The Second Death of Locke — Chapter no 19

nineteen

FTER DINNER, SHE SUFFERED through a particularly dull (and possiblyA pointed) conversation with the commander about the importance of propriety and did her best to avoid Master Pickett, who she heard commenting to another officer that he must’ve misremembered the appearance, coloring and gender of the honored Captain Seward’s Hand— though of course, he noted, two of those three factors could have changed.

More than once, she looked up to see the High Lord’s eyes on her, mouth furrowed into a frown within his red beard. When the dancing started, she was well and truly done—she suffered through one waltz with Eron before she threw caution to the winds and went to free Kier from his admirers.

It took her a moment to break through the circle to find him standing in the middle, sparkling wine in both hands. “Captain,” she said, lowering her eyes demurely.

“Officer Fastria,” Kier said. He handed her one of the half-drunk glasses of bubbly wine; she brushed his knuckles with hers when she took it and flicked her eyes to the door.

“I believe you have duties yet, for the High Lady?”

“Ah, yes,” he said, easily slipping from the conversation. “I did promise to speak to her. If you’ll excuse me…”

They escaped from the circle, and Kier linked his arm in Grey’s. They found Ola and Eron, drunk in a corner, watching Brit spin in circles with a mage from another encampment, with very different but equal versions of longing plainly written on their faces. Grey filed that detail away for later digestion.

She gripped Eron’s chin in her hand. “Please don’t disgrace me,” she

begged, before she kissed him on the cheek.

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“Be safe,” Ola slurred gravely as Grey stepped back to Kier’s side. “In all ways that apply.”

“Still none of your business,” Kier said cheerfully. “But I will take your suggestion to heart.”

They slipped into the wet chill of the night, then into one of the dozens of carriages that waited outside. Kier gave the driver the name of the inn.

They sat opposite one another, legs alternating, as they lurched into motion.

Grey wanted very badly to grab him by his coat and pull him toward her, but they were in a windowed carriage, and perhaps she just wanted to look at him a little longer. His face mirrored the emotion she felt through the tether, something like awe and wonder and reluctant impatience. Her blood thrummed hot in her cheeks, in her stomach; her whole body felt electric and restless.

When they reached the inn, Grey stumbled out, feeling drunk on something other than alcohol. She kept her composure all the way up to their room, where her fingers fumbled with the key until Kier took it and slid it home.

Inside, door locked behind them, they regarded one another.

“So,” he said, carefully laying the key on top of the wardrobe.

“So,” she said, watching his every move.

They stared at each other. She didn’t understand this shyness (hands in his intestines, etc.), but now that they were alone, she could not shake it.

She inhaled sharply, unsteadily when he leaned forward to take her hand.

He brought it to his lips, brushed a kiss on her knuckles.

“Is this more how you imagined it?” she asked.

Kier laughed. “Grey, you’re a treasure beyond any imagining.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Captain Seward,” she said, because if she let herself believe him, there would be no recovery. “I still have all my clothes on.” He moved to pull her closer, but she shook her head. “Stand still.”

She brought her hands to his jacket, sliding under, pushing it over his shoulders. Grey leaned in to kiss that soft space at the edge of his jaw, the one she’d been so fixated on earlier, relishing his sharp inhalation. She pulled his jacket off and tossed it behind her, onto the bed.

“Grey,” he started. His hands went to her back, fumbling for the laces of

her dress.

“Mm, no.” She pushed them away. She was dedicated to enjoying this, and she’d been imagining getting Kier’s body under her hands for years.

She would not be deprived of the joy of tormenting him.

He stood still, his breathing erratic, as she unfastened the buttons of his shirt. She ran her fingers along the obsidian of the moon. He watched her hungrily, hands clenched at his sides—he wanted to touch her, she knew, but even more, he wanted her to have her way.

