A Chill in the Flame (Villains #1)

Eight

Eight

That Night

“Goddess dammit!” Tyr cried out in anger, punching the castle’s exterior. “Fuck!”

The impact drew blood and sent a shock of pain from his knuckles to his shoulder. It hurt his bones, his joints, his shoulder. He winced against the shallow pain of scraped skin as the sea breeze brushed against it. This night was built on the backs of misery and disappointment. The dark waves breaking against the cliff muffled his outburst, mingling his frustration with the endless noises of the sea.

He’d been so close. He’d followed the wretched siren south to find her circling Aubade’s royal heirs like a vulture. He’d beaten Dwyn to the party. He’d had the princess in his arms. He’d been so certain he’d robbed Berinth of his victory, that he’d bested the witch, that he’d saved the royal heir to live another day. But his unyielding focus on Ophir had blinded him to Berinth’s prize.

Tyr never let himself get angry like this, but this was no normal night.

Wisdom dictates that one not speak ill of the dead, but if it weren’t for goddess-damned Caris, everything would be fine. Instead of saving lives and preserving his ongoing place in the race for knowledge, he’d fucked up with such spectacular thoroughness that he didn’t even know where to start.

A distant sound told him that if he didn’t get moving, someone would find him near the castle. He’d have no trouble staying hidden, but his horse had not been blessed with such a gift. They’d see his black mount and it would only be a matter of moments before they began searching. They’d find the princess where he’d left her on the chaise. She’d tell them about Lord Berinth and his party. The whole kingdom would know about Caris’s death within the hour, he was sure of it. He had to be on the road before all of Aubade was looking for him.

“Come on, Knight. We have to get out of here.”

Knight snorted in low agreement.

This was Berinth’s fault.

Tyr had had his eyes on the lord for months. The man and his retinue kept their secrets safeguarded, but there was nothing on the continent Tyr couldn’t uncover. It was his gift, after all. He dealt in secrets.

Berinth wasn’t his real name, but that was as far as he’d gotten down that line of inquiry. The man had appeared around the same time that Dwyn had slithered out of the ocean. If he hadn’t been following the wretched water demon, he wouldn’t have found himself in the right place at the wrong time.

Four parties locked in a race, but Tyr was the only one who knew all the players. Dwyn was a close second. She knew of the band in the mountains. She knew about him, of course, and would very much like to see his head on a spike. The feeling was mutual. Murder, unfortunately, wasn’t something he could act on, no matter how desperately he wanted to see her dead. He wasn’t even certain the goddess would consider Dwyn’s death murder. A favor, more likely. The continent would be a better place without her.

Still, if he hadn’t been tracking Dwyn, he wouldn’t have been there to snatch the youngest princess from death’s door. Poor Princess Ophir. She had no idea what she’d been swept up in. If she was lucky, it might stay that way. Perhaps he could find a way to resolve the largest disaster the kingdom had ever known while the world—Ophir included—went on believing Caris’s death was little more than a senseless murder.

How, then, had Lord Berinth beaten every other player in the race?

Dwyn didn’t know about Berinth, he was almost positive. Perhaps she never would have known there was a third player if his sloppy attempt at slaughter hadn’t taken Caris off the table. Compared to the two of them, he was certain Berinth was in the dark as to just how many of them he’d been competing with—nary an inkling as to Sulgrave and its activities. The lord knew nothing aside from his own objective.

Knowledge was power, yes, and Tyr knew things.

But all the research in the world didn’t matter if Berinth had beaten them to the princess.

He’d known with certainty that if he waited long enough, Ophir would show up. She had a reputation for her inability to resist a good party, and the lord had spent months, if not the better part of a year, setting trap after trap. Tyr had loitered in the spaces between things, keeping his eyes open for Ophir party after party. No one had expected the prim, quiet Caris to leave the castle—she was too well mannered to be seduced by the call of a good time.

It had been Ophir’s game to lose.

All he had to do was keep her out of Berinth’s clutches. He was only there to prevent Berinth from winning the race. He’d spotted the youngest princess in her black dress the moment she stepped foot onto the property and had been rather sure she’d seen him as well. Ophir had entered with a friend, and he’d been too focused to realize she was accompanied by her sister. Her perfect, pure, virginal sister had been the one in the pink.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” His curses were practically snarls. How could he have been so ignorant? Tyr prided himself in knowing things, yet Berinth had seen what he hadn’t.

He kept Ophir from Berinth’s knife, but what had it cost him?

Knight whinnied softly as they approached an inn.

“Shh, hush boy.” He stroked the horse’s neck as he dismounted, shifting into the place between things. He continued to lead the horse forward, but he was no longer visible to the eyes of men or fae, unseen as long as his ability concealed him. He led the horse into the stable behind an inn and promised it he’d return. The honest, homey smells of fresh straw and farm animals filled the rugged structure. It was a welcome relief from the relentless scent of the ocean.

Knight whinnied his displeasure as he entered a vacant stall.

Tyr snagged a bag of alfalfa from the wall for the creature. “I always come back for you, don’t I?” He took the saddle off and stashed his bags in the corner of the stall. “Maybe if we’re lucky, they’ll brush you down for me. You belong to some other patron, if anyone asks.”

The horse chuffed in response.

Tyr had preferred animals to people since birth. Animals were loyal, and pure, and possessed a freedom he could only dream about. He’d never met a creature he hadn’t liked and had spent his childhood hand-raising any bird that had fallen from its nest, nursing any rabbit that had been attacked by a cat, and freeing foxes that had stepped into snares.

His compassion for animals had not been met with kindness.

Perhaps his need to prove himself masculine and powerful had been a result of the taunting of his peers. Maybe he wouldn’t have spent years training, fighting, and learning if it hadn’t been for their names, their cruelties, their punches and exclusion. Maybe he wouldn’t have needed to use those skills if it hadn’t been for the fire, the shadow, the ice, the abilities the boys had wielded on the day they’d killed Svea. Six years. Six wonderful, perfect years had not been enough. They could have spent eternity together and it wouldn’t have been enough. Maybe he wouldn’t need the most powerful blood magic on the continent if she were alive.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

He supposed it didn’t matter. Revenge was the only thing he cared about.

His lip curled as he thought of the three vile reasons he’d ventured south. Flame, ice, and shadow. He wouldn’t return to Sulgrave until he’d mastered them.

Every ember, every frozen shard, every dark power that had been used to cut, and slice, and hurt Svea, he’d inflict on them. They’d experience everything she’d felt. Every moment she suffered, they’d suffer. He repeated their names like a prayer, using the violence of their actions to fuel him. He never let himself forget her fear, her cries, her pain. It burned within him. It drove him across the very earth. It had entered him into the race.

The three would pay. When they met their comeuppance, it would be at his hand.