Seven Devils

by Laura Lam

  “Nyx?” Rhea’s voice was soft. “You think we shouldn’t. I can feel it.”

  Shame flashed in Nyx’s features. “The Oracle’s programming would tell me that the Evoli deserve this. That their Empire is as brutal as ours.”

  “Well, let me cut through that bullshit right now,” Clo snapped. “We have Evoli members of the resistance. They had to come to us because the Tholosians are doing everything they can to steal their resources and starve their people. So, you can judge their priests if you want for being brutal to survive, but don’t stand there and tell me that thousands of their citizens deserve to die. Thousands of our citizens too. This will be a massacre on both sides and Damocles doesn’t give a damn who dies.”

  For the first time since Clo had met the soldier, Nyx looked taken aback. Frayed at the edges. Even Cato had the decency to seem guilty. Clo was trying to understand what they were going through—the lingering programming in their thoughts, the effort it took to fight against it. But they couldn’t afford one iota of doubt. Not now.

  “I understand,” Nyx said, gentler. “But without Eris, we don’t have leadership. Laguna is going to be surrounded by security—both Tholosian and Evoli. Infiltrating a planet with that level of protection isn’t going to be easy.”

  “It’s impossible,” Cato agreed. “And how do we know Damocles will take Eris to Laguna for the ceremony? He could have already killed her.”

  Rhea shook her head. “I know him, gods help me. Damocles has always resented the fact that she earned her place and he didn’t. He’ll want to make her suffer for it publicly, and she’d be the perfect person to set up for the fallout of any assassinations. She’ll be there. He’ll make it look like she released the ichor and planned a genocide.”

  Ariadne curled herself up even smaller. The soft light of the cockpit fell on all of them, making their expressions look grimmer. “I don’t think I can challenge the Oracle again.”

  Clo didn’t know exactly what Ariadne had gone through during her childhood, but she recognized that fear that haunted the younger girl’s face.

  “The Oracle’s influence isn’t as strong on Laguna,” Rhea told Ariadne, her voice gentle. “It’s an Evoli planet.”

  “That doesn’t mean One won’t be there,” Ariadne whispered. “The Oracle will be on the ships. In their minds. And I don’t . . . I don’t think I’m strong enough to fight.”

  Rhea drifted closer, resting her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “You are. We all are. If we were the type to crumble, we never would have risked leaving Tholos to begin with.”

  “We made it out to leave,” Ariadne said, uncurling and moving away from Rhea. “We didn’t run away to keep going back into trouble. We did it. We helped the resistance. I want to help Eris, I do, but I also want a life.”

  “None of us want this.” Clo spread her arms. “The gods know I’d rather be anywhere but here, but if we allow the Tholosians to assassinate the Evoli leaders, the Empire will grow completely unchecked. It’ll be worse than it is now.”

  “Then we should just tell them,” Nyx said. “That’s less risk for us.”

  Cato let out a dry laugh. “I appreciate the thought of less of a risk, but unless one of you ladies has any way of contacting the Evoli Oversouls in the few short hours we have before the ceremony, that’s not exactly an option.”

  “You’re right,” Clo said. “It has to be us.”

  Nyx snorted. “Five of us? Shit odds. And that’s me being generous.”

  “Seven if we include Kyla and Sher. We may not be able to trust the rest of Nova, but without Eris, we have to bring them in on this.” At everyone’s silence, Clo let out a long breath. “Listen, this is what we’re faced with. I wish we weren’t, but we have to save the people on Laguna and we save Eris. We owe her.” Rhea nodded, but Nyx still looked doubtful. Clo scowled. “If it were Rhea or Ariadne, wouldn’t you do whatever it took to save them?”

  “I would,” Nyx said. “You know that I would.”

  “Then we’re going for Eris. She bogs me off, but she’s one of ours. Not theirs. She would do the same for any of us.”

  Nyx shut her eyes and nodded. “Fuck, but you’re right.”

