Heir of Ruin: A Hades and Persephone Paranormal Fae Fantasy Romance (Fae of The Saintlands Book 1)

by Leigh Kelsey

  Maia’s head shot up, her eyes wide with excitement as she scanned the records room to their right, and then the study rooms to their left. Weaving through the stacks, past the tables and chairs arrayed in the middle of the room, was the most striking, jaw-droppingly beautiful man Maia had ever laid eyes on. And she had laid eyes on him many, many times.

  The first time had been an accident—she’d bumped into him while sorting a stack of books for Dita. The second time had been coincidence—he’d asked her where to find the newspaper archives. But the third, fourth, fifth, sixth, and all the other times? Those were purely intentional on Maia’s part. She just happened to need to place a book on the shelf behind his desk, or by mere chance she was restocking the shelves in the room where he perused for a book. It had taken several of those moments for her to learn his name: Azrail.

  She glanced into the study room, slowing her rushed walk to a saunter, and let her eyes trail from his chin-length, black hair—sleek and perfect and pulled into a baby ponytail—to shoulders neither broad or slim, but somewhere in between, currently clad in a fine midnight blue coat, and then down his shapely back to a tapered waist and—sadly hidden by the coat—a backside worthy of statues and tapestries. His face, she knew, was beyond devastating, all sculpted angles and severity, his eyes the deepest sapphire blue—but they twinkled and shone brighter when he laughed—and his mouth … Maia had dreamt of that mouth. She wished he’d come to Silvan’s music hall so she could find out what he tasted like.

  She could hardly seduce him in a study room, could she? But with the band playing, with alcohol flowing and laughter all around … there, she could shift closer, could brush her mouth over his—

  Naemi elbowed her. Hard. And Maia looked up, her lips curving into a shameless grin as she realised Azrail had turned, and was currently giving her a smug, knowing grin. Maia ducked out of sight, her face on fire and her heart pounding, but giddiness flowed through her blood.

  “You were tragically obvious,” Naemi said with an amused smile as they hurried down the warm hallway, reaching up to put her earrings back in—simple golden pearls that were timeless and elegant and suited her perfectly. Maia was more drawn to gaudy earrings that resembled miniature chandeliers.

  Maia snorted, waving as a librarian caught her eye from the languages room, a class already filling the oak desks judging by the low murmurs of a tutor speaking Aethani. “You can never be too obvious when it comes to men, my dear friend. Subtlety goes right over their heads, the poor things.”

  She linked her elbow with Naemi’s, the boards changing to thick green carpet underfoot, trimmed with golden swirls that Maia had always thought looked like threads of magic. The tight corridors opened into a vast, sunlit atrium beneath the golden dome, bustling activity everywhere as people gathered around the gilded reception desk. Another class from the scholar quarter across the river were signing in, their voices a loud clamour that Dita would soon hush.

  Naemi laughed softly, and by unspoken agreement they took the wide carpeted steps at a clip to avoid the plague of students, emerging into the bright, sunlit street just as the galleries and workshops lining the street opened their doors. Maia could already smell the rich, earthy scent of pork buns mingling with the tang of the river, and she savoured the flavour of the arts quarter, her most favourite place.

  With a true smile, she guided Naemi down the street in the direction of the library, her stomach rumbling but her mood bright and soaring.

  It lasted as long as it took her and Naemi to demolish their breakfast and return leisurely to the palace—where Ismene was waiting with another task for Maia’s snaresong.

  Chapter Seven

  Nothing. Azrail found absolutely nothing of value in the countless books he’d pored over this morning, searching for even the barest hint of a way to keep Siofra’s saintslight hidden. Some way to muffle it, to contain it, to stop it bursting out of her whenever she erupted with emotion. It had happened five times during the night, each one a nightmare she wouldn’t—or couldn’t—talk to him or any of his family about. Not even Zamanya’s crooked smile or Jaromir’s soft coaxing got it out of her. And any hope they’d had that their neighbours hadn’t noticed the white light flashing from their windows was crushed when Evrille ventured out for healing supplies, and their nosiest neighbour casually asked about the light show she’d spotted.

