He shoved a wedge in that crack, and pushed. “But you knew that. Maybe not about me, not specifically, but you knew what she was capable of by the time you came to Aransa. You kicked her agents out of the Saldives, kept those islands all to yourself while you came here to set up a base of power. And what did you do, Thratia? What did you fucking do?”
He couldn’t help it now. She knew. She’d always known. And that realization was acid in his chest. “You sold them to her. You thought to yourself: Hmm, I need some weapons. Some nice shiny swords. You know how I can get them? Trading deviants, trading human-fucking-beings, to Ranalae Lasson to carve up for jollies. To the very woman you claim you want to stop. Pitsfuckitall, Thratia, you were going to sell her Pelkaia, going to sell her me, just to get a few crates of weapons in your bloody hands. What good is that? What’s the fucking point?”
She’d gone still, her slim frame so very solid he half expected her to radiate cold as if she’d been frozen through. After a long pause, wherein the only sound was the panting of his own breath, she licked her lips. “A few, to save many. That was my trade. My bloody bargain.”
His wrist was in her hand, her grip coiled so tight his skin bulged between her fingers. He stared, open-mouthed, at his upraised hand, his flat palm. He’d been going to slap her. Hadn’t even thought about it. Hadn’t even realized it.
And then, the sudden realization: he could have reached for selium. Would have, months ago, but with the sharpening of his anger that sense had closed down, a safety valve switched shut. Tibs would be proud. He almost giggled.
“I lost only two,” she said.
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“Two went to the Bone Tower. The rest were still on Callia’s barge.”
It was rather hard to think through the thundering of the rage in his ears, but he got there, eventually. Recalled what little Aella had told him about her return to Aransa, her whitecoat mistress Callia struck ill, Thratia their only port of refuge. Detan had long suspected Aella of poisoning Callia to take her place, to take control of her research under Thratia’s direction. He hadn’t considered that Thratia had orchestrated the whole thing from the start.
“You’re insane.”
She smiled, and the expression was so genuine and girlish she almost transformed into another woman right before his eyes. “I am determined.”
“And what do you want me for, then?” he demanded, hating himself for letting her push him into that corner but needing, so desperately, to have something real to hold onto. Some kernel of truth from which he could begin to spin a plan to undo Thratia and Ranalae and any other cold-hearted bastard he stumbled across on his way to kicking her teeth in. “Am I trade goods for your enemy as well? A way to fake yourself close to her so that you may strike?”
“Haven’t you figured it out yet? Your blood is the only thing of use to me.”
His blood. His deviation. The horrible perversion of his sel-sensitivity, twisted into a weapon to throw at his home city. The city he’d promised his mother he’d protect. His stomach churned. To pretend to be a weapon against them, well, he’d expected as much, but – no.
That wasn’t what she wanted. She’d said as much, when she’d laughed him off.
What what what.
She reached for him. His skin crawled all over as her fingers curled around his neck, palm pressing against his jugular, the rising beat of his heart heavy and hot against her hand. If she choked him, he could twist away, throw her out that open window. He’d escaped from direr places, it wouldn’t take more than a week to reach Hond Steading if he could steal a flier –
Her fingertips, nails trimmed away to nothing, pads firm with callouses, traced the outline of the family crest branded into the back of his neck. The crest that marked him the sole heir of the city she intended to take. He swallowed, pulse kicking, skin heating.
There were other reasons to want his blood. Older reasons.
That smile returned, though this time there was nothing of kindness in it. “I see you understand.”
“You can’t be serious.”
Once, what seemed like lifetimes ago, he spotted Callia’s barge flying into dock at Thratia’s compound and, not knowing what it was, cracked a joke about her finally giving in to a political marriage. He did not feel like laughing now.
“I am. Your family’s city is unique of the cities of the Scorched, in its de facto independence from Valathea and its insistence on a hereditary leadership. Quaint ideals, but useful to me. I want Hond Steading whole. With one little contract, you can give it to me. No siege. No war. No one has to die.”
He’ll do.
The distance between them shortened, but did not close, the heat of her body radiating through a tunic that seemed, to his eye, suddenly too thin, his own clothes too tight. He cleared his throat, swallowed hard, tried to get a handle on – on – anything, and came up floundering. Perhaps for the first time in his life, he was at a loss for words.
“You have until we arrive at Hond Steading to decide, and make no mistake, I am marching for that city prepared to break it regardless of your answer.”
So perfunctory. So matter-of-fact. He caught himself staring at the ripple of a scar that marred the side of her face, the brutalization that was his doing. The evidence of which she wore proudly, black hair pinned back to reveal the whole scope of the damage.
He’d done that. Hadn’t meant to, not really, but he hadn’t felt sorry about it, either. And here she was, the distance between them gone now, the hard warmth of her pressed against him, head tilted in question, fingers stroking, stroking, and he could hardly catch his breath let alone decide if he wanted to scream or laugh or weep.
He brushed her ruined cheek with his fingertips, and she did not flinch away.
And then they were together, merging, forceful and firm and breathless.
He forgot himself. For a little while.
Chapter Twenty
Watcher whistles echoed down the lanes of Hond Steading, raising conflicting prickles all over Ripka’s skin. Old instincts urged her to run to that call, to assist her fellows. She pushed those urges aside, focused on what she must do to gain the trust of Latia and Dranik.
The sight of Dranik’s face, bruised and terrified, firmed her resolve. He was into something, something that frightened him. And that fear alone was enough to confirm her suspicions that he meant well for the citizens of Hond Steading. He’d just been misguided about the best methods to achieve that goal.
Distract and evade. What she had to work with wasn’t much – a vague understanding of the city’s streets, the quiet of night. No crowds bustled through this neighborhood, the only nightlife seemed to be centered on the theater. And that was the answer. She mentally saluted the watchers pursuing her, and hoped Lakon hadn’t trained them as well as she’d been trained.
Cloistered in the alley’s shadows, she listened to the clatter of watcher feet, judged the whistle-blower’s distance, and sprinted into view.
He yelped with surprise, and she almost laughed at the sound. She’d cut it a little too close, but she threw power into her legs and widened the distance, diving into the shelter of another alley. He couldn’t ignore that. No way. She paused, panting, wired with tension until she heard the blast of whistles that meant he’d sighted one of the fugitives and was in pursuit. Answering blasts broke the night.
She was prey, and they were hunting dogs.