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

by Kyra Quinn

  “There they are!” King Dyius beamed as they approached. The half-drank bottle of ambrosia sloshed in his hand as he threw his arms open. “I’d started to wonder if the little wolf was still unwell.”

  Heat crept up Viktor’s neck. The little one? Jett had a few inches on him at most, and he towered over the king. Still, he forced a smile. “Your gardens are exquisite, Majesty. It’s incredible how they bloom so well in the dead of winter.”

  “Yes, Queen Moara’s touch is magical,” King Dyius said with a drunkenly affectionate slur to his voice. “Have you met Zorya and Hemani, then?”

  The warrior woman, who Viktor guessed to be Zorya, took her place behind the king. She stood with the tall, proud posture of a woman who belonged at the king’s side or on the front lines of battle. Viktor’s eyes narrowed. Why had the king invited the head of his guard? What sort of trap had they walked into?

  “Briefly.” Jett took a few steps closer and dropped into a low bow. “We saved the introductions for your entertainment.”

  “Smart man.” Ambrose chuckled under his breath.

  Queen Moara shot him an icy glare. “Zorya is the head of the King’s Guard and one of the deadliest soldiers in Astryean history. Hemani served as the court seer for a time.”

  “Until the king banished me, anyway,” she snorted.

  The king’s eyes narrowed. “Do not mistake my kindness for forgiveness, Hemani. We asked you here to help answer some questions for our guests.”

  Hemani’s eyes turned to Viktor and Jett. “And what do the shifters wish to know?”

  A thousand questions raced through Viktor’s mind. How long ago had she predicted their arrival? Why had the king dismissed her soon after?

  “If your powers allowed you to predict our arrival and request, how can you not see the destruction headed for Astryae?” Jett demanded, alleviating Viktor of the pressure of figuring out where to begin.

  Hemani laughed, the sound bitter. “Because there is none, wolf. I have seen the end of days, and it doesn’t happen here. Certain seals must be unlocked. Certain milestones are written in the stars. Only when every seal is broken will chaos reign over Astryae.”

  “And what does the end of days entail?” King Dyius asked with a smirk, sounding more amused than concerned or curious. “What are these seals you speak of?”

  Hemani hesitated. Her onyx eyes darted between Jett and the king as she shifted her weight. “Here?”

  “Yes, here!” the king exploded. “On with it.”

  Her olive face paled. She sucked in a deep breath and allowed her eyes to drift closed. Her body trembled as she exhaled. The creases and wrinkles of her face smoothed, and for a moment she appeared no older than Aster or Lili. When she spoke, her voice rose in pitch enough to make Viktor wince. “When the end times come, the son of saints and daughter of darkness will unite under the crimson moon to unlock the final seal. Only after the dead return to life and the child of shadows tastes divinity. The rivers will run red with the blood of the innocent. When holy fires rain from the sky, heroes will welcome darkness.”

  Hemani’s body trembled. She bent over and crumpled to her knees. Viktor and Jett raced over to help her, but King Dyius scowled.

  “The ramblings of a madwoman. Why anyone falls for her nonsense, I’ll never understand.”

  “Stop it.” Queen Moara narrowed her eyes. “Hemani isn’t some trained tart here for your amusement, Dyius. Her powers don’t respond to your command.”

  “Oh, only yours?”

  “Enough.” The queen turned to Jett and folded her hands in front of her. “This is an unorthodox request, but there is a way to focus and channel Hemani’s powers.”

  Hemani lifted her head. “No. Not him.”

  Queen Moara’s pale eyes narrowed. “You will obey the commands of your queen, Hemani, old friends or not. Show our guests what you can do.”

  Hemani’s shoulders dropped. “My deepest apologies. If it’s any condolence, this will hurt me as much as it does you.”

  Jett blinked. “What—”

  Before he could finish his sentence, Hemani yanked Jett down by the collar of his shirt. Her hands flew up to grip either side of his face. She pressed her forehead against his as her eyes rolled back in her head. Her body jounced and convulsed. A sound of pain slipped through Jett’s clenched teeth. The pair sank to the ground, their eyes closed. Hemani rocked back and forth and dug her talons into Jett’s face. Blood dripped from the corners of his eyes down his cheeks.

