Wicked Crown (Shattered Kingdom Book 2)

by Angelina J. Steffort

  One slow, painful step after the other, along the chalk marks on the floor, as if they were a map … to him. This was where she belonged. Where that burning symbol on her shoulder steered her.

  When Addie made it to the center of the map, the figure stepped out of the shadows, and a pair of bright, emerald eyes welcomed her with a wicked promise of eternity.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Gandrett didn’t know if she should be shocked at the disappointment that filled her, not at the revelation that there were more dangers stirring in the west of Neredyn—other than those Fae who had been banned into their own lands and forced into dormancy—but at the news that Nehelon was leaving.

  She stared at him, stared and failed to hide that shock from him. Damn Fae-bastard, dragging her all the way back here to Ackwood just to leave the next best chance he got.

  “Lord Tyrem and I have been spending the days since our return meeting to think through the situation with the rising Shygon cult here in Sives,” he said as if she hadn’t just spoken those last words.

  “And what are you to do about it?” She eyed him, following his lead while ignoring what he had revealed and wouldn’t confirm. “Without magic, who will help those villages?”

  Nehelon gave her a look that seemed to say, you should know me better than to think I don’t have a plan.

  Of course he did. He was Nehelon. He always had a plan. Didn’t mean things didn’t go terribly wrong all the time, anyway. She managed what felt like a smirk and stalked over to the couch where she plopped down beside him and pulled her knees to her chest.

  For a second, she had the impression he was uncomfortable that there was less than a foot of space between them. Then his face smoothed over, and he leaned back, folding his arms across his muscled chest—Gandrett didn’t fail to notice those chiseled planes and grooves showing off through the plain, white shirt he was wearing.

  “Lord Tyrem, together with Joshua and Armand Denderlain, will ensure that there will be patrols organized in the villages. The mercenaries who used to fight each other to separate Sives will need to learn to work together to protect the people of Sives.”

  Gandrett listened and wondered if they had thought things through—really through. “And how many mercenaries do you have? How long until they get to each and every village? What if one per village is not enough to stop the worshippers from hunting?” Because hunting was what it was. “And what about what brews beyond Lands End?”

  “You are asking the right questions, Gandrett,” Nehelon said in response but didn’t offer an answer. Instead, he turned to face her, two lines etched into that perfect Fae face as the glamour lifted ever so slightly. “We will need to deal with it when the time comes.” As with everything else, his eyes seemed to say, blue and deep and multifaceted in their expression as he tightened his arms over his chest as if he was fighting to keep himself in place.

  “And until then?” Gandrett’s nostrils flared as the phantom smell of burnt flesh, death, and decay hit her. “How many people will die? How many will lose their own will?”

  Nehelon stared her down with those eyes, unyielding, his hands clenched into fists now.

  “In the business of running a kingdom, you don’t get the luxury of saving a realm without collateral.”

  Gandrett’s magic rose in her chest, surged through her veins like a spring tide, but she balled her own hands into fists, just as Nehelon had, holding it in, containing that shapeless, nameless power within her. I am your master, she quietly told it. “You do seem to know a thing or two about how to run a kingdom,” she hissed at him, tasting the power in her mouth, smoke and salt and something that tasted familiarly like dirt.

  Nehelon blinked and dropped one arm to brush an imaginary fleck of dust off his shirt. “I’ve spent enough time at the courts of Neredyn to know a thing or two about how to run a kingdom, as you call it,” he bit at her, leaning closer without noticing. His glamour had slipped completely, revealing that beautiful Fae face, the sight of which shoved Gandrett right back into solstice night.

  Gandrett sucked in a breath and his scent drifted into her nose, into her mouth, making it hard to breathe, hard to hold on to that anger that made dealing with Nehelon Sterngrove so much easier.

  “And yet, you are leaving this one when you’re most needed here.” The words were out before she could think of what it truly was she was saying.