  A rare crystal, Ev had told the woman. They’d found it in the attic, and struggled to control the magic within it. Such stones could be harnessed for a thousand different purposes—not least of them healing—so the woman had accepted the story and let Ev be on her way. But Azrail had no doubt the story was spreading, and if the Foxes picked it up, it wouldn’t take much for them to put two and two together, and arrive at their door looking for the escaped ‘traitor’ girl.

  “Traitor my ass,” Az muttered under his breath, stalking out of the library’s grand atrium.

  Zamanya was at the cloth market, bartering for thick, impenetrable material to block out the light from their windows. He hoped she had better luck than he’d had with the books. But there was a chance the saintslight would make it through even the heaviest fabric.

  Now he was exhausted, and starving, and not even the beautiful woman he’d shared a smile with could buoy his mood. Even if it did flatter his ego. He didn’t know her name, but he saw her working there some days. One day, he would stay and flirt with her, but whenever he came to the Library of Vennh, it was to find some vital bit of information. Never for leisure.

  The world rested on his shoulders, a physical weight Az felt as he flicked up his collar against the mist wreathing the clouds drifting down from the low clouds to veil the pale buildings and churning silver river. Azrail’s path curved around the impressive malachite opera house, with its many spires and monoliths—like a towering, green organ that cut the clouds themselves—and through the early morning hubbub towards Sorvauw Bridge. It would be nice, one day, to come to this place because he had a spare day to do whatever he wanted with, to be like the artists sketching the barges chugging up the river, or the tourists staring wide-eyed at the stone archway that predated even Vassalaer, not because death itself was breathing down his neck.

  Saints, the idea of spending a whole morning in the library, reading whatever he wanted, with no reason to hurry back to the house … it was a fantasy he wrapped around his mind as he trudged across the bridge. One morning, to read, to relax. It sounded like a saintsdamned dream.

  And like a dream dissolving when consciousness struck, that idea of a blissful morning scattered as Azrail opened the front door to his home and let himself in. The smell hit him first—jasmine and herbs and home—closely followed by the low growls of Evrille and Siofra in the middle of the argument. Jaro was at work serving a client he hated, and Zamanya was apparently still roaming the fabric market, so it fell to Az to soothe tempers. As usual.

  With a sigh, he shut the door behind himself and walked, weary, into the kitchen to diffuse their explosive fight.

  Chapter Eight

  Maia’s stomach was a knotted mass of serpents as the guard marched her through the pale, vaulted halls of the palace, her nerves writhing and hissing as the guard escorted her through tall, airy hallways. She was marched silently past harried maids and straight-backed staff with equally silent footsteps, the rare bit of sound coming from birds chattering outside the tall, ornate windows and the wayward children who ran laughing through the halls like Maia had done when she was younger. If they noticed their princess being led through the winding golden halls, they averted their eyes so as not to draw the attention of the fearsome weapon at the queen’s right hand—or outright stared. Though her aunt did her best to keep any other empire from discovering Maia’s gifts—all the better for her to trick them, to addle their minds—she could do nothing against the eyes and whispers of cooks, cleaners, and guards who bustled through the palace mostly unseen.

  On a normal day, Maia’s thick skin blocked out the stares
and gasps, but on a day when she’d been summoned—when she was only ever summoned for one reason—the reactions of those people sliced her apart. Her people—they were her people. She was their princess, and they feared her. If she hadn’t been of noble birth, would they have shunned her like they shunned the beastkind? True, she didn’t shift into an animal form, but her power wasn’t exactly … saintly.

  Luckily, those thoughts wisped from her mind as the palace guard led her to the private rooms beyond the towering sculpture of the Eversky, the saint’s beard as frothy as any cloud, a storm in each of his eyes, and a lightning bolt clutched in his raised hand like a gift—or a threat. Maia wiped any trace of emotion off her face; she was as cold and unmoving as that statue. She was stone and stone did not feel. Even if stone did crack, just slightly, as the gilded door to her aunt’s sitting room came into sight. Her personal room. She was escalating her attempts to sway the envoys, then.

  Maia drew a slow, subtle breath, fixing her eyes on the entwined vultures inlaid in gold on the double doors as the palace guard’s gloved hands swept them open.