She slid off his shirt, and the muscles of his stomach tensed as her hands skimmed over him. She kissed the line of his collarbone, flicking her tongue over the hollow of his throat, relishing the sound he made. Every single one of their sparring matches was written into his dense muscle; every battle showed on his skin. She swallowed hard, remembering all of them, a thousand recollections of his blood, his magic and her power, which had carved him from the boy she’d once longed for into the man she had now, under her hands.

“Do I get a turn?” he asked, amused, as she trailed her hands over the planes of his chest, the trail of fine dark hair from his navel, the scars on his abdomen.

“If you’re good,” she said, skimming a thumb over his nipple, then drawing his mouth to hers to swallow his answering gasp. What a treasured thing it was, to hear that noise from him—to know it belonged to her and

her alone.

“Grey,” he murmured against her lips.

She bit his bottom lip. “Your turn,” she allowed.

Kier did not waste his time as he pulled her flush against him. He was insistent, undoing the laces of her dress with record speed, pushing it off her shoulders to pool at her feet. She tangled one hand in his hair, the other on his shoulder, half for balance. Her knees were unstable with the maddening slide of his tongue against hers.

He was still wearing too many clothes, which was a disaster, so her fingers went to the laces of his trousers as he wrestled her out of her chemise, breaking the kiss with a laugh. Then he was looking at her again, and the pure adoration on his face knocked the wind right out of her.

She fought the instinct to cover herself, keeping her shoulders square, her hands on his shoulders. He looked at her like he hadn’t seen her skin a

thousand times, every single day, in a million contexts. Like all of this was new—like he didn’t know the shape of the scar on her ribs or the lines of her body. His hand cupped her breast reverently, one thumb sweeping back and forth over her until she ached with tension.

This time when she kissed him there was a new desperation. He stumbled, pushing her toward the window—thankfully he’d drawn the curtains before they left, or else those in the courtyard would be treated to a show—and boosted her so she was sitting on the wide windowsill, her back pressed to the fabric of the curtains. He rocked against her, still too many layers between them, but she felt him hard against her, and she groaned into his mouth.

He paused, pulling back just enough so he could see her, cupping her face with his hand. “Is this what you want?”

She dragged his head down so she could nip at his ear. “This is the only thing I want.”

He laughed, the sound warm and relieved. He hesitated for a second. As she started to ask if he was okay, he went for her pack. She watched him rummage for her healer’s kit, then squint at the labels. He shook a measure of contraceptive herbs into his palm and took them with water, wincing at the bitter taste. She grabbed him by the hand and pulled him back, pausing to bite at his collarbone. “Thanks.”

“Ola reminded me,” he said, running his hands up her back in a way that made her shiver.

“Please,” she said, pulling him down so she could kiss him on the mouth. “Do not bring Ola into this.”

He laughed, warm and clear, then moved one hand toward the waist of

her shorts. “May I?”

“Please.”

He slipped his thumbs under the edge, then pulled them down, his hands skimming over her legs. His palms rested on her thighs for half a second before he pulled her legs apart.

“Kier—” She reached for him, but then he dropped to his knees and pressed a kiss to her inner thigh. She gasped, tangling her hand in his hair.

“I used to dream about this,” he murmured against her skin, hitching her thighs over his shoulders.

“Used to?” she forced herself to ask as he ran a hand from knee to hip. It

was not worth telling him that she had imagined it too—her shyness was still cloying, even though she read the desire in his eyes when he looked at her. But it was hard for her to believe that he’d spent years sleeping by her side, orbiting her, thinking of her in this way, even dreaming of her, and nothing between them had changed until now.

“Mm. In my younger years, when I thought I could imagine the taste of you.”

Grey blushed, shy despite herself. She had never really spoken with past bedmates—it had been about relief, a mutually assured satisfaction, rather than genuine love or affection. Certainly, none of them had cared for her— not like this. “How long?”

He skimmed his nose over her skin, sighing against it. “Oh, just the better part of a decade.”

What absolute fools they were. All that time, and they could have been doing this.