  Nehelon held her gaze, so close now that they shared breath. Gandrett, to her surprise, found she had turned toward him, leaned closer, drawn by his scent. She watched his pupils flare as she swallowed, anxious to see if he had an answer to what she had really been asking. You are leaving when I need you here.

  “You might be a gods-blessed pain in the ass, Gandrett,” he said against her face, “but you will never be alone.” His words sunk in, making fuzzy warmth spread alongside that annoyance that naturally came with the presence of the Fae male. He surveilled her for a moment longer, one elbow now on the backrest of the sofa, and with a finger so light they might have been the stroke of a feather, he brushed strands of drying hair behind her shoulder, revealing all of her face.

  In response, a tingling sensation ran down Gandrett’s spine, begging her to close that gap between her mouth and that sensuous curve of Nehelon’s lips, where hot breath—his or hers, she no longer could tell—mingled in anticipation.

  “You’ll have Mckenzie and Joshua”—his words were a whisper, his gaze wandering lower until they lingered on her lips—“and Brax.”

  Nehelon’s shoulders shifted slightly, but his face didn’t move away from hers, his lazy eyes wandering lower, to her throat, her shoulder, and down to her hand, which was clutching the fabric of her pants in an attempt to not grab the front of his shirt and pull him closer.

  The male smiled. A lazy smile that told Gandrett that no matter what he had said in that tent, no matter what mistake he had called it, Nehelon Sterngrove was about to make another mistake.

  A smile tugged on her mouth as she studied his features, the bronze of his skin, darker now after they had spent weeks in that clearing, the contrast of his eyes, that pale shade of a blue diamond, his waves cascading over his ears all the way to his shoulders, and for a heartbeat, she considered brushing them back to reveal those pointed ears and graze her fingertips over them.

  “And you’ll always have this.” Gandrett almost protested as he pulled away, taking that heavenly scent with him, but when Nehelon’s hand gently wrapped around hers, she forgot to speak. She let him draw her fingers from her pants and didn’t say a word as he turned over her hand and brought their hands in between their chests, feeling a small weight suddenly sitting in her palm.

  When Gandrett looked down, she found her mother’s wedding band resting there, Nehelon’s fingers still lingering around her hand, holding it up for her to see.

  “How—?” It was all Gandrett managed to say as she stared at the silver circle worn with age, full of scratches from years and years of working in the fields.

  He had to have taken it off her mother’s corpse back in Alencourt. Gandrett’s other hand flipped to her throat where her mother’s necklace used to be.

  “I thought you would appreciate it,” he said with a smile, “now that your brother has the necklace.”

  Yes, she did. And the words were there on her tongue—thank you—but Gandrett held them in, nodding at the Fae instead. She had made that mistake once and would never again. For a brief moment, she wondered why Nehelon hadn’t collected that life debt yet.

  “I never got the chance to say happy birthday,” he murmured, his gaze locked back on hers.

  With gentle pressure, he closed her fingers around the ring and let go of her hand to brush a knuckle over her cheek instead. Gandrett ignored the tingling sensation it induced in her skin. “Eighteen,” he mused. “So young.”

  Gandrett wasn’t sure if she should focus on the fact that Nehelon knew her birthday or that he was touching her face, that his gaze was boring
deep into her soul. Shit. How did he do that? How did he go from being that cold, annoying Fae to becoming an anchor in time? How had he known her birthday? And more importantly, why did he even care?

  “How did you know?” she decided it was more important to know the how than to get lost in the potential reasons that drove Nehelon Sterngrove to do anything. So far, she hadn’t had much luck understanding the conundrum that the Fae male presented. “Nobody knows. Not even at the priory.” Well, not entirely true. Surel, Kaleb, and Nahir knew, but nobody celebrated birthdays at the priory. There, they were just servants, property.

  “The Meister told me.” He dropped his hand and raised an eyebrow. “When I picked you up, I got all the details…” His voice trailed away as he studied her, and Gandrett wondered what he read in her face that made him come to the conclusion, “You didn’t tell anyone here.”