  “What is she doing to him?” Viktor’s heart pounded against his ribs as his eyes flickered between the royals and Jett. No one else appeared concerned, but the main dish from the night before had shown Viktor how much the King valued life.

  The queen shook her head. “Wait and see.”

  Viktor hesitated, torn between ripping the woman’s hands from Jett’s skull and trusting the royal family. Zorya’s hands flew to her sword, prepared to strike him down if he made the wrong decision. Ambrose gave him a nod as if to suggest things were fine, but the whimpers and moans coming from Jett sounded anything but.

  Hemani released her grip on Jett a few moments later. Both pulled away and gasped for air. Jett wrapped his hands around his throat and glared at Hemani with wide, accusing eyes. The old woman, however, betrayed no sign of remorse.

  “There is little pain you haven’t already suffered,” she said, her voice low. “It pains me to warn you more will soon find you. Take care who you betray and deceive, wolfie. You’re a great warrior, but your skills in battle aren’t enough to inspire the loyalty you crave.”

  Jett’s face turned to stone. “I will keep your vague but helpful advice in mind.”

  The queen’s gaze fell on Viktor. “Your turn.”

  Hemani, however, shook her head. “This man’s future hides in the shadows of his past. I can’t see his aura, let alone what waits for him.”

  “Try anyway,” King Dyius demanded.

  But Hemani shook her head. “With all due respect, my King, it would damage both our minds. It is best if we leave this one alone for now.”

  Moara pursed her lips. “Fascinating. In the five decades you have served at my side, you have never encountered a man you couldn’t read.”

  Hemani’s frown deepened. “And I offer my sincerest apologies, My Queen. The only thing I can sense with this man is the mark of Archon.”

  “The Archangel of death?” A tense silence choked the room. Queen Moara studied Viktor, her stare cold and analytical. She turned to her husband and asked, “Oh well. Shall we move onto the main event?”

  King Dyius shook his head, his crown drooping. “What’s the rush, Moara? Let our guests enjoy a glass of ambrosia or gin and some conversation.”

  Viktor’s eyes narrowed. The royals hadn’t invited them for a simple social visit. But what did they want from a pair of packless wolves? They collected enough in tithes from the people of Astryae each year to afford anything their immortal hearts desired.

  Indifferent to his internal plight, King Dyius poured Viktor and Jett each a glass of shimmering ambrosia. The deep mahogany shade of the liquor suggested an older brew, one rich with berries and booze. He passed them each a glass and beamed, his own cheeks flushed.

  “Try not to mind Hemani’s elaborate parlor tricks. How my wife accepts them as truth I will never understand.”

  “I can still hear you, Dyius.” Moara’s eyes narrowed. “Shall I fill these boys in, or would you like to do the honors?”

  Dyius’s expression sobered. “Very well, Moara, I can see you won’t be satisfied until you have your way. Inform them of our decision.”

  “Dearest Ambrose has petitioned hard enough on your behalf for us to revisit this conversation,” Moara said with no effort to hide the drip of contempt in her tone. “The King and I have therefore agreed to settle in accordance with Astryae’s traditions.”

  “Meaning?” Viktor asked.

  Next to him, Jett paled. “A dukaz.”

 
Viktor had never heard the term before, but the grave tone in Jett’s voice sent a shiver down his back. He could read the tension in the air well enough to tell that Ambrose’s insistence did them no favors.

  The demigod queen smiled. “Clever wolf. Yes, a dukaz. You and your companion have until the next full moon to sway a majority of us to your side by whatever means necessary. If you are successful, we will order the full force of our military to follow your commands. If not…”

  “We die.” Jett clenched his jaw. “That only gives us three days to work with. Extreme, no?”

  Queen Moara waved a hand and laughed. “No more extreme than what you ask of us, Mr. Tatlok. Do we have an accord?”

  Jett glanced down at the queen’s outstretched gloved hand. Her ruby lips curled into a dark smile. Something in the back of Viktor’s mind screamed at him to stop them, to ask what a dukaz was or how it made sense to risk their lives on a gamble to earn access to the King’s Guard.

