Seven Devils

by Laura Lam

  Sher looked confused. “Josephine?”

  “Josephine is ichor, that endospore-studded rock that’s probably a high-density blaster in a weapon of mass destruction,” Ariadne said with a serene smile.

  “Right.” Sher rubbed his hand against the back of his neck. Dust painted his collar ochre and the bags under his eyes were larger.

  “How are things back at base?” Clo asked. “Dust storms letting up?”

  A twist of his mouth. “Most of the food and water is contaminated. Our communication is shit, tech at headquarters is glitching, and everyone is exhausted trying to keep things in order. Our engineers are looking at setting up biodomes for the long term, but we can’t begin recovery efforts until the weather lets up.”

  “I guess now is a bad time to ask you to approve an unmanned craft to send us supplies? We need medical stuff. Still fine on food.” The ship had only been outfitted with enough food to get to Myndalia, but meal packets for one hundred people for two weeks would keep the five of them—ugh, the six of them—pretty for months to come.

  “Anyone hurt?”

  Ariadne opened her mouth, but Clo shot her a look and she snapped it closed. Telling the co-commander of the resistance that they had an injured Tholosian pilot aboard while on a mission of this importance would only complicate things. The last thing they needed was to be reassigned. “Not yet.”

  Sher nodded. “Send me a list.”

  They said their goodbyes to Sher. Ariadne double-checked everyone’s suits and helmets, then they all departed the bullet craft.

  “This way,” Ariadne said. The girl’s tablet had a blinking dot to indicate the coordinates she’d found back on Macella.

  Clo’s skin prickled in alarm as they progressed. Not even wind in the trees, she thought. No animals rustling through the thickets. The coordinates led the group to a warehouse. The warehouse—the entire island, really—was completely still. Flat shelves of red mushrooms lined the bottoms of the trunks of trees and rocks of what might have been rough ichor in its natural habitat.

  Clo rubbed her arms. Rhea reached out to take her hand, squeezing gently. Despite the thick material of their gloves, the gesture brought Clo comfort. A warm sense of home and belonging. She flashed Rhea a grateful smile and the other woman returned it.

  Soon, the only sound between them was Ariadne’s rapid tapping as she used the tablet to hack the building’s security. It was no match for Ariadne. Within a few minutes, she whooped in delight. “I’m in!”

  The warehouse door gaped open with a metallic creak. There were no heat signatures on Ariadne’s scanner, but Tholosian soldiers had ways to cloak themselves if they wished to avoid detection. Clo, Eris, and Nyx pulled out their Mors, keeping the weapons raised as they crept into the dimly lit warehouse. The skylights along the ceiling let in just enough light to see inside.

  But there was nothing there. It was completely empty except for the dust motes dancing in the dim light that filtered through the shatterproof, barred windows and crops of mold in the damp corners.

  Nyx lowered her Mors and ran a hand through her hair. “Great. Nothing. A false trail.”

  “No,” Ariadne said, annoyed. “The intel on the Oracle’s database was good. The ichor had been here as recently as last week. They must have just moved it. I don’t like this.”

  Nyx glowered harder. “Maybe they knew we were coming.”

  “No, they didn’t,” Ariadne shot back. “I was careful. Even if they moved the ichor, there should still be records somewhere. Manifests.”

  Silence descended on the dusty warehouse, shafts of weak sunlight filtering through the gloom. Next to Clo, Rhea shivered. She looked uneasy, her face pale.

  “You okay?” Clo asked her.

  “I feel nauseated. I—” Rhea paused and tilted her head, as if listening. “Check for false walls. I don’t think this place is empty.” At Clo’s confused expression, Rhea folded her arms over her stomach. “I heard . . . I felt . . . I just . . .” She trailed off, pausing by the far wall. “Nyx. This wall. There’s something here.”

  The soldier strode over and rapped on the wall. Hollow. Nyx ran her hands along the seams of cool concrete until she found the hidden latch.

  A doorway, stairs descending underground.

  A slight glimmer on the ground caught Clo’s eye. Before she could bend down, Nyx investigated it. She picked up a tiny morsel of ichor in her gloved hand, its iridescence as brilliant as it’d been on the ship. She held it close to the glass of her helmet before setting the shard of ichor down.

  Wordlessly, they went down into the black.

  39.

  PRINCESS DISCORDIA

  Three years ago

  Only three children from the royal cohort remained alive: Discordia, Xander, and Damocles.

  When there are two of my children still living, I will make my final decision, the Archon had said to Discordia, taking her chin in a firm grip. But I have a feeling I’ll be hanging the coronation cloak in your suite on Macella.

  Discordia tried not to show surprise at his favoritism. If Damocles had heard their father’s words, he’d plot her assassination on principle.

  Why? she had asked the Archon.

  She wanted to know what her father still saw in her. She craved words that would chase away the doubts that plagued her after Xander had given her that unassuming little carving she carried in her pocket even though she should toss it into flames to send it straight to Avern.

  Her father only released her chin and said, Because you know better than to disappoint me.

