5
DEADSTOCK
SAERIS
THE SACK HIT the floor with a thump.
The stench that wafted out of it made me want to gag.
“Smells like your old apartment above the Mirage,” Carrion offered in a chipper tone. He carved off a piece of the apple he was holding and ate it straight from the edge of his knife.
I scowled at him, tempted to take the bait. He wanted me to ask him how the hell he thought he knew what the attic space I’d shared with my younger brother above the Mirage had smelled like, but there wasn’t time to engage in petty sniping.
Kingfisher and Lorreth had returned, and they’d brought a bag of severed heads with them. It went without saying that the bag of heads should have been my primary focus, but apparently I was a terrible person, because the only thing I cared about was him. Fisher. My mate was here, and it felt like I could finally breathe again.
He looked as handsome as ever, with his dark hair swept back from his face in waves. The room was full of electricity whenever he was in it. I was drawn to him like a magnet. Like my body was trying to find its way home into his arms.
After the incident with Ereth, as we were calling it, the coronation celebrations had been canceled, and Fisher had left to check in with Ren and the others.
Taladaius had advised that Fisher spend at least a few days away from Ammontraíeth so that the high bloods could cool down a little, but he hadn’t seemed at all surprised when my mate had shown up here with Lorreth and the bag as soon as dusk fell.
Fisher sent a withering look in Carrion’s direction. “Greetings, Swift. Do you think we might be able to get a little privacy?”
“Are you asking me to leave?”
“Yes.”
Carrion pointed his knife at Lorreth. “Does he get to stay?”
“Don’t point that at me, boy,” the warrior with the dark war braids sighed.
“Not if you want to keep it. I’m a collector of pretty daggers.”
“Yes, he’s staying,” Fisher said flatly.
Sheepishly, Carrion lowered the dagger. “Then it stands to reason that I should, too. I’m the heir to the Yvelian throne. If there have been developments that affect Yvelia, I should absolutely be present while they’re discussed.”
“Do you have any experience with warfare?” Fisher demanded.
“No, not really.”
“Any experience whatsoever with necromancy?”
“No.”
“The walking dead?”
“No.”
“Blood curses?”
“What do you think?”
“Then you’re no use to us. Leave.”
Taladaius entered through the heavy double doors then. Unlike every other member of the Blood Court, he did not kneel before me. I had expressly forbidden him from doing so, though he had suggested that might not be a good idea. He strode across the council chamber with intent, the heels of his boots ringing out against the dove-gray marble. His expression was controlled. Mild, even. But the sadness radiating from him through the connection we shared
was stronger than ever today. It left the taste of bitterness and regret on my tongue. “After the show you put on yesterday, Fisher,” he said, “he’ll probably be kidnapped and sold into slavery if he leaves this room alone.”
“And we don’t want that to happen?” Fisher said, as if he were getting his facts straight.
“Fisher.” This little back-and-forth feud they had going on was becoming borderline infuriating.
My mate just looked at me, innocent as you please. “He’s said repeatedly that he has no interest in fighting for his seat at the Winter Palace. And he admitted it himself just now. No tactical training. No knowledge of this.” He nudged the bag on the floor with the toe of his boot. “So what good is he?”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “You’re the one who brought him here. Now you have to tolerate his presence.”
“Maybe it’s time I took him back to Yvelia?” he countered hopefully.
My maker huffed. Taladaius was dressed in a plain white shirt with loose sleeves, black pants, and black boots. With his silver hair and his pale skin, he was a study in contrasts. He ran a ringed hand through his hair as he dropped down and plucked the sack open, inspecting its contents.
My stomach turned the moment I saw what was inside. I’d witnessed plenty of rot in Zilvaren. When you lived in a quarantined sector where people died of starvation or thirst on a daily basis, the dead were not that shocking a sight. But when a head was all that was left of them, and their cheeks were blackened to a crisp and sloughing from the bone . . . and when they were blinking at you with clouded red eyes, that was a slightly different story.
The smell was so much worse now that the bag was open.
Taladaius rocked back on his heels, a look of contemplation on his face.
