett or anyone else desires from you, sir. The wolves need leadership. An alpha to unite them and bring them home. If you know anything about the whereabouts of the Kinzhal boy—”

  “I don’t,” he snapped. He kept his gaze pinned on the dark suits and silky gowns swirling on the dance floor. A thousand questions raced through his head. Did Jett know the truth? Why did the fate of the Clan rest in his hands and not an older wolf with more experience? He settled on, “And what does Clan Sova care about the wolves? One less clan to contend with is more power in your talons, no?”

  Lady Iris shook her head, her face stone. “Growing up away from your kind has done you no favors. There is no conflict or struggles for power between us. We’ve experienced a long and fruitful peace between the clans ever since Norrix drafted the initial accords.”

  I am not my father. He wanted to shout the words at her. He wanted to grip her shoulders and shake her, to witness the light in her eyes die as she realized he could accomplish none of the noble things his father had.

  Viktor shook his head. “As far as I know, both of the Kinzhal children died at the hands of the same demon who murdered Grace and Norrix. If I hear any different, I will inform Clan Sova.”

  Lady Iris bristled. Her hand twitched as if to slap him, but she fixed him with an icy smile. “Many thanks, kind sir. Enjoy the rest of your visit with the royal family.” She spun on her heel and stomped away, the train of her gown trailing after her.

  * * *

  After the ball, Jett had led Viktor to a worn hostel close to the coast of Wyvenmere. The gentle roll of waves had lulled Viktor to sleep the moment his head touched the narrow cot. He and Jett slept through most of the following day, their bodies surrendering to exhaustion. Fatigue lingered in Viktor’s muscles when he rose in the late afternoon.

  They had spent the rest of the day securing appropriate attire and readying themselves for their return to the palace. They said little on the hike over. Viktor kept his eyes on the cloudy night sky above, the moon half-hidden behind thick clouds. His new trousers clung to the inside of his legs, the jacket taut and uncomfortable.

  Viktor and the outfit had a lot in common.

  When they neared the castle gates, Jett’s pace slowed to a crawl. He eyed the imposing stone palace with undisguised trepidation. His posture stiffened the closer they drew.

  “What do you hope to accomplish from this?” Jett asked, scowling. “The King seemed firm on not helping.”

  “So we plead our case to one of the others. The wife or son may have more sway with him than a pair of renegade wolves.”

  Jett arched a brow. “Are you asking me to seduce the queen?”

  “What? No, you lunatic.”

  “So you want me to keep the king distracted while you do it, then?”

  “There are easier ways to accomplish this that don’t require taking anyone to bed. Though I have to admit I like your style.”

  Jett fixed him with a sly smirk. “It’s a classic approach. Rarely fails.”

  “Not this time.” Viktor sucked in a breath and straightened his posture. “If we earn their respect or trust, we can convince them to hear our story out. Fracturing the royal marriage won’t help our cause, and I don’t think either of us are the High Prince’s type.”

  “So what is our plan? Ask nicely?”

  Viktor’s stomach twisted. Their visit with King Dyius and Queen Moara the night before had left his thoughts rattled, not to mention his strange conversation with the woman from Clan Sova. Something about the entire dinner made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Ever since they’d arrived in Wyvenmere, things had happened too conveniently for his liking. He had no reason to suspect dinner would turn out any better than the ball had.

  “Offer King Dyius the egg as soon as the appetizer course is cleared,” he said, his voice thick. “Do what you can to win his respect as a war hero and seasoned traveler. I’ll work on the others in the meantime.”

  Jett continued to scowl, not convinced Viktor’s plan wouldn’t lead to their destruction. “Fine. Let’s finish this.”

  They marched up to the castle gates, and it surprised Viktor to find Ambrose waiting in front of the open gates with his hands folded in front of him. He frowned as they approached.

  “Late again. Hemani’s predictions always prove accurate, but her sense of time requires work.”

  Viktor opened his mouth to apologize, but Ambrose had already spun on his heel. He strutted towards the towering stone castle and called over his shoulder, “Mother values punctuality almost as much as proper manners. Your tardiness has soured her mood a bit.”

  “Let’s hope we can turn that around,” Jett grumbled next to him, his hands still deep in his pockets. Though Jett had suggested the trip to Wyvenmere to meet with the king, he scowled at the castle as if he’d rather dine anywhere else than with the royal family.

  They positioned the dining hall next to where the passives and Fey had danced the night before. A rectangular mahogany table large enough to seat all Starbright stood in the center of the room. A tall glass cabinet towered along the back wall filled with plates and flatware made from pure gold. King Dyius sat at the head of the table, Moara seated to his right. A female guard stood behind his chair with her hand wrapped around the hilt of a sword strapped to her hip. Ambrose stood in front of the chair to his father’s left and gestured for Viktor and Jett to join them.