  Upon returning to Macella, Discordia went to the hall in a quiet corner of the palace where the coronation cloak hung behind the glass. It had been displayed since the Archon himself had worn it centuries earlier. Light from the two moons almost turned the glittering gold material and the grand furred collar of one of the Tholosian’s first conquests silver. The display case had careful temperature and technology so the fabric, fur, and metal would remain intact and pristine. If her father was right, she’d wear it, hold the ceremonial scythe stored in the Archon’s chambers, and the people of the Empire would all bow before her.

  Discordia should feel glad. Relieved. Her father was confident she’d be declared the Heir, and she was going to rule the galaxy in his name. The first woman to do so. But the doubts remained. She and Xander had dared imagine other lives they might have lived. Things they thought about in secret, that they could tell no one else.

  And the only thing she’d have to do to earn it was kill one more person.

  Xander or Damocles.

  She had made the decision to ally herself with Damocles—but it had been the choice of a girl who cared only for enough strength in an ally to guarantee survival. There was too much softness in Xander. She remembered the way he’d rest after training with his prefect: seated on the bench, head against the great glass wall that overlooked the clouds of Myndalia, his eyes shut and his expression weary.

  That sort of vulnerability should have gotten him killed years earlier.

  She was the reason Xander was still alive. She had chosen to kill her other brothers before they could catch him. She had warned Xander if Damocles had started tracking him, and—despite seeing Xander dozens of times over the years—she always failed to put a Mors blast in his brain.

  She wasn’t ready to lose him.

  Knowing it was a risky, foolish thing to do, Discordia disabled the alarm and picked the lock. Her computer skills stretched that far, just.

  “Thank you, Mistress Heraia,” she muttered as she opened the glass so she could slide her fingertips along the material of the cloak. Did she really want to wear it? Or had she been engineered to desire power? But no, she wasn’t like the other citizens of the Empire, programmed to know what to think or how to feel. The answer didn’t come easily.

  Discordia drew in a shaking br
eath and unhooked the cloak from its hanger to slide it over her shoulders. She would take this moment for herself, even if the Archon never ended up giving it to her. If she couldn’t earn it.

  The weight of it bent her spine. The crown would be just as heavy. She shouldn’t linger. If anyone caught her—

  “It suits you.”

  Discordia sucked in a breath at Xander’s voice. She hadn’t heard him come in. The only person who could sneak up on her. He leaned against the heavy wooden door of the hall, holding a small box in his hands.

  “You can’t be here,” she whispered. “If Damocles realizes you’re on Macella—”

  Xander laughed. Discordia marveled at the sound, how easy he made it seem. Laughter had been beaten out of them at that training school in Myndalia.

  This was for her. Just for her.

  “I sent a false trail away from the Three Sisters,” he said. “Damocles has a tendency of running off without thinking.” He took in the cloak on her shoulders. “I wanted to see it too. You ought to—” He pressed his lips together.

  “I ought to . . .” she asked as he came closer.

  Xander shook his head. “Teach Damocles to be less impulsive. When you cross me off your list.”

  An ache went through her at his words. If she were practical, she would have reached for a weapon the moment he walked through that door. Finished it. Become the Heir, once and for all.

  Eris was beginning to understand that feelings were not practical.

  During their meetings over the years, Xander had never tried to pretend his life consisted of anything more than borrowed time. Any other brother might have taken advantage of this, tried to press for Discordia to betray Damocles. But Xander accepted his fate; all he’d asked for was more time.

  And she had given it to him. She wanted to give him more.

  “Don’t talk like that,” she said.

  Xander’s expression softened. “Discordia—”

  “Please.”

  She had never uttered that word her entire life. Please was too close to begging, an admission of some deficiency. No wonder her father warned her about feelings. No wonder he taught her never to show emotion, to tamp it down inside her where it could be caged and tamed and hidden.

  Discordia wanted Xander to live. She wanted him to live more than she wanted to rule an empire.

  Dangerous thoughts—destructive and reckless and weak. Thoughts that she would have killed her other brothers for, because the God of Death was their patron, their lord, their deity, and He did not tolerate such failing.

  Xander froze. For a moment, Discordia felt embarrassed. Damocles would have mocked her for the plea, challenged her. Their father would have tortured her at such a disappointment. Rethought his decision to make her Heir.

  Xander only let out a breath. “I have something for you.”

  Discordia tilted her head, her hand resting against the fur trim of the cloak. She knew she should take it off, but she was compelled to bear the heavy weight of it a moment longer. “Another gift?”

  “Something like that.” Xander placed the box in her palms. “Here.”

  Discordia lifted the lid and her breath caught. Nestled in velvet was an antique gun, an old limited edition RX Blaster. Avern, they did not make guns like this anymore; Mors weapons were all utilitarian designs, made to look the same. This? Oh, it was a beauty. The barrel was long and filigreed, and it curved into a beautiful pearled handle.

  “Where did you find it?” she asked.

  He only smiled in answer. “You’ll have to buy more blasters, but I thought you’d be up for the challenge of learning a new weapon.” As if nervous at her silence, Xander cleared his throat. “I remember from Myndalia that you liked experimenting.”

  That made her look up. “You watched me from the observation deck.”

