Siren's Fury Page 9

  No. I want to cover my mind. I can’t believe this.

  “It’s not open for argument. It will happen unless you—”

  “Not a chance in hulls,” I whisper. “You can’t ask me to do this—and even if I could, Draewulf took my powers.”

  “I know. You’ll have to use a knife. If you plunge it in at the back of my neck, it’ll kill us both.”

  I don’t answer. I can’t. My lungs are blocked, my breath is blocked, and how can he think I could do this? How can he ask me to kill him? I look around for something—anything—to fix it. To stop this. Myles. “Myles thinks there may be a way to save you, and if I can just—”

  “Myles? He’s dangerous—”

  “I know what he is, but are you serious, Eogan? What you’re asking of me . . . I won’t. Not before I have the chance to try. And Myles says—”

  “You can’t trust anything he says.” He takes on his trainer tone—the serious one he’d use when Colin or I would take risks too heavy for us. “I’m telling you . . . I’m asking you—”

  “I hear what you’re asking! But are you jesting me right now? Your people need you. I need you.” My voice cracks.

  His face softens. He flutters a finger down my face, my hair. “I’ve already damaged you enough for one lifetime—there’s no bleeding way I’m doing it again. Or have you forgotten what I did to your parents?”

  What a bolcrane. “Don’t you dare use that on me, because honestly? What would you do if I was in your predicament right now?”

  He snorts. Then he inhales and pushes a black hand through his black hair, which only succeeds in making it endearingly messy in his all-too-familiar way. “It doesn’t matter because it’s not you. And—”

  “Right, it’s not. So are we honestly going to stand here arguing about it when we should be figuring out how to free you?”

  He runs a hand through his hair again and eyes me. “I’ve been working on that.”

  “And?”

  A flash of apology crosses his face.

  “I don’t believe that. I refuse to believe that.”

  “You have to. Otherwise . . .” His voice hardens even as his gaze drops to my lips. “Please believe me that he’s going to hurt you, Nym. And while that may not matter to you, it certain as hulls matters to . . . others.” I watch him swallow as the expression in those beautiful green eyes turns begging. He traces a finger down my cheek. His thumb stops beneath my chin and nearly crumbles me. Abruptly I am dissolving against his chest like paper flowers in a puddle and he is enclosing himself around me. “Listen. When you get to Bron, I need you to find Sir Gowon and explain what’s happened to me. Tell him about Draewulf.” He leans into me so close, as if to ensure only my ear will hear. “Tell him Elegy 96. He’ll know what it means.”

  “Will he be able to help you?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “Eogan, will he be able to help you?”

  “Hopefully he won’t need to by th—”

  I move my mouth to his so fast to shut him up. He startles, but the next moment his lips are pressing down against mine, drinking in as if he’s been thirsty for emotion and warmth for far too long. Melting me into a tangle of heartstrings as everything I am, everything I thought I’d lost, rises to the surface. I push my fingers into his hair to pull him closer, tighter, because I cannot leave, I cannot breathe, I cannot let go of this moment.

  His teeth catch my lip just as the shaking in his body grows stronger. He pulls away. “Promise me you’ll end this.”

  I shake my head because nothing in me is ready for this. I still need to know—to find out—what will become of us, of him, of our future. I refuse to answer.

  His response is one single nod. I can see it in his eyes—he knows I will not do it. Not when hope is standing here in front of me.

  The next thing I know he’s gently edging me aside and placing his hands on the airship railing. His fingers grip down, and when I look up he gives me one last look of apology.

  What is he—?

  He lunges. I grab for his arm but it doesn’t matter—whatever control he has isn’t enough to throw himself over. His knuckles turn white and his muscles are rippling with the effort. He’s straining forward, but his body won’t move, as if pinned by another force.

  His expression collapses in pain just before his body flaps like the air around us.

  I grab his shoulders and shake, but his eyes are already altering. “No, don’t—” The black seeps over the green and that glimmer of Eogan fades, and Draewulf tips his head at me. As if unsure of where we were in our conversation.

