War Storm

A small part of me wonders if this is impossible. Cal might never wake up the way I did. His choices could be set in stone. But that can’t be true. I see the way he looks at her, and I won’t give up so easily. I only wish I could solve all this with my own two fists and a knife. That might even be enjoyable.

Quite honestly, anything would be more enjoyable than what I’m doing now, prowling through Ridge House at dusk, searching for Mare Barrow. This is a chore and a bore.

Elane is gone, somewhere on the other side of the estate. Keeping an eye on General Farley while Ptolemus works through his evening routine in the training arena. A routine that nicely aligns with Cal’s own schedule. The would-be king is oh-so-married to his workouts, especially now that he can’t burn off his energy with a certain lightning girl.

I pass through the gallery halls, dragging my fingers across statues of reflective steel and polished chrome as I go. Each one responds to my touch, rippling like water disturbed on a still pond. Outside, the sky purples, and stars prick to life across the western horizon. The city of Pitarus glows in the distance, several miles away. A reminder of the world still marching on. Reds and common Silvers now living under the spreading shadow of war. I wonder what that must be like, to read about battles and hear of cities torn apart, and know you have no part in the conflict. No influence. No power should war come to knock on your own door.

And it certainly will.

This war has many sides, and there’s no way to stop what has already begun. Norta will be a rotting carcass one day, with the Rift, the Lakelands, Montfort, Piedmont, and whoever else is left all howling over her corpse.

I step onto the upper terraces, facing into the eastern darkness. A chill hovers on the air, and I think we might face a summer cold front before the week is out.

Barrow isn’t alone when I find her, to my chagrin. She looks up at the stars while her Red boy stretches out at her side, long limbs splayed without thought for appearance. He seems a tangle of blond hair and bronzed, sun-damaged skin.

Kilorn glances at me first, pointing his rounded chin in my direction. “We have an audience.”

“Hello, Evangeline,” Mare replies. Her knees are drawn up to her chest. She doesn’t move, her face tipped to the sky and the growing starlight. “To what do we owe this honor, Your Highness?” she drawls.

I chuckle and pause to lean against the railing edging the terrace tile. Biting to the last. “I find myself in need of distraction.”

Mare shakes her head, amused. “I thought that’s what Elane is for.”

“She has a life of her own,” I muse airily, forcing a shrug. “I can’t expect her to live at my beck and call.”

“You spent all your time pretending not to pine for her, and now here you are, in the same place again. But you’re bothering me instead.” Shrewd, she turns her gaze on me for a second, her brown eyes black against the deepening night sky. Then she looks back at the stars. “What do you want to know?”

“Nothing at all. I don’t care where you and Cal scampered off to today, or why you both were so incredibly late to a meeting about the survival of your own people.”

At her side, the Red boy tenses, his brows knitting together.

Mare tries not to rise to the bait or the implication. She waves a hand, dismissive. “It wasn’t important.”

“Well, if you ever need assistance with your unimportant doings, there are a few passages I can show you. Ways to get around the Ridge unseen.” I tip my head, surveying her as she pretends not to listen to me. “Cal sleeps in the east wing, near my rooms, in case you’re interested.”

Her head snaps up. “I am not.”

“Of course,” I reply.

The Red boy glowers, his eyes a dark green, the color of my mother’s stormiest emeralds. “Is this what you call distraction? Taunting Mare?”

“Not at all. I was wondering if Mare felt like sparring a bit.”

She balks. “I beg your pardon?”

“For old time’s sake.”

She huffs, as if annoyed. But I see the familiar twitch in her. The need. A coil in the pit of her stomach, begging to be unwound. Barrow looks at her feet, blinking slowly. She runs one hand over the other, smoothing her fingers against her palm. Imagining the lightning, no doubt.

There is a particular pleasure in using our abilities for sport rather than survival.

“I’ve almost beaten you twice, Evangeline,” Mare says.

I grin. “Third time’s the charm.”

She glares up at me, annoyed at the hunger inside herself. “Fine,” she forces through gritted teeth. “One match.”

Cal is also in the training arena, not that Mare or Kilorn knows it, though. The Red boy follows us wordlessly, fuming, but he does nothing to stop Barrow when I lead her into the specially made chamber.

The walls are glass, much like the rest of the Ridge. In the morning, it enjoys a full view of the sunrise. Perfect for early sessions. Now it looks out on the darkness, a vague, bruising blue, fading to black. Ptolemus and Cal occupy different ends of the training floor, ignoring each other as men do. My brother steadily works through a rotation of push-ups, his back straight and lean. Wren perches nearby, seated in the raised viewing area. She must be the healer on duty, to attend to anyone on the floor. But her attention is firmly fixed on Ptolemus and his flexing muscles. I could probably spear Cal through the middle and she wouldn’t blink an eye.

The would-be king faces away from us at first, running a towel over his hair and his sweaty, flushed face. I watch Mare go stock-still next to me, as if frozen solid. Her eyes widen, running over his figure. I can only grimace, noting the damp material clinging to Cal’s back and shoulders. Maybe if I felt some attraction to him—or to any man, for that matter—I might understand exactly why Mare looks like she’s going to pass out.

At least this part of the plan is working. Barrow clearly has no objections to Cal’s body.

“This way,” I say to her, taking her by the arm.

Cal spins at my voice, towel still in hand. He startles at the sight of us. Well, the sight of her. “We’re almost finished,” he manages to sputter.

“Take your time. It doesn’t make a difference to me,” Mare replies, her voice and expression decidedly neutral. She lets me lead her away without protest, but her hand shifts, her arm moving quickly. Her fingers dig into my flesh, nails biting in warning.

“Kilorn,” I hear Cal say behind us, greeting the Red boy with what sounds like a handshake.

Ptolemus looks up from his spot on the floor, not breaking his pace. I give him the slightest nod, pleased by our machinations. His eyes slide past me, though, to rest on Mare instead.

She looks back at him, murderous. It chills my blood.

I try not to shudder. Try not to think of my brother bleeding like hers did, dying as he falls, dying for nothing at all.

Pull yourself together, Samos.

SIXTEEN

Mare

“I’m not an idiot, Evangeline,” I growl as the changing-room door slams behind us.

She just sighs, shoving a training suit into my chest. With practiced, even motions, she strips out of her simple gown and tosses it to the side, discarding the puddle of silk like a pile of trash. Naked but for her underclothes, she pours herself into a training suit of her own. Clearly custom-made for her, printed with a scaled design of black and silver.

Mine is less ornate. A simple navy blue. Furious with her scheming, I pull off my own clothes before forcing the suit on.