  But Jett’s hand closed around the queen’s bony fingers. “As you wish. The game is on, Majesty.”

  King Dyius clapped his hands and beamed. “Oh, I love games! Can we play Tommyrot next?”

  Despite the king’s glee, Viktor’s stomach twisted. Unless he’d misheard the queen—and wolves possessed impeccable hearing—the price of failure was death.

  * * *

  Viktor waited until he and Jett returned to their rented hostel room to unleash the full force of his rage. He slammed the taller wolf against the thin wall and bared his fangs against his throat. Red clouded his vision, his skin on fire.

  “What the Fey have you gotten us into?”

  Jett squirmed. “Our only shot at winning the royals over. Ambrose went against both his parents to fight for us to have this chance. We cannot afford to fail.”

  “And what is this ancient ceremony?” Viktor asked, tightening his grip on Jett’s shoulders. “Do we have to dance naked in the moonlight?”

  “If only. We, my friend, must convince two of the demigods our plan is the best use of their troops and resources. But these are both damaged demigods and corrupt rulers. Logic or compassion won’t sway them. If we fail, Queen Moara will behead us as a warning to others who dare question their decisions.”

  “Oh, is that all? At least it’s nothing complicated like trying to get three psychotic demigods on the same page. Only two of them, which everyone knows is simple enough.”

  “Vik—”

  He gave Jett one last shove against the wall. He leaned in inches from his face and shoved a finger into his chest. “Why did you agree without speaking to me? You’ve put both of our lives in their hands now.”

  “I know, and I apologize. Hemani’s touch did something strange to my head. I have spent every moment since trapped in my own memories. It’s torture.”

  The hostel room didn’t afford enough space to avoid each other. Tension made their shared climate more claustrophobic. He might never forget what Jett did, but he had little choice but to forgive.

  “What’s done is done now.” Viktor pinched the bridge of his nose. “The only thing left to do is figure out how to convince two of them to help us.”

  “I believe we can count on Ambrose’s help. The High Prince and I have established a good rapport. I don’t believe he approves of his parents’ methods any more than we do.”

  “But we need one of them to join our side.” Viktor rubbed his jaw. “What all do we know about them?”

  Jett scowled. “Never paid much attention to religion. I may know the names of the gods, but I had no idea any of them procreated.”

  Viktor dropped onto his bed and rubbed the back of his neck. If only he could reach out to Aster. If anyone studied obscure subjects like demigods and outdated traditions, it was her. But a pigeon would take as long to reach Carramar as they had to win over the royals.

  “Dyius said he ruled as the god of love. Delightfully drunken disposition aside, he will prove the hardest to win over.”

  “Don’t be so sure.” Jett shook his head. “Queen Moara’s eyes spark with hate each time they meet mine. I have a feeling she agreed to this hoping to put me to death.”

  “What did you do?”

  Jett scoffed. “Why are you so quick to assume I did anything? Women are temperamental creatures ruled by their emotions. One wrong glance at someone like Moara could end a man’s life.”

  Viktor supposed he had a point, but it wasn’t one he cared to consider much. He’d shared space with Jett long enough to know first-hand how tactless he could come across. Good intentions aside, his manners and social etiquette needed refinement, but no man could excel in every way.

  “What was Moara the goddess of?” he asked instead. “And the High Prince?”

  “Ambrose served as the god of the arts and music. The egg will do wonders to curry his favor. Can’t remember what the old harpy did, though. Goddess of misery and dead infants?”

  Viktor snorted. “Order and justice. Those virtues are easier to appeal to than love.”

  “Unless the judge and jury is a certain queen bent on our execution.” Jett rubbed his chin. “I will travel back to the palace and try to pry information from the seer or the High Prince. Why don’t you stop in for a drink at the local tavern while I’m away? Perhaps the locals have an idea.”

  Viktor groaned. “Why am I always the one sent into the pubs and taverns? I bet my blood would get a vampire drunk at this point.”

  “Would you rather consume more Fey children at dinner tonight?”