  He looks around, then smirks. “Rest assured Eogan will be gone soon enough once Isobel joins us. And then? Every time you look at me, you’ll know what real control is.”

  He spins around and takes two steps before halting. I glance around him and see the Bron guard standing there. How much he’s heard I’m not sure, but his face has paled to match the color of ocean foam.

  Draewulf utters a deep, guttural growl and strides toward him and, faster than should be possible, yanks the guard off his feet.

  No! I gasp, but my grabbing for him is too late. The monster’s already lifted him by the Bron jacket and shoved him toward the railing. He flips him over it and the guard cries out, but the wind carries the sound away, a lone voice fading as his body flutters and floats to the water.

  We’re up high enough that I don’t hear the splash when his body hits, but it’s big enough that I know he’s instantly dead.

  The next second I’m reaching for my blades, which aren’t there, then I’m throwing myself at Draewulf, pounding his chest. I shove his arms, his shoulders.

  His response is a backhand across my cheek.

  I teeter at the force but don’t fall—I’ve been struck enough times to know how to take a hit. But my eyes burn all the same. I grit my teeth and watch the guard’s head sink below the waves.

  Draewulf grips my gimpy arm and a flash of disgust ignites in his gaze. Followed by a hardening that makes my veins burn. My hand curls beneath his as I will it to scald him with a slew of ice from my fingertips. Nothing happens but I’m clenching his shirt anyway, because I don’t know how to let go as a stream of curses lashes out of my mouth and whips down to share its saltiness with those same waves that consumed the guard.

  “I hate you,” I murmur. But my voice is the the broken chirp of a bird.

  He laughs without mirth and pushes me off like some girl from a favor house. “You’ve lost already. Don’t debase yourself more than you already have.”

  He smooths his shirt just as an enormous horn sounds out above us, causing me to cover my ears and him to jump. He spins around and I follow suit to see land in the distance, just where the sun is peeking out along the purple-ribboned edge of storm clouds and horizon. Below it sits a city gleaming with red, orange, and pink reflections from the sun.

  “Welcome to the beginning of your end,” Draewulf snarls behind me.

  CHAPTER 13

  THE HORN BLASTS AGAIN AND BY THE TIME I TURN back, Eogan is disappearing round the corner and all five delegates are tumbling onto the deck followed by the two Faelen bodyguards. I’m still reeling as the delegates’ delight carries above the ship’s droning. Murmurs of, “Will you look at that? It’s fantastic!” and “Look at those warboats!”

  They’re pointing at the stretch of coastline between us and the city. I wipe the rain and fury from my face and realize they’re ogling the same boats I pushed back from Faelen. Large. Maneuverable. Painted in red and black with an aura that screams “death” to anyone approaching. Here and there undamaged Bron airships loom above them like giant flags strapped to the boats’ bows and sterns, sporting those painted-on dragons.

  “Are you all right?” Rasha slips in beside me. “I mean, I see you’re still alive.”

  “Where were you?” I hiss. “I had Draewulf alone!”

  “I was stuck arguing with Lord Wellimton.” She frowns. “I saw your guards come in
but they looked confused.”

  “Never mind that.” I shake my head, my lungs feeling like they’re shriveling. I stare at her until I’ve got her full attention and I’m not sure whether to laugh or whimper. “I saw Eogan.”

  Her eyes widen.

  “He forced aside Draewulf so he could speak to me. It was fully him, but . . . then it was Draewulf and he killed the guard so fast I couldn’t stop him. He said he’d do the same to the delegates if I interfered again.”

  Her eyes have grown to the size of hornets’ eggs. “He did what?” She moves her stare from me to behind us where Draewulf disappeared. “How did Eogan find that much control? And how could . . . how . . .? Did he say anything that could help us?”

  I glance around. At the delegates. At the guards. I’m fairly certain the Elegy 96 message was meant for my ears alone. “He asked me to kill him,” I say softly.

  “Pardon?” Her shocked tone draws the attention of the entire group. “Was that all he said?” she whispers.