  “Me too,” said Cato. He shook his head and gave a rueful smile. “Gods help me, but I would. After Ismara, I can’t go back to the way I was before.” There was no trace of cockiness, no uncertainty.

  Ariadne nodded. “Okay,” she murmured. She let out a rough, shaking breath. “Okay. Count me in.”

  “Good,” Clo said. “First, we figure out how to get past the Laguna checkpoints. Then we infiltrate the ceremony, get our stubborn fluming princess, and stop a genocide.” Her face split into a sly smile. “Easy.”

  She returned to the captain’s chair, put her hands back on the controls, and moved the ship faster through the endless expanse of space.

  46.

  ERIS

  Present day

  Damocles had bound Eris’s hands so tightly that she couldn’t even wiggle her fingers.

  She watched her brother give commands in the same sharp way she remembered from when they were children. He sounded like their father, though she suspected that was for her benefit more than anything. When he rolled his shoulders back and glanced at her, it was in the way someone might seek approval. They had fallen into that role for so long, it came naturally—even after three years. Even with her captive.

  “Get the medic,” Damocles told his soldier. “Tell him to bring his mod kit.”

  The soldier left and Eris leaned back in her chair. She wouldn’t let her unease show; this had been a game her father played once. Damocles would have learned it from him. How much torture could his children take?

  Eris had always taken the most.

  “You don’t need the cuffs so tight,” Eris said. “It’s not like I can go anywhere.”

  Her brother sat across from her, crossing his long legs. “You’re clever enough to find a way around that.”

  “I’m not armed.”

  “I’m not stupid.”

  Eris raked him with a gaze. “That’s debatable.”

  She didn’t even blink before he smacked her across the face. The blow rocked her chair back, but the toe of his military boot stopped her from falling. When she rocked forward, Damocles had her chin in his grip, a hard press of his thumb and forefinger.

  “Who do you think our father would be more disappointed by? His second-choice son or his traitor daughter?” His voice was low, almost a growl.

  There. She could use that. “Traitor or not, he’d prefer me. He always has.”

  This time, he snarled with anger when he struck her. His general’s ring sliced into Eris’s lip and she didn’t even wince in pain. She just smiled and licked the blood from her lip. “Still so emotional,” she mocked. “Father will think that makes you weak. I can’t imagine his disappointment when you became general.”

  Damocles gripped the front of her shirt and pulled her roughly to him. “He told me none of this was meant to be mine. You were always better, always stronger. And when everyone thought you had died, even our own people looked at me like I was a disappointment. Despite the Oracle’s programming. I hadn’t earned it. The Empire was given to me.”

  “And you never faltered,” Eris sneered. “You never questioned what you were given. It was a whole lie built on bones and slaughter. We killed our brothers for him.”

  His face flickered. She remembered the angry boy. She had picked up the pieces, helped him become a man. He wouldn’t have even come close to being the Spare, if not for her.

  And he knew it.

  “Everything would have been mine either way,” he said, voice low. “If I had told them all you were willing to give it up for that weakling.”

  “Xander,” Eris said, her voice steady. “His name was Xander. My frater.”

  “Bro
ther?” He said the word like the shape of it on his tongue was revolting. “Your weakness. Even now, your icons hang on every planet in the Empire and they all think you died in battle, a hero. They don’t realize what a coward you are.” His lip curled. “I’ll show them something different before the end. I’ll force our father to choose between us, and the entire Empire will despise you.”

  Eris’s stomach coiled in dread. “Before the end?” She sounded calm. But if he could hear the beat of her heart, he would know she lied.

  “Father’s time is over,” Damocles said. His lips curled in a sneer. “Do you know he mourned you? He’d spend hours kneeling in front of your icons in silence. Now he’s growing soft. Maybe it was your death that started it. Making noises with those disgusting creatures about peace. Fucking lies. The Empire’s resources are drying up. We have the chance to take the Evoli planets, use them for our own, and he chose the easy way because he’s a coward too. It goes against our gods, Discordia. We don’t share. The galaxy is ours. And he’s no longer fit to rule it.”

