A Chill in the Flame (Villains #1)

Thirteen

Thirteen

There were only three people in the world Tyr hated more than Dwyn. He’d see them all dead the moment he had the power he needed. He’d like to see her dead, too, even if he couldn’t be the one to kill her.

“Get off me, dog!” Dwyn hissed. She wriggled against him, and he tightened his hold to keep the serpent in a woman’s body against the wall. Her teeth flashed with anger, dark eyes smoldering like blackened coal. She held his gaze with a challenge in her eyes, as if refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking away.

He towered over her from where he had her pinned against the stones of the castle’s outer wall. The wind and waves splashed against the cliffs behind them. His flexed muscular forearm crushed her windpipe as her feet struggled to find purchase on the soil.

“Did you think I wouldn’t find you here? Did you think you were alone?” Water dripped from his hair, running down his jaw and neck, washing the tattoo that wrapped its way just past the collar of his shirt.

“I’m not in Sulgrave any longer, Tyr. The clan has no power in Aubade. If Anwir wanted me, he should have come for me himself.” She released a frustrated grunt as she struggled, but her sounds were washed away by the cries of gulls and the waves.

“You’re a small fish right now, and I think you know that.”

Her eyes burned with hate as they bore into his dark eyes, his hair, his fucking tattoo. Goddess above, how he despised the matching ink that marred their skin. He’d pluck the knife from his hip and peel the tattoo from his skin right now if he thought it would free him, but their curse was far cleverer than mortal tools.

He returned the burning glare. His reflection in the mirror had once looked back at him with kind eyes. They’d been the rich colors of coffee and earth and the forest. As he pinned the siren to the wall, he hoped they were glazed like the dirt used to cover graves, not unlike the one he wanted so badly to put her in.

Motherfucking Dwyn.

He’d followed her across the Frozen Straits, though his hunt for the witch had begun far, far before that. He knew what she was. He knew who she wanted. He didn’t know how, when, or where she’d infiltrated Farehold’s royal family, but she’d beat him to it in spectacular fashion.

“What are you doing with the princess?” His question was a thinly veiled threat. It came out in a low, angry growl.

“You know why I’m here,” she said through clenched teeth. “The same reason you are.”

“Berinth won the blood race. It’s over. Go home.”

“After you,” came her taunting reply. He searched her face for further explanation. When he didn’t budge, she laughed. “Noble, stoic, stupid Tyr. Do you really think it’s over? And, what, I’ve stayed in Farehold because I love their backwater culture? Why did the goddess curse me with such an idiot for a shadow.”

His nostrils flared as he struggled to control his emotions. She wasn’t wrong. At least, not completely. He’d followed Dwyn across the Straits because she held the secrets he so desperately needed. He hadn’t understood what had driven her to Farehold until he’d caught her skulking about Castle Aubade. International politics had never been of interest to him, but he struggled to understand how the southern kingdoms could be so ignorant and barbaric as to still utilize monarchies, unless they didn’t understand the implications.

But, surely, they knew. Everyone knew. Didn’t they?

“Ask me,” Dwyn said, biting down on the words. “Ask me how I’m going to do it without you.”

“You can’t,” he snarled.

“Oh, but I can.”

A sound behind him told him she was summoning water, but he was as quick as shadow. He opened the door that led to the castle’s back entrance before the salted waves crashed down onto them, dragging the siren into the corridor with him. Water rushed in at the seams and hinges, splashing under the doorframe and wetting their feet just as he slammed it behind them.

“I’m no threat to her.” Dwyn slammed her foot down into Tyr’s instep and he grunted, but it did not have the desired effect. He did not release her.

“You’re no friend to her, either, witch.”

She laughed. It was a dark, humorless sound. She was unfazed as she stared him in the eye and said, “There’s more than one way to obtain a royal heart, dog.”

He bared his teeth in an ongoing growl, and she mirrored the expression, sharpened canines reflected against the dim, flickering lights of the corridor.