  “I asked if he knew Draewulf’s plans but he didn’t. Although he could sense enough to say it’s not good and killing them both is the only option.”

  “How not good?”

  “Something along the lines of ‘we’re all going to die.’ ”

  Behind us, Myles chuckles. “Tell me something we didn’t know. Next time how about asking a few more specificsss.”

  I glare. “He was pretty specific about you. And I’ll take my knives back now, seeing as you’ve nothing better to do.”

  “You’ll have to check your luggage bag, which is—”

  “Nym.” Rasha snaps her finger twice in front of me. “Did Eogan say how you could kill him?”

  I swerve my gaze back to the shoreline and purse my lips before muttering, “A knife to the back of the neck.”

  She falls silent, but I feel her nod beside me as a few feet away, the delegates’ anticipatory chatter grows deafening.

  Myles bumps me, and when I glance up, his expression is a mixture of what surprisingly appears to be legitimate sympathy and that slimy, persuasive offer. I blink and refuse to acknowledge it—and instead go back to staring at the coast as the drizzle lessens into a fine mist.

  The rain stops altogether as soon as we’re flying above the warboats and the host of downed airships behind them. Which, mercifully, don’t look as mangled as I’d expected. A few appear battered and waterlogged, but most show signs of having been purposefully landed in their current, if random, positions.

  Lord Percival gives a quiet whistle. “Nicely done, Nym.”

  I don’t respond. Nice isn’t the word I’d use. Necessary maybe. Although something in my raw heart lightens a bit. I didn’t kill as many men as I feared.

  We pass over them, and soon the beaches turn into tan dirt that stretches out into a bland-looking landscape just as the clouds ahead part to reveal the last death throes of a late-afternoon sunset.

  “Look at that place.” Lady Gwen points at the silver city spreading out in front of us.

  It shines like an engraved metallic button on a brown coat of earth. The nearer we get, the more intricate it becomes, with everything about it looking intentional, efficient, like one of the round gears on a horse cart, with a river running through the middle. Even the buildings resemble miniature axles crammed together alongside clusters of towers, which are topped with pointed copper domes. Near those, giant pipes rise up from the underbelly, pumping out smoke or steam as if the city’s whole foundation is on fire.

  Myles shoves between me and Rasha to stretch over the railing and look down. A moment later the whole line of us has followed his example to take in the city’s surrounding wall. It’s enormous, with holes where the tributary is pouring forth on the far side into a river that sparkles like the city beneath the cloud-cloaked sky. Aside from rust-brush dotting here and there around the banks, the landscape looks devoid of plant life—of any life for that matter beyond the smattering of strange houses with flat roofs and few windows.

  My heart winces for Eogan. What a depressing place to grow up in. The look on Rasha’s face says she’s thinking the same.

  A metallic scraping sound is followed by the entire ship suddenly shuddering around us. Then we’re coming in fast and the city is looming, big and metal with streets jutting out from the center like spokes on a spindle wheel.

  Lady Gwen shrieks that the airship’s going to scrape the highest building when it makes another loud shifting noise and tilts and lunges toward the side, forcing us to keep our grips on the railing. We descend toward the long, wide streets filled with people. Thousands upon thousands of them, all the beautiful black color of Eogan’s skin, and Kel, and the Bron guards around us, all dressed in red, all moving and waving together like some rich carpet, covering the walkways and blending in with the red-and-black Bron flags hanging from the sides of the metal buildings.

  The sight of them curdles my stomach. Draewulf’s going to destroy everything. My people. Your people. Oh hulls—what have I done? How do I choose him over them?

  “It’s a party.” Myles promptly smooths his hair back and adjusts his oversized cravat.

  The ship drops into the shadowed straightaway of the first street, so fast and low it’s a wonder we don’t squash the crowds or scrape the buildings rising up beside us. A fine red dust begins filling the air in front of us, breezing into us. People are sprinkling it down from the highest windows. It smells sweet—like flowers and fruit—and clings to our skin before slipping down to the ship floor and then off onto the masses clamoring in the street below.

