Heir of Fire (24 page)

“Was it you,” Rowan said quietly, but not gently, “or someone ­else?”

“I was too late. He didn't survive.” Again silence fell, and she cursed herself for a fool for telling him. But then she said hoarsely, “
Th
ank you for saving me.”

A slight shrug, barely a movement at all. As if her gratitude were harder to endure than her hatred and reticence. “I am bound by an unbreakable blood oath to my Queen, so I had no choice but to ensure you didn't die.” A bit of that earlier heaviness settled in her veins again. “But,” he went on, “I would not have le
ft
anyone to a fate at the hands of the skinwalkers.”

“A warning would have been nice.”

“I said they ­were on the loose—­weeks ago. But even if I'd warned you today, you would not have listened.”

It was true. She shivered again, this time so violently that her body shi
ft
ed back, a
fl
ash of light and pain. If she'd thought she was cold in her Fae body, it was nothing compared to the cold of being human again.

“What was the trigger when you shi
ft
ed earlier?” he asked, as if this moment were a reprieve from the real world, where the freezing storm and the surging river could mu
ffl
e their words from the gods. She rubbed at her arms, desperate for any kind of warmth.

“It was nothing.” His silence demanded information for ­information—­a fair trade. She sighed. “Let's just say it was fear and necessity and impressively deep-­rooted survival instincts.”

“You didn't lose control immediately upon shi
ft
ing. When you
fi
nally used your magic, your clothes didn't burn; neither did your hair. And the daggers didn't melt.” As if just now remembering that she still had them, he swiped them from her.

He was right.
Th
e magic hadn't swarmed her the moment she'd shi
ft
ed, and even in the explosion that had spread out in every direction, she'd had enough control to preserve herself. Not a single hair had burned.

“Why was it di
ff
erent this time?” he pressed.

“Because I didn't want you to die to save me,” she admitted.

“Would you have shi
ft
ed to save yourself ?”

“Your opinion of me is pretty much identical to my own, so you know the answer.”

He was quiet for long enough that she wondered if he was piecing the bits of her together. “You're not leaving,” Rowan said at last, arms crossed. “I'm not letting you o
ff
double duty in the kitchens, but you're not leaving.”

“Why?”

He unfastened his cloak. “Because I said so, that's why.” And she might have told him it was the worst gods-­damned reason she had ever heard, and that he was an arrogant prick, had he not tossed her his cloak—­dry and warm.
Th
en he dropped his jacket in her lap, too.

When he turned to go back to the fortress, she followed him.

23

For the past week, not much had changed for Manon and the Blackbeaks.
Th
ey still
fl
ew daily to master the wyverns, and still managed to avoid outright war in the mess hall twice a day.
Th
e Yellowlegs heir tried to rile Manon whenever she could, but Manon paid her no more attention than she would a gnat buzzing about her head.

All that changed the day of the selection, when the heirs and their covens chose their mounts.

With three covens plus three Matrons, there ­were forty-­two witches crowded around the training pit in the Northern Fang. Handlers rushed about below the viewing platform, readying themselves.
Th
e wyverns would be brought out one by one, and, using the bait beasts, would show o
ff
their qualities. Like the other witches, Manon had been sneaking by the cages every day. She still wanted Titus.

Wanted
was a mortal word. Titus was
hers
. And if it came down to it, she'd disembowel any witch who challenged her. She'd sharpened her nails this morning in anticipation of it. All of the
Th
irteen had.

Claims would be settled in a civilized manner, however.
Th
e three Matrons would draw sticks if more than one claim was made on a mount. When it came to Titus, Manon knew precisely who would vie for him: Iskra and Petrah, the Yellowlegs and Blueblood heirs. She'd seen them both watching him with hungry eyes. Had Manon gotten her way, they would have fought for him in the sparring ring. She'd even suggested as much to her grandmother, but was told they didn't need to quarrel amongst themselves any more than necessary. It would be luck of the draw.