He pressed harder on her windpipe. She gripped his forearm uselessly as she began to bargain. “You plan to focus your efforts on me while Berinth lives? You’re a fool. You saw what he did with Caris. You know what he may yet accomplish. He’ll have the southern kingdoms long before you and your precious band get what they want. If he succeeds, it won’t matter what I’m doing with the princess.” She spat and the froth of her spit clung to his face.

The sound of footsteps scraped from the distance before he had time to respond. Tyr slammed his hand down over her mouth just as she sucked in a breath to cry for help. She brought a knee upward in an attempt to harm his manhood, but he rotated in time so that she struck only leg. He had only moments before whoever approached caught him in the castle.

As the individual neared, Tyr vanished.

Dwyn kicked slightly until the tips of her toes met the earth. He could no longer be seen, but he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Dwyn?” called a man’s voice. Tyr recognized it as belonging to Ophir’s bodyguard before the man rounded the corner. “Are you there? I need to talk to you about…” Harland’s voice trailed off as his gaze raked over the awkwardness of her stance. Tyr flexed in frustration as he understood what the guard must see. She was not relaxing against the wall. She was not breathing easily.

Fuck .

Harland put his hand on the pommel of his sword just as he freed her. She sucked in a lungful of air as she tumbled from the hold onto her feet. Tyr’s hands balled into fists as a string of curses took over his every waking thought.

“Harland. How nice for the princess’s personal bodyguard to escort me.”

She said the guard’s title with too much vitriol as she shot a cold glare into the empty air, presumably at Tyr. He looked on with a curled lip. He hated Dwyn but didn’t think she was stupid enough to give him away. If she revealed his presence, he’d spill her secrets before she could blink.

Harland examined her.

“Something is wrong,” he said as he freed his sword from its sheath.

Dwyn’s expression changed in an instant. She was relaxed and confident as she soothed him. “No, no. It’s okay. I came back out here to practice a new technique with the water and just stepped inside. It’s rather wet out there. I’m sorry to have alarmed you. I assume you want to discuss our sweet Firi?”

He stared at her without moving for a long while.

“What? You’ve never happened upon a girl on a stroll before? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Tyr didn’t breathe as he watched the exchange. If Dwyn couldn’t convince the man there was nothing wrong, they’d have to kill him. He was certain she knew as well as he that Harland’s death would close more doors than it opened. Come on, witch. Do what you do best. Lie.

He exhaled as Harland nodded with unconvincing slowness. The guard said, “What happened on the cliff earlier—”

“Let’s not talk about it here,” she said hurriedly. She closed the space between them as she took his bicep in her hands. “Back to the room, shall we?” She urged him down the corridor, away from the threat that loomed just beyond the glimmer of sight.

Tyr remained at their heels, as silent as a house cat. He knew from the angered glare she cast over her shoulder that she knew he’d followed. She probably wished there was some way she could drown him while he trailed behind, but she could not fight what she could not see.

***

In just under a century and a half of life, Harland had learned that his gut was rarely mistaken. It had told him to put his name up for consideration when a position opened as Ophir’s guard, and he had. It had urged him from his bed in the middle of the night to tell him something was wrong, only to discover Ophir missing from her bed while across the castle, a servant rang the alarm bell that the numb, silent princess had been found in an alcove, hands stained with blood and dressed for a masquerade. Days later, he’d entered Ophir’s room to find his charge with a stranger—one who informed him that she had attempted to take her own life. And that same gut had looked at Dwyn with a distrust that refused to subside.

He led Dwyn to a rather plain guest room two halls over from Ophir’s room while he wrestled with his thoughts.

She leaned into the writing desk, wooden lip biting into her hip as she relaxed into its edge. She pouted. “Why so serious?”

He gave her an unhappy look, which only made her laugh.

“Such a frown, Harland. You look too much like those happy, golden hounds to get away with such an expression.” She smiled. Dwyn turned her back on him while pouring herself a glass of water from the pitcher on the desk, which gave him a moment to gather what he wanted to say.