  “If only my grandfather were alive to see me here,” Lady Gwen whispers. “It’s beautiful.”

  “It’s a parade for their new king,” Lord Percival says.

  A new king who isn’t a king at all but a monster who will murder this city with abandon.

  Welcome to the beginning of your end.

  Lady Gwen is fluttering one hand while keeping a death grip on the railing with the other. “A positive show of support for us despite the fact Nym almost destroyed their entire armada.”

  “Let’s hope what they remember is the fact that she didn’t destroy it,” Myles says.

  I tug my white braided hair back and tuck it beneath my shirt so it’s mostly out of sight as Lord Wellimton looks over. “Let’s hope her being here doesn’t cost us these negotiations. So I’ll remind you that this is the part where we wave and make them love us. So smile, everyone.”

  They smile.

  And wave.

  Although the more spindled streets we turn onto and the more people the delegates smile for, I’m sure I’m not the only one noticing the inflating tension in the place. A sense of wariness.

  The crowds are putting on a show too.

  Is Kel watching from one of his ventilation pipes?

  “Do you think they were forced to give thisss greeting?” Myles says to Rasha through his teeth.

  “There’s too much noise for me to tell, but I suspect it’s a test of strength.”

  Myles snorts. “Ours?”

  “Of Eogan’s as their new king.”

  Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen streets we’ve travelled down when Myles leans over again. “You sssee that? The houses and buildings are almost identical. It’s their way of keeping order. They’ve made everything uniform so there’sss no competition. Very smart when you think about it.”

  Rasha recoils. “But how do they distinguish themselves creatively? How could they feel unique and that they can succeed to something better?”

  “They’re warriors, not philosophers, Princess. A sense of duty and unity keeps them a well-oiled machine. Quite literally, from the looksss of this city.”

  She sniffs. “You sound as if you admire it.”

  “Oh, I do,” he purrs. “Why do you think I wanted to come? Imagine the way I can use my gift on them.”

  I turn him a look of disgust, at which he scoffs. “Don’t look so repulsed. If it makesss you feel better, it’s their purit
y of motivation I find refreshing.”

  “And how often did you visit here when you were betraying your country?”

  He bends so near a rush of chills scampers down my skin. “Careful there. My experience here could save lover boy and everyone else’s livesss.”

  I clench my jaw and glance at a preoccupied Rasha. He returns to smiling and waving.

  We’ve finished the thirty-sixth street when the airship crosses over one of the outer circular ones and turns onto a thin road that looks as if it will take us in one final curve around the entire city. Here, the buildings are neat and ordered, but their style is different, more intricate in their windows and archways. They’re older.

  “Must be where the wealthy live,” Lord Wellimton murmurs.

  “We don’t have castes here,” a Bron guard behind him says. He’s flanked by three others as well as the two Faelen soldiers. I wince with the sudden reminder that there should be another Bron guard with them. Do they know yet that Draewulf tossed him overboard?

  Wellimton makes a sound of interest, so the man continues. “In our city, no one is wealthy or poor. Our citizens are simply segregated into jobs. This section is for the elderly and our teachers.”

  “What about that out there?” I point to a large patch of land in the distance, terrameters beyond the circular city wall. It looks black, smoky in the late-afternoon light, like a carpet of crawling darkness.

  The guard shrugs as if it’s of no consequence and turns his gaze. But not before I catch the flash of fear in it.

  I look at Rasha who’s leaning over the edge, fluttering her hand at some children below. When I peer up, I see Myles, too, appears to have missed the guard’s reaction.

  The airship follows the rim of the spindle all the way round the city’s edge until we’re abruptly facing the palace. Eogan’s home and place of his birth. Even with the sun down, the copper that covers every inch of the outdoor staircases and walls all the way up to the spires at the top is shining. As the ship moves into position over it, I can peer down into a giant, flat courtyard garden atop the main roof—the first real bit of green we’ve seen since entering Bron.