  “Maia Isellien Delakore, Princess of the Vassal Empire, Right Hand of The Queen,” he announced to the people already arranged on settees, chairs, and a single, heavily embroidered sofa imported from saints knew where. Each piece of furniture was rendered in deep jewel green tones to echo the colouring of the walls and rugs. An apt colour for her aunt she’d always thought—the colour of envy.

  Maia gave each person in the room a bland, pretty smile, marking each one: her cold, beautiful aunt, her snivelling, vicious cousin, slimy Lord Erren, a handful of guards she saw daily—and of the V’haivans only Prince Kheir and Sir Valleir, the merchant Maia had snared yesterday. Both had glimmering wings on display, the merchant’s ruby red and the prince’s rich copper.

  Maia’s stomach knotted further, the serpents eating their own tails. This would be an assault, if Ismene had only invited the one emissary they’d already addled and the prince who was obviously Maia’s target. She wanted no one here to witness what happened.

  It would be bad, Maia realised, her palms pricking with sweat even as she kept her expression pleasant and neutral.

  “Apologies for being late,” she said, and made no excuses. None would be good enough for her aunt, anyway, so what was the point?

  “You haven’t missed much,” the prince said with a warm smile on his handsome golden face. Yes, this would be bad—to rip into his mind of honour and goodness, and corrupt it to evil so he agreed with her aunt. But what choice did Maia have? She’d disobeyed her aunt once, and had no desire to do it again. The consequences had been brutal, and she'd been a child. How much worse would it be now that Maia was grown?

  Some might call it cowardice, the force that kept her doing her aunt’s bidding rather than speaking her mind, following her aunt's whims instead of her own wishes. Maia called it safety and self-preservation.

  “Prince Kheir was just telling us about his plans for a new alliance,” Ismene said as she smoothed non-existent creases from her rich orange gown with unnaturally smooth fingers. She hated this alliance, whatever it was.

  But Prince Kheir didn’t seem to notice as he nodded his head, bronze waves of hair swaying, and turned to Maia with a smile that stole her breath. She took a seat beside her aunt, hating that genuine smile on his face, the open hope in his chocolate eyes. She liked him, she realised. Liked his beliefs, liked the way he measured his words before he spoke, and she especially liked the kindness in his smile. She’d never known a prince like him.

  “V’haiv would like an alliance between all known empires, a halt to conquering so we can each support each other. There would be benefits, obviously, to trade, and economy. And less resources would be wasted from our armies.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Ismene replied with a wry smile, her blonde head held high on her neck, all grace and superiority. “We waste no resources, as we only win.”

  Disappointment tightened Kheir’s eyes, but he recognised that Ismene wasn’t going to budge and just nodded, tucking his pearly copper wings close to his back. “Another time, then.”

  “Of course,” the queen replied. Translation: never.

  Her bright blue eyes slid to Maia, and the message was clear: snare him. Maia swallowed the hatred clogging her throat, and gave her aunt a subtle nod, making sure her snare was still deep in Sir Valleir’s mind and he wasn’t going to give Ismene any trouble.

  Maia felt physically sick as she began to hum under her breath, but it was better that she addle the kind, noble prince than suffer the consequences herself. She didn’t know him after all; she might have put up a fight if Ismene had asked her to snare Naemi, but she wouldn’t fight for this stranger. Even if his steady, gentle eyes made her stomach twist as they fixed on Ismene with open curiosity as she said, “Now, I have a matter I wanted to discuss with you away from the lords and other merchants, Prince Kheir.”

  “I’m all ears,” the prince replied with a smile, adjusting the ochre fabric of his knee-length tunic. He was too good for this palace, for the spiders who ruled within it.

  “I know you pushed back against the idea of expanding the caravans yesterday,” Ismene said, tilting her head and watching him—waiting for submission to slacken his face, Maia realised, and hated herself nearly as much as she hated Ismene. “But I think today, you’ll find yourself much more amenable to the idea.”

  “I doubt I will,” Kheir replied, distaste crouching behind his calm and wisdom. “I’m not moved by greed, your majesty, unlike my merchant friends.”

  “Then by what?” she asked, watching him as if he was amusing—quaint. The tea and cakes they’d been sharing lay forgotten on the low table between them, Ismene focused on her prey.