  Viktor’s stomach lurched. “Point well made. I’ll return when I am equal parts enlightened and sloshed.”

  * * *

  Viktor spent the remainder of the evening drifting between taverns and attempting to strike up a conversation with the locals. With as much practice as he’d had in the last few months, he expected the experience to come as naturally to him as drinking did.

  The people of Wyvenmere, however, had little in common with those in Mulgrave or Carramar. Most wrinkled their noses when approached by a stranger, the effect doubled when they studied his dull attire and foreign accent. A handful provided him with more than their titles and names, but they sewed their lips together at first mention of the king.

  “Son of a harlot,” Viktor grumbled before draining the last half of his third, or fourth, or maybe sixth glass of ambrosia. He slammed the empty cup on the table and ran a hand through his tangled hair. “This is bloody pointless.”

  Had someone else told him of a place where the public harbored no grievances or resentment towards the people in power, he would have assumed them to be naïve or lying. Remiel had taught him as a boy to pay attention to the way men loved to blame their problems on figures of authority no matter how divine or just their reign. He found his way into enough conflict without a target on his back.

  “Another one?”

  Viktor glanced up from the bar to find a lanky younger man with an unsettlingly charming smile watching him. A neat black waistcoat strangled his scrawny waist, his slacks a touch too short. Two small gold hoops dangled from his right eyebrow. He held up a bottle of ambrosia and gave it a small shake, the contents sloshing until Viktor’s stomach joined in.

  “Ask me again in ten minutes,” Viktor said.

  “As you wish.”

  Viktor waited for the bartender to scurry off and tend to other patrons, but he lingered and drug his foot in a small circle on the ground until Viktor asked, “Was there something else?”

  The barkeep brightened. “Pardon my intrusion, but I couldn’t help but overhear you ask Lady Gemma about the royal family.”

  Viktor arched a brow. “So what if I did? Is asking about them a crime here?”

  “On the contrary. But the queen has eyes everywhere. Most are careful what they say lest they invoke her wrath.”

  An incredulous laugh escaped his lips. “Does that not strike anyone here as odd? Back in Mulgrave, we trash the Crown and our local rulers at least once a day.”

  The
stranger shook his head. “I don’t know enough about the royals to help you, but a young lady here might. Lady Iris is an outsider. She doesn’t fear the queen the way the locals do.”

  The familiar name sent a chill down Viktor’s spine. So the ambassador for Clan Sova still lurked in Wyvenmere. “I’ll take that drink now. And one for her. Any idea what she’s still doing here?”

  He shrugged. “She isn’t the chattiest patron. Sits alone in the back, but I’ve spotted her with a few of the nobles. Shapeshifters fancy themselves better than the average Fey or mortal.”

  Viktor tensed. “You’ve met the wrong ones. Lady Iris isn’t the most charming representation for the people of Starbright.”

  “She’s not the first shifter I’ve met with a piss-poor attitude,” the barkeep said with a snort. He turned to leave. “Don’t expect the ambrosia to loosen her tongue too much, son. It’d take a magic potion to melt the ice on her.”

  The barkeep shuffled away to pour the drinks, and Viktor wondered what Lady Iris did to earn such a reputation in Wyvenmere. Despite the brevity of their encounter, he had found her bold but not ill-mannered.

  The bartender returned with two drinks, and Viktor rose from the bar and set off to find Lady Iris. Pipe smoke and stale sweat choked the air and clogged his senses. His eyes watered as he weaved across the dull wood floors through the growing crowd of patrons.

  He located Lady Iris alone at a small table in the back of the tavern near the doors to the kitchen. An empty glass sat on the table in front of her, the bottle next to it close to gone. Her talons drummed against the table as she watched the crowd drink and laugh. She scowled when he approached.

  “Did you finish terrorizing the castle already?”

  Viktor forced a smile. He set a glass in front of her and gestured to the empty wooden chair across from her. “May I?”

  “If you must. Why are you still here?”

  He sank into the seat across from her. “I could ask you the same. What interest does Clan Sova have in Wyvenmere?”

  Her lips tightened. “Are you here on behalf of Clan Kinzhal?”