Starbreaker

by Amanda Bouchet

  “You went to an Oracle. Which one?”

  I feel the blood drain from my face. “That’s none of your business, either.”

  His eyes narrow, and he stares down that hawkish nose at me. “What did you whisper to the boy?”

  My heart stutters. “That’s none—”

  “—of your business,” the warlord finishes dryly.

  If looks could kill, I’d be dead. I don’t respond well to threats, even ocular ones, and my spine shoots straighter than Poseidon’s trident. “If you’re trying to intimidate me, then don’t bother. It won’t work.”

  His full lips curve into a cool smile. “In my experience, I can intimidate anyone.”

  I huff, incredulous. “Do you want my services? If you do, sit down. Otherwise, go away. You’re scaring people off with that look.”

  His expression darkens. “What look?”

  “That one.” I wag my finger in his face. “The one that says I’m big, I’m bad, and I can chew you up, spit out your guts, and use your bones for toothpicks.”

  The warlord’s face blanks with surprise. You’d think I just morphed into the Hydra and grew some extra heads.

  One of his four men, an auburn-haired ax-wielder to his left, can’t repress a snort and gets the back of the warlord’s fist in the gut for it. Not too hard, but hard enough that the end of the laugh comes out as a wheeze.

  I glare at the semicircle of large, muscular men now cutting me off from the noise and bustle of the rest of the circus fair. My table is at my back, they’re at my front, and I can’t walk away, even if I want to. “Take your violence elsewhere. This is a peaceful table.”

  Peaceful? Me? Ha!

  “A fragile flower,” the warlord mocks, magnetic gray eyes looking me up and down in a way that makes my temperature rise. He studies me intently and a little too long. “And wilting in the heat.”

  I scowl, repressing the urge to wipe my sweaty palms on his white tunic. He’s too clean for a tribal warlord. He doesn’t even smell bad, and his slightly wild, jet-black hair is shiny, curling softly around his neck. There’s not a drop of perspiration on him, which infuriates me. I contemplate the sword with its two-handed hilt poking up over his shoulder from the leather harness on his back, pretty sure I can’t even lift the monstrosity. Good thing I have other strengths.

  The sharp pinch of magic stings my skin, and I turn. Aetos is watching.

  “Either sit down and get a question answered, or that man over there”—I point to my painted friend—“is going to pop your skull like a cherry in a crow’s beak.”

  The warlord’s teeth flash in the way of wolves before they pounce. “You think he can?”

  “I know he can.”

  The idiot actually chuckles. “He wouldn’t know what hit him.”

  I snort. “He’d incinerate you.”

  “He could try.”

  His tone is utterly unconcerned. I grit my teeth. Typical warlord: huge ego, huge sword, huge ass. Figuratively—the rest looks just right.

  “Go.” I point away from my table. No one insults my friends.

  His eyebrows lift. “Go?”

  “Do you need me to say it in sign language?” I make a rude hand gesture that universally conveys my meaning.

  Setting his jaw, the warlord circles my table. I turn, too. His men follow, and the semicircle of muscle moves to the other side, guarding the warlord’s back and leaving mine once again open to the circus fair and a dozen very powerful people who will come running if I need them.

  The warlord sits in the chair the boy used, dwarfing it. “You’re awfully small to be making threats,” he remarks casually.

  “It was more of a message,” I reply, still standing.

  His gray eyes turning steely, he rises halfway, plants his hands on the table, and leans forward until we’re practically nose to nose. “Send that message again, and I’ll teach you how to make a real threat, and carry through on it.”

  My scalp tingles. I have to give him credit; the warlord does menace with a capital M. But I grew up on a steady diet of terror, and I know true malice when I see it. This isn’t it. This is banter to people like us.

  Baring my teeth in what could hardly be called a smile, I throw his words back at him. “You could try.”

  “Don’t tempt me,” he growls softly.

  “Trying to scare me?”

  “Glad it’s working.”

  I laugh—although maybe I shouldn’t. He does look miffed all of a sudden.