Th
at didn't sit well with Manon, who stood along the open edge of the platform, Asterin
fl
anking her. Her edginess only sharpened as the heavy grate li
ft
ed at the back of the pit.
Th
e bait beast was already chained to the bloodstained wall, a broken, scarred wyvern, half the size of the bulls, his wings tucked in tight. From the platform, she could see that the venomous spikes in his tail had been sawn o
ff
to keep him from defending himself against the invaluable mounts.

Th
e bait beast lowered his head as the gate groaned open and the
fi
rst wyvern was paraded in on tight chains held by very pale-­faced men.
Th
ey darted back as soon as the beast was through, dodging that deadly tail, and the grate shut behind them.

Manon loosed a breath. It ­wasn't Titus, but one of the medium-­sized bulls.

Th
ree sentinels stepped forward to claim him, but the Blueblood Matron, Cresseida, held up a hand. “Let us see him in action
fi
rst.”

One of the men whistled sharply.
Th
e wyvern turned on the bait beast.

Teeth and scales and claws, so fast and vicious that even Manon held her breath. Chained as he was, the bait beast didn't stand a chance and was pinned within a second, massive jaws holding down his neck. One command, one whistle, and the wyvern would snap it.

But the man let out a lower-­note whistle, and the bull backed o
ff
. Another whistle and he sat on his haunches. Two more sentinels stepped forward. Five in the running. Cresseida held out a
fi
stful of twigs to the contenders.

It went to the Blueblood sentinel, who grinned at the others, then down at her wyvern as it was led back into the tunnel.
Th
e bait beast, bleeding from his side, heaved himself into the shadows by the wall, waiting for the next assault.

One a
ft
er another, the wyverns ­were brought out, attacking with swi
ft
, wicked force. And one by one, the sentinels claimed them. No Titus, not yet. She had a feeling the Matrons ­were drawing this out as some test—­to see how well the heirs could control themselves while waiting for the best mounts, to see who would hold out longest. Manon kept one eye on the beasts and another on the other heirs, who watched her in turn as each wyvern was paraded.

Yet the
fi
rst truly enormous female had Petrah, the Blueblood heir, stepping forward.
Th
e female was nearly Titus's size, and wound up taking a chunk out of the bait beast's
fl
ank before the trainers could get her to stop. Wild, unpredictable, lethal. Magni
fi
cent.

No one challenged the Blueblood heir. Petrah's mother only gave her a nod, as though they had already known what mount she desired.

Asterin took the
fi
ercest stealth wyvern that came along, a cunning-­eyed female. Her cousin had always been the best at scouting, and a
ft
er a talk with Manon and the other sentinels that went long into the night, it had been decided that Asterin would continue that role in the
Th
irteen's new duties.

So when the pale blue female was presented, Asterin claimed her, her eyes promising such brutality to anyone who got in her way that they practically glowed. No one dared challenge her.

Manon was watching the tunnel entrance when she smelled the myrrh and rosemary scent of the Blueblood heir beside her. Asterin snarled a so
ft
warning.

“Waiting for Titus, aren't you?” Petrah murmured, eyes also on the tunnel.

“And if I am?” Manon asked.

“I'd rather you have him than Iskra.”

Th
e witch's serene face was unreadable. “So would I.” She ­wasn't sure what, exactly, but the conversation
meant
something.

Clearly, seeing them quietly talking meant something to everyone ­else, too. Especially Iskra, who sauntered over to Manon's other side. “Plotting already?”

Th
e Blueblood heir li
ft
ed her chin. “I think Titus would make a good mount for Manon.”

A line in the sand, Manon thought. What had the Blueblood Matron told Petrah about her? What schemes was she hatching?

Iskra's mouth twisted into a half grin. “We'll see what the
Th
ree-­Faced Mother has to say.”

Manon might have said something back, but then Titus thundered out.