Lorreth spoke before he did. “Tell us this wasn’t you.”
My maker’s head shot up. He fixed Lorreth with a stunned stare. “Me? I—”
He recovered. “No. It wasn’t me. I don’t have thralls or slaves. And this . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head. “This is beyond me. Decapitated like this, they
shouldn’t still be animated.”
“Oh, believe me. We know that.” Lorreth gave a hard laugh. “So how do we kill them?”
Taladaius took a closer look, peering into the bag of heads. He wrinkled his nose. “Honestly, I couldn’t say. I’ve never seen or heard of anything like this before.”
You’re coming back to Cahlish with me, Little Osha.
Was I ever going to get used to the sound of Fisher speaking into my mind?
His voice was so close, as if he were whispering right into my ear. My skin broke out in goose bumps in an instant.
Oh? I thought I needed to stay here? I answered.
A tiny frown formed on Kingfisher’s handsome face. No one will know you’re gone. We’ll have Tal tell them all you’re engaging in blood-fueled orgies all day. That’ll convince them to think you’re making an effort to fit in.
I was aware that Lorreth was explaining something to Taladaius about the feeders absorbing Ren’s power. And Kingfisher’s.
I looked to him, startled, but before I could say anything he quieted my worry. It’s okay. We both felt off, but we slept a while and Te Léna worked on us.
We’re fine now.
This was hard, loving him. I’d barely slept a wink all day, worrying about him. Some deep, unsettled feeling inside me had told me something was wrong in Irrín. I hadn’t pursued romantic connections back in Zilvaren, though I’d had plenty of opportunities to do so. I’d had responsibilities. Keeping Hayden out of trouble had been a full-time job, for one, and then there had always been the problem of keeping food on the table and water in our bellies. Developing a relationship with somebody would have been a fool’s errand that would have distracted me from the business of survival.
But this was nothing like that. This . . . was two stars colliding. The end of everything and the beginning at the same time. The idea of forming a relationship with someone back in Zilvaren was trivial in comparison to this.
Fisher was everything. I was attuned to him. I could feel the shifts in his moods
like the ebb and flow of the tides that I had read so much about, and worrying about him while we were apart was enough to drive me mad.
I had to admit, the idea of leaving with him and returning to Cahlish rather than Irrín, where we would be able to sleep in a warm bed and have some privacy, was appealing. It would halt my thoughts from racing, even if it was only for a night.
Okay. I’ll take your word for it. And yes, I’ll come back there with you tonight. But on one condition.
Kingfisher arched an eyebrow at me. Oh? Making demands, are we, Your Highness?
He was teasing me when he called me that, but I didn’t like it. I didn’t want there to be any greater a divide between us, and the fact that I was now half vampire was already causing issues. I could stand to be out on the terrace in the early morning daylight, but not for long. Once the sun was high overhead, I found myself exhausted to the point of nausea, and I couldn’t bear the direct light on my skin. I could still eat, but my appetite for food was much decreased, which I hated. And I could deny it as much as I liked: I didn’t have to feed to survive the way Taladaius and the other members of the Sanasrothian Court did . . . but I wanted to. Since I’d awoken, a vague curiosity had slumbered within me, and now that I had fed from Fisher, it seemed to have stirred and was stretching its legs. Even now, my throat felt scratchy, as if I was coming down with a cold.
Technically, I represented everything Fisher detested . . . and I was a queen now, too? My mate’s disdain for royalty was understandable. My home was ruled by a tyrant queen. Zilvaren suffered every day because of Madra, but Fisher had also experienced pain at her hands. Madra had closed the quicksilver portals and taken his father from him. Not to mention that the Yvelian throne had been stolen by King Belikon, who had tortured Fisher his entire life, and then Malcolm, ruler of the Blood Court, had come along and thrown him into the maze. It made perfect sense that there would be a sharp edge to his tone when he said the words Your Highness. But hearing that edge in his voice when
he spoke to me? That hurt more than I cared to admit.
I did my best to cast the niggling sensation in my stomach aside. I suppose I am, I told him. Don’t worry. I’m not asking anything too unreasonable. At least, I hope
I’m not.