She sucked in a breath as he kissed and bit his way between her legs, her head falling back when he put his mouth on her.

“How does it compare?” she barely managed to ask through the quiet supernova that erupted in her brain. It felt—it felt like magic, like power; it felt better than the swelling of heat when she found the power tethered around her and pulled.

Kier pulled back to kiss her hip. “Infinitely better in real life.”

It was just— He ducked his head back down, his hands on her hips, reacting to every gasp and breath. He was so confident, so sure of himself.

He’d never been with her, but he knew her, knew her better than she knew herself. When he moved, it was exactly the right move at exactly the right time, like all of his imaginings of his mouth and hands on her body had perfectly prepared him to bring her as much pleasure as possible. Grey was caught in the tide of it, the grip of his hands and the soft murmur of his voice, his praise as she wound tighter and tighter under his touch. She felt the pleasure mounting, growing within her, the precipice looming; then he did something clever with his tongue and she came against him, tugging on his hair, his grip on her hips never easing.

It was just— He rose back up her body with steely determination, and she realized he still had trousers on—a crime, truly—and when she went to touch him, he said please in such a beautiful voice, but she pushed him

away and moved to stand. She made short work of his clothes and pressed him into the chair he’d been sitting in earlier, his gaze on her molten hot as he watched her stand above him. For all of Kier’s supposed fantasizing, she’d thought of this, too: taking him over, watching his hazel eyes go liquid and warm, waiting for her to possess him with a breath-catching stillness.

She moved to straddle him, her knees framing his hips. His eyes flicked shut as she stroked him, memorizing the velvety smoothness of his skin, the heat of him.

“Please,” he murmured again, his eyes nearly black when he opened them to gaze up at her.

It was just— When she shifted forward, positioned him with one hand while the other rested on his shoulder, when she sank down on him and he moved inside of her, it was as if the tether between them tightened, redoubled, exploded into something shivering and golden.

“Grey,” he sighed, her name the softest of exhalations. She felt the power of her pushing through the tether without her direction. She felt both in control and wildly out of it; both filled to the brim and needing more of him, as much of him as she could take, as soon as possible.

She moved against his body, slowly at first, getting used to the feeling of him inside of her. He shifted his hands to her waist, his gaze never leaving her face, as if he’d never get enough of the sight of her.

Grey could barely think as he moved, pushing up from under her. She leaned down to kiss him, taking his lower lip between her teeth. His grip tightened on her, and she rolled her hips against him, setting a faster pace.

“You are everything I’ve ever wanted,” he said, pressing his forehead to hers.

She shifted, giving herself more space to move against him, and he buried his face in her neck and kissed the juncture of her neck and shoulder until even that wasn’t close enough. She ceded power, felt the echo of his magic as it fizzled against her skin. He moved his hands to her hips, pulling her up as he stood and pushed her back onto the windowsill, and she gasped at the change in angle as he paused and readjusted.

“Yes,” she moaned, biting his shoulder. She wrapped her legs tighter around his waist as he reached with one hand between her thighs, drawing circles with his thumb. She felt the tether inside of her, consuming, burning

her alive. “Kier, I need—”

“Let me,” he murmured, pressing his lips to her hair.

He increased his pressure until she had no thoughts; she was a creature of want and desire and nothing more. The wave crested, pulling her under, and she splintered apart with a half-sob against his shoulder. Kier made a low noise in his throat, breaking rhythm as he shattered inside of her.

She didn’t move. She couldn’t move. His fingertips skimmed up and down along her back, their breathing uneven but matched as they came back into themselves.

She kissed him on the temple, desperately, raggedly. “Petition accepted,”

she said into his damp hair.

“What?”

She leaned back so she could see his face—he was still inside of her, and she still throbbed with the aftershock of him. “Congratulations. You’re the first citizen of Locke.”

He laughed, burying his face in her shoulder. “It’s an honor,” he said, dropping to nip the top of her breast, “to be yours, my lady.”