  Viktor shifted in his chair and tried to make sense of the scene around him. While Queen Moara sat straight in her chair with her hands folded in her lap, the king all but lounged in his seat. His lip curled a bit any time his eyes fell on Jett or Viktor, but he otherwise remained in a cheerful drunken bliss while his wife eyed them like a hawk. And even with the strong herbs and spices drifting out from the kitchen to perfume the air, Viktor could still sense a whiff of divinity in the room.

  “Is something wrong?” Queen Moara asked, catching his eye. She lifted her silver goblet to her stained red lips, the rim lined with tiny sapphires.

  Viktor shrugged, shooting a glance towards King Dyius in hopes he hadn’t overheard. When the king continued his slurred monologue to Jett, Viktor said, “I must admit, this is not what I expected.”

  Queen Moara’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “The palace, or the king?”

  A bead of sweat dripped down Viktor’s forehead. The devious bitch was toying with him. And, as a prisoner in her dining hall until dinner’s conclusion, Viktor had no choice but to allow it. “Yes. And, pardon my saying so, you. I’m surprised you don’t have more of a reputation in Astryae. You strike me as a formidable ruler.”

  Moara waved his compliment away, but a subtle blush crept into her pale cheeks. “You spin gold with your words, but gold is worthless to my kind. Save your flattery for someone more easily impress
ed.”

  “And what kind is that?” Viktor held his breath as he waited. He didn’t expect her to respond, and if she did, he didn’t expect the truth.

  What he didn’t expect was Ambrose to chime in from beside him. “We expected someone as clever as you gentlemen to have it figured out already.”

  Moara’s smile grew. “When you hide in plain sight, even a wolf can struggle to see what’s right under their nose.”

  Viktor’s muscles tensed. “Gods?”

  “Close.” Moara’s eyes flickered onyx once more, her teeth momentarily replaced with fangs like glass. “How has this entire world forgotten about the demigods?”

  Viktor blinked. Acid flooded his mouth as he struggled to digest the implications of the queen’s statement. Demigods. Since when had demigods existed in Astryae? And how had they come to sit on the throne? Despite decades of living with an angel, he knew as little about demigods as he did about magic.

  He cleared his throat and straightened his spine, willing his voice not to betray his shock. “Do you all descend from the same god?”

  “If only,” Ambrose laughed. “We might have more common ground if we did. There aren’t many of us left, though, so we thought it best to stick together.”

  Viktor reached for his goblet. Demigods. As if demons and angels hadn’t given them enough trouble. Had the other demigods fled Astryae with their immortal parents? What motivated Moara and Dyius to stay?

  Queen Moara twirled a blood red fingernail around the rim of her jeweled goblet, her expression far away. “In the early days, passives worshiped us as much as any other god. But the Temples and their leadership feared our kind as much as they did the Nephilim. They declared us abominations, betrayals of the universe and dangers to their kind.”

  “But you’re gods,” Viktor said. “You could kill them all with the snap of a finger.”

  “Demigods,” Moara corrected. “And all that would have done is confirm their fears. We took our leave instead.”

  Ambrose held his arms out to his sides. “Before the temples forced us into exile, they worshipped me as the god of music and patron saint of the arts. Moara was the goddess of order and justice.”

  “And him?” Viktor gestured towards the king, uncertain he desired the answer.

  Moara dropped her voice to a whisper. “Dyius has taken things the hardest. He is the son of Ludas. He served as the god of love and passion.”

  Viktor shot a glance towards the drunken king at the end of the table, and a sense of understanding washed over him. The smile on King Dyius’s face was a less intricate mask than the ones worn at his ball the evening before. The booze, the parties and palace full of jewels, none of it meant anything to the king without a sense of purpose.

  “Love still exists,” he said, his eyes still glued to King Dyius as he and Jett buried their heads in conversation. “Not as it once did, but it’s there.”

  A sly smile lit Moara’s lips once more. “You sound as if you speak from experience.”

  Lili’s face flashed into his thoughts once more. Viktor shook his head. “Many types of love exist. The love of a mother for her children or the love shared between brothers is no less important than love in the romantic sense of the word.”

  Something flickered in the queen’s eyes as she tilted her head. “You didn’t strike me as the sort of man to enjoy philosophy.”

  Viktor laughed. “I’m not, but I keep interesting company these days. Some of it sticks in your head.”

  A parade of servants pushed through the double doors to the kitchen and into the room. Viktor pushed his back against his chair as a girl no older than fifteen placed a steaming silver tray in front of him. She offered a coy smile and asked, “Is there anything else you require, sir?”

  Viktor shook his head and thanked her before eying the plate before him with suspicion. A thick chunk of bloody meat sat on top of a bed of long grains of rice. They served a small pile of cooked carrots and something green on the side, the entire dish drizzled in thick burgundy syrup. Viktor wiped his damp palms on his slacks and waited for King Dyius to instruct them on whatever rituals or prayers the people of Wyvenmere observed, but everyone else was already cutting into their meal and chattering.