Go on.
I want to train properly. With you. Our time at the Blood Court isn’t forever. I am not their real queen. I have no interest in flouncing around Ammontraíeth, pretending to lord it over my reluctant subjects. I need to stay fit, and I still need to learn how to wield Solace properly. The sword is so heavy, I can barely hold it.
Fisher didn’t even bat an eyelid. Done. Though you might want to train with
Lorreth, if you really want to learn.
Why not you?
He gave me the faintest look of reproval, as if I should already know the answer to this. I can run drills with you, Osha. I can raise a sword to you and pull my blows. I can show you footwork and teach you about warcraft. What I cannot do is attack you like it’s real. And that’s what you need, if you truly want to learn how to fight with a sword. The stakes must be genuine for you to learn how to think and react under pressure. And I will never come at you with everything I’ve got. You are my mate.
I’m in love with you. I couldn’t do that even if I wanted to. Which . . . he added softly, I do not.
“Are you two even list—urgh! They’re not even listening.” Carrion was on his feet, standing over the bag of heads. Lorreth watched him, dark eyes full of amusement, apparently trying not to laugh. Taladaius had rolled one of the heads out of the bag and was inspecting it closely while studiously ignoring Carrion. How he managed it, I would never know. It was as if he could completely tune him out.
I felt a frisson of annoyance rise in Fisher, though he didn’t show it outwardly when he addressed the smuggler. “Apologies, Swift. You have our full and rapt attention. What seems to be the issue?”
“I was just going to point out that there is something else worth noting about these feeders,” he said tartly. “But if no one’s interested in hearing what
that is—”
“Just spit it out,” Fisher commanded.
“Well, I mean, I haven’t spent a great deal of time studying feeders, but—”
He shoved another slice of apple into his mouth as he bent over the rotting heads, squinting at them. At least he finished chewing before he finished his sentence. “From what I can recall, they normally come from Yvelia, right?”
“Yes, of course,” Lorreth answered.
“Well, these ones are from Zilvaren.”
“What?” I took an involuntary step forward. “What are you talking about?”
“Are the feeders normally marked here? Tattoos and the like?” Carrion asked.
Taladaius looked up, turning his stoic gaze upon Carrion. “Some slaves are branded when they’re turned, yes, but most members of court don’t bother.
Feeders are bound to the high blood who made them, no matter what. They will only obey their sires. They have no choice in the matter. Runes and tags of ownership are never required since dead-stock cannot be stolen.”
Feeder. High blood. Deadstock.
There was so much to unpack in that statement and no real time to do so.
Taladaius continued, “Why? What have you noticed?”
Carrion shrugged and dropped into a crouch, humming thoughtfully as he studied the head that was half sticking out of the bag. He quickly grew frustrated and took hold of the sack, upending it so that all eight of the heads toppled out and went rolling across the floor.
He went to the female head first—the one that had been sticking out of the bag—and carved himself off another slice of the apple, sliding it into his mouth and crunching loudly. “Two things. The first is right there,” he said, nodding down at the head. “On its neck. That looks like a pretty intentional marking to me. Saeris, come and tell me what you make of it.”
One of the dismembered heads opened its mouth, thick black ichor running over its chipped teeth and pooling on the floor. Its bloodshot eyes rolled wildly in its head. Nasty. “I can see just fine from here, thanks.”
Carrion rolled his eyes. He huffed as he made his way across the council
chamber and reached out for my wrist— Kingfisher was suddenly there, angled in front of me. Surprisingly, his expression was blank. “Do you like having fingernails, Carrion?” he asked
politely.
“I—” Carrion gaped. “I do, actually.”
“I thought so.” My mate said nothing more.
Carrion quirked an eyebrow, pulling a face, widening his eyes as he looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “All right, then. I take it that means that I should not attempt to touch your girlfriend?”
“Oh, sinners,” Lorreth muttered under his breath.
“She isn’t my girlfriend. She’s my mate,” Fisher said quite amicably. “And if any part of your body, literally any part of it, comes into contact with hers, then I will remove it.”