Time stayed syrupy and still. They cleaned up in the washroom, then she pulled on his shirt and crawled into bed, and he stretched out, still naked and uncaring, his hand skimming over her hip, her waist, the line of her thigh, like he was trying to memorize every part of her by touch. They talked about nothing, like they would any other day, but then she leaned in and kissed him, and he was there, warm and sure, and just as needy. Soon he was over her, his weight on his elbows, her leg hitched around his hip, and he was sinking into her all over again.

It wasn’t like she’d imagined it would be, when she had allowed herself to imagine it. He was more certain than she’d anticipated, but he was eager for her to take the lead, to push him deeper into the bed and set her own pace. It was less of a battle for dominance and more of an understanding; him sinking into her as much as possible until she gripped his chin, then ceding power easily. Though she’d never been one to lead with previous partners, she loved controlling him, knowing that every breathy gasp was her doing, that every sharp sound, every profane word from his lips was hers.

After, they lay still, facing one another halfway down the bed. She was so languorously pleased that she could barely keep her eyes open. He was

too warm for her to press against him—Kier always ran hot—but their fingers were tangled in the space between them. He did not seem to mind her fidgeting as she constantly knotted and unknotted their hands.

“Where should we go first?” she asked. It was long past dark now, and neither of them had bothered to turn any lights on besides the small golden magelight that Kier had summoned, which left the room mostly in shadow.

She could still see every line of his face, though, mostly from memory. She lifted her free hand to run her little finger over the scar that always made his mouth do things it shouldn’t. He turned his face to kiss her palm.

“Home first, I think,” he said, “if you don’t mind. It’s been a while. I’d like to visit Lot.”

She nodded. Every time they went home, Kier kissed his ma and his mom and then went quietly out into the garden, kneeling at the foot of a tree, pressing his hand to the marker that bore Lot’s name. He sat there for an infinite amount of time, talking softly to his brother of all that had passed in the months since he’d last been home. She understood from that initial visit after Lot died that the first trip to his grave, that great outpour, had to be done when Kier was alone. In the days following, she sat with him, gently running her fingers through the grass as they talked to Lot, in the way she used to run her fingers through his hair while they all lazed in the sun together.

“And Mom has been pressing,” he said. “Ma hasn’t been well—we should spend a few weeks, at least. Get our bearings. Make a plan.”

“I’ve been meaning to write to Imarta,” Grey said, feeling that familiar guilt—but it was easy to pick up when they saw each other. Every time she returned, her adopted mother looked up as she came through the door and said only, Well? Where’d you go? No redactions, please (even though there were always redactions; they were necessary), and fussed over her until she left again.

“I sent her a letter,” Kier said. “Before we left camp.”

“Of course you did.” He was always better at being someone’s child.

“And then?” he asked, genuine curiosity in his voice.

Grey sighed. And then. She rolled onto her back, staring up at the ceiling. “And then, I suppose we need a boat.”

“I think we need more than a boat,” Kier said carefully.

“I don’t know what the process is,” Grey confessed.

“I know. We have time to figure it out,” Kier said. “But you’re sure the bulk of it didn’t… explode?”

“There were explosions,” Grey said, “from the sheer force of power. But no, I don’t think so. It’s there, in the sea, waiting for me to come back.”

Kier thought on this. “Maybe something will feel right when we get there. Or maybe your gods will give you the answer.”

“Maybe.” She closed her eyes, all desire for sleep erased by the memories that surfaced. She highly doubted her gods would want anything to do with her anymore. “You never asked me how it happened. And even since… finding out about what I can do, you haven’t asked how I did it.”

He was quiet for a moment. “I didn’t think it was my place.”

“And it changed nothing? Knowing I was the one who destroyed the Isle?” She opened her eyes, staring straight up, remembering how Severin grabbed her hand, then the two of them running, running, running.

“I think I’ve always known.”

She remembered the sweat on her back and the smell of burning wood, burning meat, burning hair—everything was aflame all the way up to the Ghostwood, then they were in the cellar and she couldn’t see the fire anymore.