  Gandrett shook her head. No. She hadn’t. She had been in too much shock after they had found the Shygon cult victim, and her mother’s death had been too new. Plus, it had been Midsummer Solstice, a night of a goddess, not of a girl who didn’t even know what she was anymore. Who didn’t belong anywhere now.

  Nehelon cocked his head. “Not even Brax?”

  As if summoned by Nehelon’s words, the youngest Brenheran son burst through the door, stopping dead on the threshold as he beheld the proximity between Gandrett and the chancellor.

  Shit. Gandrett straightened, smoothing over her face, erasing whatever had been there a second earlier. Beside her, Nehelon did the same as he got to his feet in a motion too graceful to be human.

  Thank the gods Brax didn’t seem to notice. His attention was on Gandrett, who turned to examine Nehelon’s face with half a glance, making sure his features were human, those delicately pointed ears hidden beneath his dark waves. Nehelon glared back at her, his expression bored. He could have been examining her dental health for all the excitement he showed when he dragged his gaze away and turned to Brax instead. “Yes?”

  Brax, however, didn’t seem to care whatever he had walked in on. There was alarm in his face that made Gandrett reach to where her sword was usually buckled at her hip.

  “Josh,” he panted as if he had been running up the stairs. “Come quick.” There was panic in his eyes as he turned to lead the way but stopped as Nehelon requested in a growl to know what was going on.

  Gandrett was already on her feet, donning her weapons while Nehelon stood, too still to appear human, his eyes turning south-east as if he heard what he had been looking for.

  “Something is wrong with Josh,” was all the explanation Brax offered before he darted out the door, Nehelon was immediately at his heels, asking specifics about where the Prince of Sives was, if he had been attacked, if he was injured.

  “No injuries, no attack,” Brax breathed to the male beside him while Gandrett followed right behind them, her body going into battle mode as she had been trained for a decade, her senses more alert, her breathing deeper, calmer, forming a layer of protection against the rising fire in her veins.

  There were hardly any guards in the hallways as they followed Brax down the stairs, floor after floor, past the stained glass windows, which seemed darker, duller than usual despite the torches that were flickering along the dark stone walls. Gandrett listened to their footsteps—two human ones and one set of stealthy Fae feet that seemed to have forgotten to fake being human—as they flew down the final staircase leading them to the great hall where Tyrem Brenheran had welcomed her that very first day at Ackwood palace.

  “What’s wrong then?” Nehelon bit, not at all out of breath despite having run through half the palace.

  They skidded to a halt at the cluster of guards standing by the closed door to the great hall, waiting for something, it seemed, and Nehelon barked a command to let them pass.

  But the guards didn’t step aside. They didn’t incline their heads at the chancellor and didn’t show their respect to the younger heir of Ackwood. Instead, they drew their swords, ready to cut down anyone who dared cross them.

  “One more step,” one of the men growled in warning. Gandrett drew her weapon, readying herself to hold her ground should they attack.

  “Let us through,” Brax hissed in response, his voice laced with command. “My father is in there. And my brother. Your lord and your future king.”

  The guards remained unimpressed by Brax’s words, three more of them palming their weapons as they fell into formation.

  “We have orders to guard the door,” the one that seemed to be highest in rank said, something like reluctance in his voice.

  A scream sounded through the closed doors, telling of fear and agony. “Joshua!” Brax called from behind her, his own voice full of horror.

  They needed to get in there. Now. Or it might be too late for the heir of Sives. Whatever was going on behind those doors … if they didn’t get in there, Sives might no longer have an heir.

  Nehelon growled, a sound that was as little human as the male under the glamour. “Last chance,” he said, a statue of muscle and power as he ran his gaze over each of the armed men that separated them from the man who needed their help. “Step aside, or my sword will be the last thing you taste.”

  If the men heard the death ringing in his words, they didn’t show it. Instead, they shifted so they were covering up the door from all angles.