  Eris held back a flinch. Even if her father cared about her in his own way, it was destructive. Toxic. The Archon had chipped away pieces of her humanity, thinking that it had made her stronger, but it only made her cruel. If she had stayed by his side, she would have been a callous leader. Worse than her forebears. Worse, probably, than Damocles.

  If she had stayed, perhaps she would have agreed with her brother.

  It was Xander who had truly cared for her. His affection had not come with pain.

  The squeak of wheels on the floor signaled the arrival of the medic. Soldiers were all the same, even those trained in the medical field: same closely cropped hair, the broad shoulders and muscular stature from training and muscle growth supplements. Eyes blank and smooth and hard as river stones.

  The cart he’d brought held various instruments that gave Eris pause. Scalpels, body mod kits, drugs. Zoe’s features were long gone. She stared at a digital impression of her old face. Discordia, not Eris. Gold eyes instead of blue. Blonde hair instead of black. She’d permanently modified her features after what had happened to Clo on Sennett, she’d known there was no going back. No half measures. She had to become Eris once and for all.

  In her old life, Discordia had looked delicate and fine-boned as an Old World bird in the royal aviary. Avern, she looked young. No matter how steely her gaze, there was a sweetness about her face that always managed to fool people into thinking she was compassionate and soft. They never believed her to be capable of execution until the moment her blade kissed their throats.

  She was the Servant of Death. They should have known.

  Eris tore her gaze away from the cart and looked at her brother. “You don’t have to do this,” she whispered.

  Damocles moved closer and lifted his hand; his fingertips grazed her cheek. “They’ll see Discordia. Your face when Father chooses me. They’ll all realize the Servant of Death is a traitor. That war left you a broken remnant of an Heir Apparent.” His hand fell away and his face hardened.

  He ordered the medic to begin. “The scan showed an object embedded in her cerebrum—must be a tracker. Remove it.”

  Eris tugged against her restraints, but they held strong. Damocles moved to sit, slow and unhurried. “You can be better than him. You can rule without destruction. Without fear and threat and pain. Don’t—”

  Damocles paused, giving her a narrowed, assessing gaze. “One last thing,” he said to the medic. “When you’re finished with her face, take that scalpel and cut out her tongue.” Damocles met Eris’s eyes. “And don’t give her any anesthesia.”

  Then he stepped back and sat in his chair to watch.

  The medic picked up the scalpel, and Eris never gave Damocles the satisfaction of a scream.

  47.

  PRINCESS DISCORDIA

  Three years ago

  Discordia hadn’t heard from her brothers in weeks.

  Damocles had gone dark before Xander—uncharacteristic of him with only one brother remaining. Xander, who was a better tracker than Discordia, had left to find Damocles’s whereabouts. He had promised Discordia he’d leave the killing to her.

  You were supposed to send me word, Xander, Discordia thought. Where in the seven devils are you?

  She tried to focus on her duties, the tedious job of making sure her people were cared for, prosperous, fed well enough, housed decently. Above all, the Archon wanted citizens to become familiar with the last three potential Heirs, the final children in line to be the next Archon. Or the first Archontissa. The Oracle’s programming was deeply rooted in nationalist sentiment, in a love of their Imperial family. Their faces blared across the galaxies. Discordia paraded herself as her father’s daughter; the likeliest Heir to the throne, by all accounts; beautiful and capable and a hope for the future of the Tholosian Empire.

  For a time, her father had let Discordia take the reins of the Empire in all but title. His way of telling citizens that he was confident that of the three children he had left alive, she would be the one to take his place.

  Discordia began to make plans for that day. For phasing out the Oracle. For giving each planet more independence. For giving people choices. She’d have to do it slowly. Carefully. Perhaps, by the time she aged into her role, they would no longer need another Archon, another Heir. The Imperial throne would simply become obsolete—the way old technology did after it had outlived its usefulness.