  “We all did,” Xander admitted. “I doubt a single one of our brothers would have turned you down for an ally. Our one surviving sister.” His gaze shifted.

  “What?”

  His eyes met hers. “I saw you and Damocles the night you both challenged Adrian and Xerxes. You showed compassion.”

  Discordia still remembered Xerxes bleeding out on the floor of the gymnasium, his expression pleading. The way Damocles thought his father’s attention was more important than his brother’s suffering. They had all been taught to work for the Archon’s satisfaction above all else. Not her first kill, but her first of many kin.

  Discordia remained silent. Xander took the weapon from her and placed it back in the box, its lid still open. “Our other brothers would have let Damocles wait, no matter how long Xerxes suffered. You were different.”

  Discordia brushed her fingers against the cold metal of the gun, snug in its box. “I’ve killed every time Father asked me to.”

  “You haven’t killed me.”

  She shouldn’t feel grief for the living or the dead, but she did every time she thought about Xander and her gift of borrowed time.

  Discordia swallowed. She had so many questions. She could only bring herself to ask one: “Why didn’t you run from me?”

  His gaze held hers. “I took the chance that you’d be different from our brothers. From Damocles.”

  She turned away from him, the damn cloak so heavy. It was all too heavy. The price too high. Xander knew what she was capable of before him, before this. The person she was still capable of being.

  “I’ve slaughtered so many people,” she said, her voice ragged. “I’m exactly the same as Damocles.”

  “Discordia—”

  “No.” She shook her head. “This gun isn’t a gift, is it? It’s a request.” At his silence, she let out a dry laugh. “You told me once that all you wanted was a few more years. Are you so eager to die?”

  Xander shut his eyes briefly.

  Discordia slammed the box’s lid down and shoved it toward him. “Take this back and get the fuck out of here. I’m not shooting you today. I’ll cross your name off my list next time.”

  “Discordia.”

  “Get out.”

  “Discordia.” He gripped her shoulders through the coronation cloak, forcing her to look at him. “Listen to me. I want it to be my choice. When and who and by what method. I want you to be the one to say last rites over me. I want it to be your voice that guides me into Avern.”

  This was the price she’d pay for her feelings. Attachments made a ruler easily distracted, manipulated, and vulnerable. He knew that as well as she did.

  “Why are you asking me this?” she whispered. “Why now?”

  His expression was gentle. “You’ve delayed striking my name off your list for so long. It was always next time. I’m the last name you’ve got.” Xander’s thumb brushed the fur collar of the cloak. “It’s time for you to wear this, soror.”

  Soror. She blanched at the old word for sister. It fell out of favor when children were grown rather than born. When they no longer had parents or siblings, only castes and cohorts.

  It was cruel, using this word while asking her to end his life.

  “What if I don’t want it anymore?” The question was a barb in her throat. “What if I don’t want to wear this horrible cloak and pretend that it represents something I still believe in? Damocles is more suited to it than me.”

  He hissed out a frustrated breath. “Don’t you dare say that when you know it isn’t true. Damocles isn’t fit to rule over an empty field.”

  “Fine.” Discordia ripped off the cloak and shoved it into his hands. “You, then. You be the next Archon.”

  Xander studied the cloak. His fingers played along the fur collar. She’d have to put it back soon, before she risked damaging it.

  “I am not fit to rule any more than Damocles is,” Xander said. “I’m better at hiding than fighting. I’m not a leader. Even my prefect knew that.”


  “And what makes you so certain that I am?”

  He sighed. “Every time you’ve doubted yourself it’s because you felt obligated to rule the way Father has. Change the damn Empire, Discordia. Make it yours. Make it better.”

  “I don’t know how.”

  Xander shook out the cloak and placed it once more on her shoulders, hooking the collar into place. “Do you want our people to fear you or love you?”

  “Fear me.” She gave her father’s response. The words she had learned since she was in the cradle and the recordings of his voice whispered into her ear of power and conquest. Let them fear you.

  Xander’s brief smile was so sad. “Are you so sure?”

  Don’t feel. Don’t feel. The chant caught fire in her mind, but it was mere background buzzing, a litany that meant nothing in comparison to the confident, no-nonsense way he buttoned the front of the cloak. As if he considered it to be hers already.

  “If you were,” he continued, “you would have sliced that blade across my throat the first time we spoke.” A quick, larger smile. “You wouldn’t have taken my firewolf, much less kept it.”

  Discordia didn’t know who she was. With her father, she felt compelled to be someone he would be proud of. It was a child’s fantasy with him, the need to boast of her skills, to prove something to him. Just so she saw that small glint of satisfaction in his eye that came when she had mastered another test, shown herself to be in control. Unbreakable.

  But it was a lie. When she was with Xander, Discordia allowed herself to think beyond a cloak, a crown, an empire. She couldn’t forget the face of every person she had ever personally killed. Her brothers, rebels, Evoli, prisoners, soldiers, civilians in the wrong place, the wrong time. People who loved and feared her. Before she allowed herself to know Xander, killing was as routine as sleeping.

  Now? It felt wrong to sacrifice so many. To worship a god, the devil who was never sated. But she knew no other path.