A shadow falls over us both. Father. He stands over her shoulder. A light wind ripples his cloak, playing along the folds of void-black silk and silver thread. Hidden beneath is a suit of blue-tinged chromium so fine it could be liquid.
“‘I will not kneel to another greedy king,’” he whispers. Father’s voice is always soft as velvet, deadly as a predator. “That’s what Salin Iral said.”
He reaches down, offering my mother his hand. She takes it deftly and steps from the boat. It doesn’t move under her, held by my ability.
Another king.
“Father . . . ?”
The word dies in my mouth.
“Cousins of iron!” he shouts, never breaking our stare.
Behind him, our Samos cousins drop to a knee. Ptolemus does not, looking on with as much confusion as I feel. Blood members of a house do not kneel to one another. Not like this.
They respond as one, their voices ringing. “Kings of steel!”
Quickly, Father extends his hand, catching my wrist before my shock ripples the boat beneath.
His whisper is almost too low to hear.
“To the Kingdom of the Rift.”
TWENTY
Mare
The green-uniformed teleporter lands evenly, on steady feet. It’s been a long time since the world squeezed and blurred for me. The last time was Shade. The split-second memory of him aches. Paired with my wound and the nauseating rush of pain, it’s no wonder I collapse to my hands and knees. Spots dance before my eyes, threatening to spread and consume. I will myself to stay awake and not vomit all over . . . wherever I am.
Before I can look much farther than the metal beneath my fingers, someone pulls me up into a crushing embrace. I cling on as hard as I can.
“Cal,” I whisper in his ear, lips brushing flesh. He smells like smoke and blood, heat and sweat. My head fits perfectly in the space between his neck and shoulder.
He trembles in my arms, shaking. Even his breath hitches. He’s thinking the same thing I am.
This can’t be real.
Slowly, he pulls back, bringing his hands to cup my face. He searches my eyes and glares over every inch of me. I do the same, looking for the trick, the lie, the betrayal. Maybe Maven has skin changers like Nanny. Maybe this is another Merandus hallucination. I could wake up on Maven’s train, to his ice eyes and Evangeline’s razor smile. The entire wedding, my escape, the battle—some horrific joke. But Cal feels real.
He’s paler than I remember, with blunt, close-cut hair. It would curl like Maven’s if given the chance. Rough stubble lines his cheeks, along with a few minor nicks and cuts along the sharp edges of his jaw. He is leaner than I remember, his muscles harder beneath my hands. Only his eyes remain the same. Bronze, red-gold, like iron brought to blazing heat.
I look different too. A skeleton, an echo. He runs a limp lock of hair through his fingers, watching the brown fade to brittle gray. And then he touches the scars. At my neck, my spine, ending with the brand below my ruined dress. His fingers are gentle, shockingly so after we almost ripped each other apart. I am glass to him, a fragile thing that might shatter or disappear at any moment.
“It’s me,” I tell him, whispering words we both need to hear. “I’m back.”
I’m back.
“Is it you, Cal?” I sound like a child.
He nods, his gaze never wavering. “It’s me.”
I move because he won’t, taking us both by surprise. My lips mold to his with ferocity, and I pull him in. His heat falls like a blanket around my shoulders. I fight to keep my sparks from doing the same. Still, the hairs on his neck rise, responding to the electric current jumping in the air. Neither of us closes our eyes. This might still be a dream.
He comes to his senses first, scooping me off my feet. A dozen faces pretend to look away in some semblance of propriety. I don’t care. Let them look. No flush of shame rises. I’ve been forced to do far worse in front of a crowd.
We’re on an airjet. The long fuselage, dull roar of engines, and clouds slipping past make it unmistakable. Not to mention the delicious purr of electricity pulsing through wires spanning every inch. I reach out, laying my palm flat against the cool, curved metal of the jet wall. It would be easy to drink the rhythmic pulse, pull it into me. Easy and stupid. As much as I want to gorge myself on the sensation, that would end very poorly.
Cal never removes his hand from the small of my back. He turns to look over his shoulder, addressing one of the dozen people harnessed in their seats.
“Healer Reese, her first,” he says.
“Sure thing.”
My grin disappears the second an unfamiliar man puts his hands on me. His fingers close around my wrist. The grip feels wrong, heavy. Like stone. Manacles. Without thought, I smack him away and jump back, as if burned. Terror mauls my insides as sparks spit from my fingers. Faces flash, clouding my vision. Maven, Samson, the Arven guards with their bruising hands and hard eyes. Overhead, the lights flicker.
The red-haired healer flinches back, yelping, as Cal smoothly angles between us.
“Mare, he’s going to treat your wounds. He’s a newblood, with us.” He braces one hand against the wall by my face, shielding me. Boxing me in. Suddenly the decent-sized jet is too small, the air stale and suffocating. The weight of manacles is gone but not forgotten. I still feel them at my wrists and ankles.
The lights flicker again. I swallow hard, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to focus. Control. But my heartbeat rages on, my pulse a thunder. I suck down air through gritted teeth, willing myself to calm down. You’re safe. You’re with Cal, the Guard. You’re safe.