  Gandrett waited, gathering her strength to strike, her muscles were coiled, the grasp on her sword tight, her focus on all the little details marking the weak spots of each of their opponents. She knew some of the faces. Others she had never seen before, but it didn’t matter. She wasn’t going to kill until there was no other way. Incapacitate and get to the door. Even if Nehelon might disagree—she could tell by the violence in his gaze as he stared them down one by one.

  None of them moved. So he did. With a quick glance at Brax, who nodded, Nehelon advanced, letting the guards land that first blow, parrying them with his blade and his swift movements.

  Gandrett followed his lead. Even if she knew he could whirl through the group of soldiers so fast they wouldn’t even know what was happening before they kissed stone, Nehelon was forced to act human as long as he was in the human realms, or he would risk exposure. He would have to fight like a human—and he would need the help of Vala’s Blade.

  So she smirked at the guard closest to her, studying him as he lowered his center of gravity at Gandrett’s approach. He was of average height, a target that she could easily eliminate—slice through the throat or go lower and cut his knees before she gutted him. But that wasn’t her goal. Incapacitate. Not kill. That was what she wanted to do. Kill as few of them as possible.

  The man lifted his sword while Gandrett kept hers in front of her chest just high enough to let the blade form a protective line between that guard and that wildly thudding heart of hers. As he swung to strike, teeth bared and eyes cold as solid ice, Gandrett knocked the hilt of her sword into his elbow, making the guard curse and halt.

  Gandrett danced around him in a whirl that even Nehelon would be proud of—had he seen it. The Fae’s lethal focus, however, lay on the door between which he and less than five men were still standing. Gandrett brought her opponent down with a kick to the back of his knees and grabbed his sword while he was still falling, not waiting for the thud of his head to hit the polished stone she had torn from beneath his feet. The next man was already stepping in her path, his eyes glinting with death. He was a mountain of muscle, swinging a longsword and fashioning a feral grin that would have made Gandrett stop and run hadn’t she seen that expression countless times when she had gone up against the best of the best in the order. She crossed the two blades before her, the weight familiar and reassuring in her hands as she assessed the man, his armor protecting his chest and shoulders … and the slight tremor that went through his movement as he circled that sword before her. He had been injured, right there in his shoulder, where a scratch told of a blow he must have taken not too long ago.

&n
bsp; Gandrett answered the man’s grin with one of her own, hands leading her blades to her sides, giving the man an aim … and waited for him to bring down that sword just to dive under his arm and cut right into that shoulder as she passed under his elbow. Not deep. Enough to incapacitate him. Enough to find stains of crimson on her sleeve as she raised her sword again.

  As she turned, Brax was already behind her, the sword of one of the men Nehelon had cut down in his hands, and gestured to the right where two more guards were daring them to try to get past them.

  It was a team effort of less than half a minute to corner them and get them, but they didn’t surrender their weapons as Gandrett had been hoping. On the contrary, their minds seemed set on fighting.

  So they fought … for another half minute before Nehelon ran them both through with his sword, that icy calm never leaving his face.

  Gandrett watched as he drew his sword from the last guard’s abdomen, watching the man try to hold himself together as blood gushed from his wound. A surge of pity trickled through Gandrett … but only for a moment. The next, the man leapt for her—Nehelon having stepped beyond his reach—and attempted to wrap those crimson fingers around her throat.

  Attempted.

  The next moment, Gandrett’s sword sliced his throat, and those hands never even touched their destination.

  A glance to the side informed Gandrett that Nehelon did have another expression in his portfolio for combat: plain horror.

  “I’m fine,” she said to the male whose nostrils were flaring at the smell of blood.

  “You’re hurt,” he responded and was at her side in an instant, leaving Brax to rush to the double doors and try to open them. They seemed to be locked.

  The stinging in Gandrett’s forearm came in delay to Nehelon picking up her arm by her elbow and holding it up to examine the thin red line showing through a tear in her sleeve.