  In magical fights, I can absorb other Magois’ powers and then turn their own abilities back on them. If I have to fight a Hoi Polloi, I need to be faster, stronger, or smarter, or else I’d better have some useful magic stored up. Right now, I don’t have anything. I doubt I’m faster, and I know I’m not stronger than the warlord. As for brains, the jury’s still out. At least I have my sense of humor.

  Deciding to test his, I glance up at the night sky and then cringe like something terrifying is coming straight for us. As if on cue, the warlord surges to his feet, drawing his sword and looking spectacularly ferocious. His free arm sweeps out over the table, pushing me roughly back. I stumble, see red, and then gear up to fight back when I realize he’s trying to protect me.

  Under the heat of his hand, something in my chest contracts with a sharp twist. His piercing eyes look up, around, everywhere, vigilantly scanning the amphitheater for threats. There’s nothing, of course, and his arm drops.

  “Don’t scrunch up your eyebrows like that,” I scold, a little out of breath for no good reason. “You’ll give that pretty face wrinkles.”

  He’s not pretty. He’s far too masculine for that, with his intense gray eyes and powerful body. A fresh scar cuts diagonally through his right eyebrow. Along with his wide mouth and hooked nose, it gives him a piratical look that does strange things to my insides.

  When he swings his gaze back to me, I have no idea what to make of his expression. The auburn-haired man is turning red from trying to hold in a belly laugh, so I cringe again and cover my head with my hands.

  “What are you doing?” The warlord sits again, resting his sword across his lap.

  “The Gods might punish your gargantuan ego, O Scary One. I’m trying to avoid the lightning bolts.”

  The ax-wielder guffaws and then takes a hasty step back.

  “Is this how you treat all your customers?” the warlord asks.

  My surprise must be obvious. “So far, no question has been asked, and no money has been exchanged. I wouldn’t call you a customer. You’re more of an eavesdropper and a bully.”

  “Good Gods!” the ax-wielder booms. “She has bigger balls than I do.”

  Humor flashes in the warlord’s silver-hued eyes. “Balls don’t necessarily come with brains.”

  “Mine do.” If my smile were any more syrupy, my teeth would rot.

  He arches a dark eyebrow, as if daring me to show him the goods. I’m not sure whether to laugh or run. In the face of indecision, I turn to the auburn-haired warrior. “Want your fortune read? Half price.”

  “Sure.” He adjusts the ax on his shoulder, catching the torchlight and sending a sudden glare into my eyes.

  I move to the side. Being blind is too much like being in the dark—never good.

  “I have a question,” the warlord interrupts.

  Curiosity sparks. “Finally.” I let out a beleaguered sigh and flop back into my chair. It’s probably safe to sit down again. While the warlord is far from harmless, I’m not getting the impression he’s out to harm me. “I was beginning to think we’d be here all night.”

  He levels a flat stare at me that would wither a person who hadn’t been tortured, beaten within an inch of her life, and nearly murdered six times in her own bed before the age of fifteen.

  “Around me, big mouths are attached to dead bodies,
” he says.

  I sigh, shaking my head. “What kind of person goes around threatening death?” And by that, I mean besides most of the people I grew up with.

  He leans forward again, one eye closing in a quick and unexpected wink that takes the dangerous edge off his words. “The kind who can.”

  Butterflies tickle my insides. “You either have an Olympian-sized sense of self-importance, or you’re overcompensating for a lack of confidence.”

  The warlord’s gray eyes crinkle at the corners, and his lips jump up for the briefest of smiles, taking his face from striking to far too appealing in less than a heartbeat.

  “Peace?” he offers, his deep voice sincere.

  I bite my lip, taming the reciprocal smile I can’t quite help, and pretend to think about it. “Fine. But don’t go releasing any white doves yet.”

  He chuckles, the warm, appreciative sound sending a wave of heat through me that has nothing to do with the southern climate. My words come out surprisingly husky when I ask for his question.

  Sitting back, he indicates the four men around him. “Are my companions loyal to me?”