  For now, such thoughts were treasonous. So, she played the dutiful daughter, and the Empire thrived under Discordia’s watchful eye. She visited the planets of agricultural workers so they knew her face, her voice, her plans, her commitment. She was heard by those in the galaxy who needed her and worshiped her father and required every assurance that when he died, she would preserve his legacy.

  Each thing she did was to distract herself from the fact that her brothers were missing.

  She smiled (they were missing). She gave speeches (they were missing). She assured citizens (they were missing). She was her father’s daughter.

  Discordia would lie in her bed at night, traveling from one destination to another, and hold on to Xander’s firewolf. If he were dead, Damocles would have celebrated. If Xander had tracked down Damocles, he would have sent word.

  She pressed the firewolf into her palm. Where are you, Xander? Has Damocles found you? Or did you decide to find him?

  The worry ate at her, until—finally, finally—three months after her brothers had gone silent, she received a missive through her inferiors with location coordinates.

  I await your word.

  Their code, his and hers. Discordia would go to some coordinates under some pretense of it being an order.

  This time, it meant he found Damocles.

  Had Xander killed him? Or was he waiting for her to finish the job?

  She took the single-passenger aircraft and keyed in the coordinates. She suspected Damocles was still alive. Xander was not like her. He couldn’t bear the weight of killing. It would be an albatross, heavy on his mind.

  Another nightmare to add to Xander’s fitful sleep.

  The building was quiet when she arrived. It was some old factory on a moon called Pollux—where munitions and other military necessities used to be made before the moon’s resources dried up. Xander always directed her somewhere there was little chance of discovery: outposts on backwater planets, abandoned buildings that were no longer useful to the Empire, or his camp set up in a place that was difficult to track.

  Discordia pushed the metal door open and stepped into the dark interior. Something immediately felt wrong; Xander always came to greet her.

  But as Discordia reached for her Mors, a voice behind her spoke. “Discordia.”

  She wheeled around, swallowing the gasp in her throat. Damocles stood in the light of the double moons streaming through a broken window, his face har
d. Behind him, Xander was bound to a chair, his lips sealed with the gel they used to muffle the screams of their prisoners.

  Discordia wanted to dart forward and untie Xander and count his injuries. Each cut on his face would be a small promise: a stab of a blade for each one, a whisper of a threat. Every bruise would have been a finger lopped off, a torture made worse. Discordia had never vowed revenge—such a thing was meant to be above the Archon’s Heir. It hadn’t stopped Damocles.

  She had killed so many of her siblings, but she wanted to make Damocles’s death painful. She wanted him to suffer like Xerxes had.

  “You caught Xander before I did,” she said, straightening. She closed her expression, pulled her shoulders back, and gave him the arrogant tilt of her chin she had perfected on Myndalia.

  Damocles shrugged. “I couldn’t risk him running again. Thought you might like to join me in finishing him.”

  “Why is he gagged?”

  “His pleas grew dull.” He lifted a hand and roughly wiped the silencing gel from Xander’s lips. “There. Hello, brother.” At Xander’s silence, Damocles threw Discordia a look. “Not even a greeting. This one’s rude, Discordia. We ought to make him pay for that.”

  She slipped her hand behind her. The Mors was too obvious; he’d notice her draw and dodge it fast. One of her blades had to distract him first, just long enough to put a Mors blast through his brain. “You never wanted my help killing our brothers before.”

  “This one is different, though, isn’t he?” Those words were charged. Did he know? Damocles flashed a small smile. “Our last. It should be a celebration, shouldn’t it? We survived the culling, Discordia.”

  Discordia eased her hand beneath her jacket and touched the hilt of her blade. “I’m not in a celebratory mood.”

  “No?” He slid his thumb along his own blade. “That’s a pity. I saved him for you. You’re going to be my future Archontissa, after all. We all know how this game finishes, who Father prefers.” His tone was bitter poison. “Think of this as my first offering.”