“You always thought so low of me? That I would kill my entire line?

Destroy my home?”

He rolled over, drawing her close against his chest, shifting her to lie on her side. He stroked her cheek, his touch whisper-light. “No,” he said. “I always knew you were a survivor.”

She searched his face, uncertain what she was looking for. “My father wanted Severin to have a choice,” she said, the words falling from her lips.

“They tried to protect us, protect my parents, when everything went so wrong… Eprain sent a suitor, but it was just death in disguise. I remember her. Severin killed her himself, and I can’t imagine how…” She drew a shaky breath. “Locke, my mother, rose like a storm cloud to face them, but it was too late. They used breakbloom to break the tethers.”

“Grey,” he said, so tenderly it hurt. “You don’t have to tell me this.”

She felt the tears on her cheeks, hot and endless. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried. “I remember the sound. Their boots. I remember their blood. Sev’s hands—he held me so tight it left a bruise, the only thing left of him when I made it to Scaela.

“I know everyone thinks it was my mother who took the Isle down, but she and my father were already dead. I felt them the second they died, like great torches extinguished. And I think… I think Sev knew what he was doing, what it would cost.”

“You were already Locke,” Kier said, understanding.

Grey nodded. “And Severin knew what we could do together. So he told me to pull as much power from the wells around me as I could, and from the Isle itself. He shielded me, and I let the power explode. It was the only way to save Locke: to submerge it entirely. All three of them, Severin, Mam, Pa; and my grandmother, too. They all died so I could live.”

Kier wiped the tears away before they could collect in her hair. “They did it because they loved you, Grey,” he said.

She looked up at his face, reaching to trace the line of his temple. “But that’s not the kind of love I want. I don’t want sacrifice. I don’t want anyone else to die for me.”

I don’t want you to die for me, she did not say.

He leaned in to kiss her, tender and sweet. “I’d happily perish for you any day of the week, Flynn,” he said, seeing right through her.

She moved her hand to the back of his neck, cradling his head. “You’re a fool,” she said very carefully, “but if you insist on putting yourself in danger for me… I don’t want you to be my mage.” His face immediately shifted into caution. “No—not like that.”

“Grey?”

She wriggled closer, throwing her leg over his hip. His hand immediately went to her thigh. “I want you as my commander, Kier. If we’re able to resurrect the Isle, I want to know that it will be safe again, and I want it to be you.”

He studied her face. “Any commander or master you want will come,” he said carefully. “If you would have them. You could take from Cleoc Strata, from Scaela—gods, even Nestria would offer, if it meant a treaty.”

She shook her head. “I don’t care. I don’t trust them. I don’t trust anyone in the world like I trust you.”

He leaned forward to kiss her. “I already have your name in my heart, Locke,” he said. “It would be the greatest honor to carry your banner.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to think about it?”

“No.”

She nuzzled into his chest, relishing the fact that she could just be here, against him, skin to skin as his arms folded around her. “It’s probably not the ideal retirement.”

He sighed, suffering as always, then rolled onto his back, tugging her along with him so she rested on his chest. “We both knew from the start that

retirement would be short-lived.”

“A hero and a genius, Seward.”

“I have other talents besides my bravery and intellect, you know.”

Grey bit gently at his collarbone. “Oh? Can I get a demonstration?”

He paused as if thinking about it. “Can I get a raise?”

“You don’t even have a salary yet.”

His fingers traced down her hip. “Not yet.”

She snorted. “Bribery never suited you.” But she did not argue with his methods.

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I’m sorry, my lord. We didn’t get there in time—they’d already found Lady Wren and slaughtered her, her boys and the entire household. Please find enclosed her cloak pin bearing her House’s seal. I will see her body safely delivered and laid to rest as her customs dictate.

Letter from Ikaaron Plides, Scaelan ambassador to Nestria, to Scaelas, 2 days PD

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