  And just like that, I’m uncomfortable again. His question smacks of another life, one where people tortured me for truths.

  “Soothsayers predict the future.” I force an even tone despite my suddenly thumping heart.

  He rephrases the question, never taking his eyes off me. “Will my men remain loyal to me?”

  I try not to squirm, not liking his revision much better.

  The warlord frowns at my hesitation. “What’s more important than loyalty?” he asks.

  There’s a hardness to his tone, and his question strikes a nerve. Have I been disloyal? Does running away make me a traitor, or smart?

  Who cares? I’d rather be disloyal than dead.

  My eyes dart to the men behind him. “All four?”

  “All four.” He nods to his crew.

  I swallow my misgivings. The warlord doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know what I’m capable of. “Four coppers then. One for each.”

  He puts the coins on the table, and I pocket the money, turning to the ax-wielder first. “What’s more important? Your warlord’s life or your own?”

  “My warlord’s.”

  There’s no hesitation. No soul ripping.

  “You have to choose between this savage”—I sink a lot of sneer into my voice just for the fun of it—“or your wife. Who do you choose?”

  “I have no wife.”

  “But if you did?”

  “If I choose to marry, my wife and children will come first.”

  No searing flames. No melting bones. No pelting truths to outweigh the lie.

  I let my eyes glaze over and place my hands on my crystal ball, pretending to do soothsayer-like things for an appropriate amount of time. I should probably make up a chant, but I can’t bring myself to do it.

  “Your man is loyal,” I finally announce. “But I don’t advise using his future family against him.”

  “I’ll have a family?” The ax-wielder’s face splits into a wide grin.

  Eh… “Yes. Lovely wife. Several strong children,” I lie. Or maybe I don’t. How in the Underworld should I know?

  The warlord’s unwavering stare has me shifting uncomfortably in my chair. “Step back, Flynn,” he commands. “Carver, you’re next.”

  A dark-haired man approaches, moving forward with a confident stride. He’s about my age, lean and tall, and looks like he’d be mean in a fight. He’s the type of sinewy swordsman that can move like a shadow and strike before you blink. I know his kind. He’s the kind you want watching your back, not sneaking up on it. There’s a resemblance to the warlord in his facial features, black hair, and gray eyes, but the similarities end there. The warlord outweighs him by about sixty pounds and is probably ten years older.

  The man—Carver—smiles at me. There’s a disarming, rather friendly gleam in his eyes, but I have no doubt his easy smile could turn sharp with menace.

  “Is loyalty important to you?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  I point to the warlord. “Would you follow this man into a fight?”

  Carver nods.

  “Say it,” I prompt.

  “I would. I have, and I would again.”

  I glance at the warlord. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes feel like a Cyclops’s foot on my face. I ask for Carver’s hand, feeling awkward. Even if palm reading is a hoax, his rough skin still tells a story of battles and blood. “Would you die for this man and his cause?”

  “Yes.” A simple, one-word, truthful answer.

  I stare at Carver’s long, powerful, callused fingers. What is the warlord’s cause? From what I heard, the new royal family outlawed warring among the Sintan tribes. They’re all supposed to get along now that one of theirs has taken over.

  I repress a smirk. Good luck with that.

  “I would bleed for him. I would die for him.”

  Carver’s truth is so strong that it carries a word—brother. Shocked, I drop his hand like a poisonous snake. I almost never hear an echo from truths.

  The word still bouncing around inside me, I say, “Your brother is loyal, but I think you already knew that.”

  “Hmm.”

  I scowl at the warlord. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I never said he was my brother.”

  Damn it! Who stole my filters tonight? “You look the same.”

  “Not that much.”

  I wave my hands above my table. “Soothsayer, remember? I know stuff.”

  He tilts his head, looking hard at my eyes. He keeps up his scrutiny until unease ripples through me, making me squirm.

  The warlord breaks eye contact. “Basil,” he calls out flatly, motioning another man forward.