Carrion thought about this. “What about if she’s hanging off a cliff by one hand and can’t hold on much longer? Can I touch her then?”
“Where am I in this unlikely scenario?”
“Probably dead.”
Fisher just gave him a tight smile. “If I’m dead, then—”
“Urgh! You’re ridiculous, both of you! I’d rather poke a dismembered head than bear witness to this. Just stop already!” I shoved them aside and crossed the chamber to the godscursed heads. Lorreth stooped and picked up the female feeder’s head by the hair, holding it out for me to see.
Sure enough, there was a mark on its neck, just as Carrion had said. My stomach bottomed out the second I saw it. Carrion had known precisely what it was. “Oh,” I whispered.
The mark, an X behind the female’s earlobe, had once been a simple tattoo, but now it was made of knotted veins, bulging up beneath the skin. They looked necrotic, and they pulsed, echoing with the memory of a heartbeat that no longer fed them.
My hand raised of its own accord, moving to my neck and the small black
cross hidden behind my hair.
I couldn’t say the words. Fisher did it, albeit a little breathlessly. “Your sterilization mark? Is that what . . .” He nodded to the head that Lorreth still
held. “Does she have it, too?”
I nodded.
“The second clue that these feeders aren’t Yvelian is staring you right in the face,” Carrion said.
My stomach rolled at the weightless, sick feeling that formed there. “Their ears.”
“Gods alive,” Taladaius groaned. “How did none of us notice? They’re round! Their fucking ears are round. They’re human.”
“They could have been here from before,” I said. “Yvelia was full of humans once, back before the blood curse, right?”
But my maker was shaking his head. “Deadstock have a limited shelf life here. The dark magic that causes them to rise from death reanimates them, yes, but it is temporary. Their bodies still decay. Eventually they fall apart and go back to the dirt. Five years. Maybe ten. These feeders have been dead weeks rather than months. They still have their hair. Some of them have their tongues — “All right. All right. I . . . get the picture.” I was suddenly overcome with the need to sit down. “What does this mean, then? People are jumping into the quicksilver pool in Zilvaren whenever we open the gates? They’re coming through in Cahlish and . . . being attacked there?”
“No.” Fisher’s expression was stormy. His leathers creaked as he paced up and down, trying to piece this together. “They can’t have come through in Cahlish. They would have been found immediately. And anyway, they would have to want to come here specifically for the quicksilver to deliver them here.
And forgive me if I’m wrong, but the people in Zilvaren know nothing of this
place.”
“Right.” Carrion nodded.
“It’s also impossible for someone to just sneak into Madra’s palace and hide in the Hall of Mirrors on the off chance that the quicksilver will wake. No . . .”
Fisher shook his head. “This is intentional. This is Madra’s doing. This . . . is how the rot got here in the first place.”
“You think she infected them with it?” Lorreth asked. “We’ve seen that kind of warfare before. Fae, sick with one illness or another, sent into the middle of military camps to kill off all the warriors there.”
Fisher said nothing, his face a mask of furious concentration. The sound of his footsteps echoed around the chamber as he prowled up and down like a
caged beast.
She hears . . .
The quicksilver laughed in the back of my mind, as if it knew the answer to these questions we were trying to unravel and had no plans of shedding light on the situation. Its whispers had been plaguing me for days now, and they were growing louder. It was perfect timing that it would choose now to harass me.
I closed my eyes, hands trembling at my sides. I couldn’t think straight. I couldn’t breathe. A stab of pain relayed up my arm as the whispers grew louder still, the runes on the back of my right hand throbbing . . .
She hears us. Oh yes, she hears. She will come. Soon. Soon. Soon.
Finally, I’d had enough. My eyes snapped open. “There’s a pool here, isn’t there? It’s small, but I can sense it.”
Fisher stopped his pacing. He looked at me questioningly, then slowly turned his frown on Taladaius, whose gray eyes seemed reflective as mirrors for a moment. My maker drew a long, displeased breath, and then nodded. “Yes,” he said, confirming my suspicions. “Ammontraíeth has always had a pool.”