It’s a recklessness that reminds me of . . . well, me. It’s dangerous for us. “What now?” I ask. “Where do we go? Surely we’re not safe here. Tymon’s coven will arrive any moment, I’m sure.”
“So we move, little temptress,” Skar says.
“Where?”
“Wherever Aramastun won’t find us.”
“You won’t be safe anywhere in Olhav,” Aelin spits at him with venom. “I’ll make sure of it!”
As Lukain walks over the pile of ash that remains of Tymon Aldion, he freezes and glances over at Aelin. “Shall I punt her out the window, little grimmer? For her betrayal?”
I lock eyes with Aelin. It doesn’t take long to see through her—to witness the deep sadness welling behind her eyes. I recognize it’s not sadness at her husband’s death, no matter what kind of act she wants to put on. It’s sadness at her newfound predicament: a pregnant human woman with numerous offspring, trapped in a world of bloodthirsty monsters in the midst of a civil war.
She’s hopeless here. No prospects, other than to find another bastard bloodsucker to latch onto, to pump out more unwanted dhampirs for another nobleman. Possibly even Aramastun Wyvox himself.
My head shakes curtly. “No,” I murmur, feeling a pang of unwanted emotion in my breast. I quickly tamp it down. I let my untold fury rise in its stead—a look overcoming me that Aelin never saw in all the years we were comrades in the Firehold. That barely held-back fury I harbored when I learned she had hurt one of my friends, all for the sake of her own pleasure and greed.
“No,” I repeat. My eyes never leave Aelin’s, even as hers tremble and waver with tears. “She hasn’t suffered enough for her betrayals. Let her endure that suffering for the rest of her life, however short it may be.”
Chapter 5
Sephania
The smoke is thick and black as we exit Tymon’s chamber, leaving Aelin to stand there in stupefaction. In the hazy hall outside, trouble awaits.
Four vampire guardsmen stand in the hall, two abreast, with their swords drawn. They are stern, pale men, with deep frowns. Their bodies are tight, constricted, the muscles of their frames flexed and waiting for us to emerge. They don’t look like standard commonbloods, with their leather armor and studded cloaks.
Though they are poised to strike, they don’t move to act against us when we emerge in the hall. Skartovius is the first to show himself from the smoky room, with the rest of us behind him. It is Skar who the foursome eyes.
“Men,” Skar grumbles. “Stand down.”
“What happened in there?” one of the guards asks.
Screeching comes from the room. Aelin appears in the doorway a second later, pointing at us, yelling, “They murdered your lord, soldiers! Don’t let them escape! Hold them until Overlord Aramastun can—”
I spin, cock my arm back, and punch Aelin directly in the face.
She drops like a sack of stone, but not before Lukain catches her, eyes me judgmentally, and gently lowers her so the baby in her womb isn’t wounded.
I shake my pained knuckles out—I think I struck a tooth—and seethe. My mates give me a sidelong glance before facing the four guards.
Punching out annoying boys and dangerous men is my favorite thing to do, but I’m not against knocking out women if they overstep or pose the same danger. It’s just not very common. Even though I used to know Aelin, she’s no longer in my good graces. She never was.
Plus, it was a knee-jerk reaction at the sound of her accusatory, shrill voice. I feel no shame for sacking that pregnant predator.
“Judging by the smoke wafting after you, Lord Ashfen, I imagine Lady Aelin is not lying,” says the vampire guard. He seems strangely at ease considering the situation and the fact his lord is a pile of gray snow in the other room.
“She is not.”
“Why have you killed Demilord Aldion?”
Not only at ease. Civil, too.It’s odd to see from a vampire—and one with a sword in his hand, ready to use, no less.
“Because he tried to kill Lady Lock. That’s something we do not permit.” Skar leans forward, hand on the hilt of his sword. “Consider that a warning, soldier.”
“You’ve never been the threatening type, my lord,” the vampire says. “More of the action type.”
Skartovius shrugs. His auburn mane bounces on his shoulders. “I’m a bit frazzled from the night I’ve had.”