  A blond man takes Carver’s place. He’s handsome without being remarkable, strong without being overwhelming. He blends in. I guess that’s what he’s good for. Warlord, Flynn, and the fifth man don’t blend. They’re too big, too powerful. They demand attention. Carver doesn’t blend, either. He’s lean and angular, with wily eyes. Basil is just…blah, as far as I can tell.

  Basil moves to the right, away from the warlord and closer to the fifth warrior who has watchful blue eyes and a colossal mace that could probably crush three skulls at once. Basil’s movement is minute, and I only notice because I’ve trained myself to look for body language that will help me fool people into thinking I’m not a fraud.

  Great. The warlord’s question suddenly makes sense. This is a party to out Basil. Too bad I’m invited.

  “Basil, is it?” I ask even though I already know. I’m just stalling the inevitable.

  The man nods.

  I take a deep breath and lock my muscles, bracing for a false answer. “Where do your loyalties lie?”

  Basil looks smug. Like most southerners, he has no idea of the power of magic and words. If he did, he’d be running away.

  Fire explodes in me at his deceitful answer, agonizing. Bones fry. Organs roast. I try not to blanch as truths ignite along with his lie, scorching my insides like red-hot coals.

  In a sudden burst of movement, the warlord disarms Basil and grabs him by the throat. “Who do you work for?”

  “I’m loyal!” Basil squeaks, looking as stunned as I feel.

  His lie blasts me again.

  “I saw the look on her face.” The warlord squeezes Basil’s neck until the other man gasps for air. “You’re a liar.”

  He saw my pain? I’m more worried about that than I am about anything else. I controlled my reaction. I always do. How does some Hoi Polloi warlord know what a little flinch means anyway?

  Basil plunges his hand into his pocket and pulls out a thin, glass vial filled with gray powder that glitters silvery in the torchli
ght and impresses the magic out of me. He draws back a gloved hand, ready to smash the poison into the warlord’s face.

  I leap over the table, taking its black wool covering and my fake crystal ball with me, and latch on to Basil’s arm. It takes all my weight to keep his hand from moving.

  “Back off,” I warn the warlord. “It’s Medusa’s Dust. It’ll turn you to stone.”

  He uncurls his hand from around Basil’s neck and steps back, leaving me dangling like an idiot from the traitor’s wrist.

  “How do you know that?” His question sharp, the warlord shifts his focus to me, and I think maybe I should have let him die.

  “Poison expert.” Sort of. I blow a damp curl out of my eye. The only thing keeping Basil from shaking me off is Carver’s very long and very lethal sword at his back. We’re surrounded by big men with scary weapons, and no one’s doing anything. “Someone cut off his arm. Or kill him. If I let go, he’ll throw dust all over the place.”

  Flynn hefts his ax. “That would be suicide.”

  “Thank you, Flynn.” I roll my eyes in the auburn-haired man’s direction. “Do you really think he cares?”

  Flynn shrugs. “He’s dead anyway.”

  Exactly. So get on with it.

  A Promise of Fire

  On sale now!

  Acknowledgments

  Books come together with the help and support of so many dedicated and talented people. Huge thanks to my agent, Jill Marsal, and to my editor, Cat Clyne. Without them, I would be nowhere. The entire team at Sourcebooks Casablanca has my heartfelt gratitude for putting their skills and expertise to work to turn my words into books, make them look stunning, and get them into the hands of readers. Thank you!

  I’m also so happy and grateful to be a part of the Piatkus family with these same books. The UK team is a joy to work with.

  I’m lucky to have the support of a fabulous group of women writers who I’m privileged to know and call friends. Even shut away behind my computer, I never feel isolated in this crazy and sometimes difficult business because friends going through the same ups and downs as I am are only an instant message or email away. Thank you to my writing tribe: Adriana Anders, Callie Burdette, Chelsea Mueller, Maria Vale, Jennifer Estep, Jeffe Kennedy, Grace Draven, Mel Sterling, and Darynda Jones. I’m always looking forward to the next time I’ll get to see any of you in person, even if I have to cross an ocean to do it!