As it had every other time, the breath went out of her at his sheer size and viciousness.
Th
e men had barely scrambled back through the gate before Titus whirled, snapping for them.
Th
ey'd made only a few successful runs with him, she'd been told. Yet under the right rider, he'd fully break.

Titus didn't wait for the whistle before he wheeled on the bait beast, striking with his barbed tail.
Th
e chained beast ducked with surprising swi
ft
ness, as if he'd sensed the bull's attack, and Titus's tail imbedded itself in the stone.

Debris rained on the bait beast, and as he cringed back, Titus struck again. And again.

Chained to the wall, the bait beast could do nothing.
Th
e man whistled, but Titus kept at it. He moved with the
fl
uid grace of untamed savagery.

Th
e bait beast yelped, and Manon could have sworn the Blueblood heir
fl
inched. She'd never heard a cry of pain from any of the wyverns, yet as Titus sank back on his haunches, she saw where he'd struck—­right atop the earlier wound in the bait beast's
fl
ank.

As if Titus knew where to hit to in
fl
ict the most agony. She knew they ­were intelligent, but
how
intelligent?
Th
e man whistled again, and a whip sounded. Titus just kept pacing in front of the bait beast, contemplating how he would strike. Not out of strategy. No, he wanted to savor it. To taunt.

A shiver of delight went down Manon's spine. Riding a beast like Titus, ripping apart her enemies with him . . .

“If you want him so badly,” Iskra whispered, and Manon realized she was still standing beside her, now only a step away, “why don't you go get him?”

And before Manon could move—­before anyone could, because they ­were all enthralled by that glorious beast—­iron claws shoved into her back.

Asterin's shout echoed, but Manon was falling, plunging the forty feet right into the stone pit. She twisted, colliding with a small, crumbling ledge jutting from the wall. It slowed her fall and saved her life, but she kept going until—

She slammed into the ground, her ankle wrenching. Cries came from above, but Manon didn't look up. If she had, she might have seen Asterin tackle Iskra, claws and teeth out. She might have seen her grandmother give the order that no one was to jump into the pit.

But Manon ­wasn't looking at them.

Titus turned toward her.

Th
e wyvern stood between her and the gate, where the men ­were rushing to and fro, as if trying to decide whether they should risk saving her or wait until she was carrion.

Titus's tail lashed back and forth, his dark eyes pinned on her. Manon drew Wind-­Cleaver. It was a dagger compared to the mass of him. She had to get to that gate.

She stared him down. Titus settled onto his haunches, preparing to attack. He knew where the gate was, too, and what it meant for her. His prey.

Not rider or mistress, but
prey
.

Th
e witches had gone silent.
Th
e men at the gate and upper ­platforms had gone silent.

Manon rotated her sword. Titus lunged.

She had to roll to avoid his mouth, and was up in a second, sprinting like hell for that gate. Her ankle throbbed, and she limped, swallowing her scream of pain. Titus turned, fast as a spring stream down a mountainside, and as she hurtled for the gate, he struck with his tail.

Manon had enough sense to whirl to avoid the venomous barbs, but she caught an upper edge of the tail in the side and went
fl
ying, Wind-­Cleaver wrenching from her grip. She hit the dirt near the opposite wall and slid, face scraping on the rocks. Her ribs bleated in agony as she scrambled into a sitting position and gauged the distance between herself and the sword and Titus.

But Titus was hesitating, his eyes li
ft
ed behind her, above her, to—

Darkness embrace her. She'd forgotten about the bait beast.
Th
e creature chained behind her, so close she could smell the carrion on his breath.

Titus's stare was a command for the bait beast to stand down. To let him eat Manon.

Manon dared a glance over her shoulder, to the sword in the shadows, so close to the chained anchor of the bait beast. She might have risked it if the beast ­wasn't there, if he ­wasn't looking dead at her, looking at her like she was—

Not
prey.