  “By duty, and loyalty,” Kheir replied, and Maia bit down on her tongue as she hummed louder, her song twisting and twining, tugging at her heart even as she wrapped the threads of her invisible power around Kheir’s mind like a net. A simple ribbon wouldn’t work on the prince, she knew. No, he’d require more effort, more magic. “The loyalty I now offer you in our truce.”

  “I have no need of loyalty,” Ismene replied as Maia began to hum in earnest, closing her net of power around Prince Kheir’s mind and disgusted at herself for every second of it. The one bit of goodness and light to have walked into this blackened palace, and she was tainting it, corrupting him. “Even in my allies. I need only obedience.”

  Kheir sat back, his handsome face darkening with offense, thick brows slashed low over intense eyes. Maia felt the ripple of that sharp emotion flare through his mind, tugging on the strings of her song’s net. She tightened the strands until his mind was entirely hers, until she was able to plant her own suggestions and ideas in his head. But she hesitated. This crossed a line— planting wickedness in his mind of goodness and strength. He was a confusing dichotomy of fragile and strong, unbreakable vows and wistful dreams.

  She hadn’t come across a mind like this before—one of true kindness and care, and the willingness to do what was right no matter how difficult. Maia was a steaming pile of shit compared to Kheir.

  “I’m a prince of V’haiv,” Kheir said in a low voice. His words—his, when Maia should have been controlling him like a puppeteer. “You’ll have my loyalty, my friendship even, but never my obedience. I owe that only to my parents, to my crown, and to my people.”

  Ismene laughed softly, and slid a look at Maia.

  Maia frantically tightened her net until the strings of power bit into his mind, cut deep, and her tongue vibrated as she hummed more forcefully, adding another layer of silent melody to her complex song. Sweat broke out on her temples as his mind slammed up against her hold, refusing to bend let alone break, and Prince Kheir fixed his eyes on her, sensing, knowing.

  She wanted to tell him that she was sorry, that she’d never have done this unless she had no other option, but she had to look out for herself, and refusing her aunt was the opposite of looking out for herse
lf.

  His wings went dull, flat to his back, and Kheir’s dark eyes pinched with betrayal as they shifted from her to Ismene to the guards, and finally landed on the merchant from his own council. Maia had Sir Valleir in so tight a grip that he only blinked when Kheir gritted his teeth and asked for help.

  “End it,” Ismene said, picking up a lightning biscuit and snapping it in half, calmly dunking it into her tea cup.

  “What?” Maia breathed, her heart galloping in her chest. End it? Ismene had never told her to do that before. End the snare? Or … end him?

  Ismene met her eyes and held, unyielding. “Kill him. I know your power can do it, Maia. I sense the ability in you, that call to death. Crush his mind. He’s our enemy now.”

  V’haiv would certainly be their enemy if they killed their prince. And that shining goodness, that beacon of hope and strength that called to Maia’s darkened soul … Maia was to snuff that out? End it altogether?

  She licked her lip, her mouth suddenly dry, and her heart slammed erratically against her ribs. She was trapped, like the hunchback saint in the stories, stuck between two jagged rocks, with no way out. Maia only hoped she didn’t have to heave herself free, tearing limb from torso, like he had.

  There were no good choices—either she killed the prince, or she said no.

  Instead, she chose a far more dangerous thing. She asked, “Why?”

  Ismene’s pale eyes narrowed, her smoky brown teaglass rattling hard as she set it on the table before them and turned the full force of her focus to her niece. Maia wanted to shrink into the sofa cushions, but she didn’t dare move even that tiny amount. She didn’t even breathe. “Because I am your queen,” Ismene replied, dangerously soft, “and I told you to.”

  “You’re not,” Prince Kheir rasped, his dark eyes flinty as he slammed against Maia’s net of snaresong, severing some of the strands of her song. Powerful—he was almost as powerful as Maia. Her head flared, a migraine setting in, and sweat slid down her back, beneath the dress she’d worn two days in a row. She doubted Ismene had even noticed, doubted anything about Maia mattered to her beyond what she could do for the queen. “You’re not her queen,” Kheir forced out, his teeth gritted as he struggled against her power, gaining an inch of freedom before Maia fuelled more power into her song, her magic pouncing on his mind and wrestling back control. “Ananke Sanvillius is,” he spat.