Trapped between impossible choices, he neither wanted to confide in Dwyn nor tell anyone else what he had witnessed on the cliffs. Ophir had created something from nothing, and the siren was the only other witness.

Manifesting was the power of gods. It was something that could not be taken lightly. Once the king and queen were informed of the princess’s gift, her life would never be the same. Given that she’d scarcely begun the healing process from a long and scarring trauma, he didn’t know if he could subject her to the changes that would ensue the moment the world knew what she was capable of.

Ophir was not the only worry on his mind.

They’d grown negligent toward possible threats within their own walls in their desperation to see the youngest princess heal. The monarchs, the guards, and all their security checks had been entirely too lax. They’d allowed a Sulgrave woman into their walls without truly understanding who she was or what she was capable of. Harland had known enough when she’d been the one who’d saved Ophir from her attempt to take her own life on the night of the party. When the fae had reemerged with her gifts of water and offered peace in a time of turmoil, it had seemed like Ophir had grabbed on to a lifeline.

His princess may very well be alive because of this siren.

The castle had accepted Dwyn’s presence readily. Some had even suggested that Dwyn had been sent by the All Mother to help save the princess from herself in the wake of the tragedy. Harland forced down his thoughts time and time again, fighting against the urge to suggest that the so-called blessing had been a little too convenient.

He continued to examine her as she plucked a leather tome from the writing desk and wandered toward an overstuffed settee. She draped herself over the piece of furniture with the contentedness and ease of someone who belonged.

In many ways, she looked like any fae woman with ink-black hair. She possessed the arched ears, the irises larger than any human’s, and the lithe grace that mortals failed to achieve. There were other things about her that gave him pause. Her irreverence, for example. Was it a trait of Sulgrave fae at large, and thus one he should adjust to, or was it a Dwyn-specific curiosity? Were her boldness, her flirtatiousness, her malice traits of a kingdom or the same flaws in personality that would have set him on edge, had anyone in Aubade possessed them?

He supposed it was his own fault for knowing little of Sulgrave. But, to be fair, no one knew much of the mountain kingdom beyond the Frozen Straits, save for the reassurance that they were neither immediate threat nor enemy to Farehold or Raascot.

The inhospitable stretch of ice and snow that separated the northernmost and southern kingdoms made travel between their distant, mountain kingdom nearly impossible. Trade was a doomed endeavor, as were diplomatic missions. Anyone who managed to make the pilgrimage in one direction didn’t dare risk their fate twice by returning. Dwyn’s foreign Sulgrave lineage had been curious, but not immediately problematic, nor cause for alarm. She had been odd in the way that all foreign customs and mannerisms were peculiar to someone who found them unfamiliar. Aside from her improper insistence of nearly constant nudity, the girl had been a rather lovely addition to the castle.

The Sulgrave fae was an asset in some ways, of course. For instance, Ophir slept more soundly as the nights wore on as long as Dwyn was present. The threat of burning the castle and those inside of it in their sleep seemed to be waning as long as a water guardian remained vigilantly beside her. Healing seemed as if it might be possible.

But then came the things that troubled him.

Everything had changed when the tar-like serpent sprung from Ophir’s anger and pain.

Dwyn had to have known precisely what it would mean to be discovered a manifester, which explained why she’d moved so quickly to dispose of the evidence. Her hands had been on the snake’s body shoving it off of the cliffs before she’d even turned to address the shell-shocked princess.

“You knew,” he said, breaking the long silence.

Dwyn didn’t bother closing her book. She blinked back innocently. “Knew what?”

He stayed near the door. “You’re clever in many ways, Dwyn.” He kept his voice level, large hazel eyes trained on her with militant intensity. “You’ve gained access to the castle. You’re in the walls. You have her trust. Congratulations. But your acting needs work.”

He didn’t miss the way she refused to breathe as he shut the door behind him.