  Viktor’s throat burned. Despite the steam wafting from the vegetables and rice, the metallic, sweet aroma of the meat made his mouth water. The others seated around him attacked their dishes with silver forks and fingers. After another moment of hesitation, Viktor reached for his fork and scooped a bite of the carrots into his mouth.

  He devoured the vegetables in three bites. Conversation buzzed around the table, but Viktor hardly registered the words. His eyes remained locked on the bed of rice tinted pink with blood, the meat on top browned. He glanced over at Jett’s plate only to find it half-empty. Out of excuses, he lifted his knife and cut into the meat, popping a chewy bite into his mouth. Copper and seasonings exploded onto his tongue. Within a few greedy bites, the remainder of his food found its way into his stomach.

  “Mmm,” King Dyius moaned when he shoveled his last bite of bloody meat into his mouth. “This was a young one. The meat is so tender.”

  “It is delicious,” Jett agreed, “but I can’t place the meat. Is this capretto?”

  Moara, Dyius, and Ambrose threw their heads back in laughter. A chill ran down Viktor’s spine. He dropped his fork against the silver tray with a crash as his stomach tightened.

  “Can someone explain the joke?” Jett asked, his voice testy.

  King Dyius wiped a tear from his eye. “Our apologies, friend.”

  “This is kid meat, but it isn’t capretto,” Ambrose said, his voice thick with amusement.

  Jett paled. “No...y-you fed us a human child?”

  “Gardens, no! We aren’t savages. He was Fey.” Moara reached for her goblet. “Since when did your kind not enjoy a nice bloody meal? The wolves of old used to consider human hearts a delicacy.”

  “We don’t eat children,” Viktor growled through clenched teeth. “Mortal or Fey. Where did you find the child?”

  “This is not your hidden little mountain town,” Dyius said, his eyes narrow. “Any meat harvested comes from children sold to the kitchen by their own parents. Our hands have no blood on them.”

  That was debatable, considering their casual attitude towards consuming innocents. No wonder the lives at stake hadn’t moved the king. They devoured small children guilty of only being born unto monsters.

  Viktor rose to his feet. His head spun as he motioned for Jett to join him. “Thank you so much for your time. If you’ll excuse us, we should take our leave. We have a long trek ahead to reach Carramar.”

  King Dyius’s expression darkened. He tapped his fingers against the wooden dining table and scowled. “So quick to abandon your quest at the first sign of trouble. And you wanted me to entrust you to guide my soldiers?”

  Jett cleared his throat. “We have abandoned nothing, Majesty. And we offer our sincerest gratitude for your generous hospitality and the delicious meal. My companion appears a little unwell. It’s best I return him to the room for the evening to rest.”

  Moara rose to her feet and seized control once more. “Of course, love. See to it he gets all the rest he needs to recover. Stop by the palace tomorrow after lunchtime. Hemani will return in the morning, and we can all sit down and speak with her together.”

  Before he protested, Jett nodded. “Tomorrow it is. We look forward to meeting the Fey with the magical prophecies.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Divine Punishment

  Those who yield to temptation and stray from the path of righteousness will find themselves confined to eternal suffering.

  -The Sacred Texts, 3:13

  It didn’t take long for the high experienced on the streets of Carramar to fade. The higher I flew into the puffy clouds, the more my energy faded. I held my arms over my head and flapped my wings as if my life depended on it, Aster’s face still burned into my mind. She’d scol
d me for leaving on my own, but she’d know how to save me.

  Nothing in life so far compared to flying. With the pointed green treetops like tiny splatters of ink beneath me, for the first time ever I felt free. If not for my mysterious illness I might have forgotten to seek Aster. The wind beneath my wings carried me through the sky as if I’d always belonged there.

  I squinted my eyes and peered down, but from my distance Astryae resembled blobs of paint spilled over a dark canvas. Unless the gods granted me a miracle, finding Aster was impossible without flying lower and risking exposure or capture.

  But the stars seemed to beckon me home. I lifted my chin and ascended towards the shimmering pale sliver of moon. Fatigue weighed down my body like weights shackled to my feet, but I only flapped harder in response. I had worked too hard to earn my freedom to allow anything to take it away from me. The spark of magic I’d tasted in Viktor’s kiss paled compared to the euphoria filling my chest.

  The moonlight glittered against the mysterious ocean below. Anyone with a drop of common-sense left would have shivered with dread, but I had seen nothing more dangerous and beautiful than the crash of the waves against the rocks and shore. Most of my life before Aster and Viktor was spent locked away indoors, studying the domestic arts to prepare for the day I had a home and family of my own to care for. Proper ladies, my father had said, didn’t ruin their soft skin beneath the sun’s blistering rays. No, women were as delicate as a rose.

  If only Father had lived long enough to see me now.

  Brisk air bit at my face until I felt certain the tip of my nose and cheeks had blistered. The pale, lumpy blanket of clouds surrounding me thinned. A current pulled me to the left. A small voice in the back of my head urged me to land and gather my strength, but my stubborn streak proved stronger. I couldn’t stop. Not yet. Not until I had some clue what to do next.