Chapter 23 — Azriel - A Court of Splintered Harmony

Sweat dripped from Azriel’s brow, his nose, his shoulders as he braced himself on his forearms and held a plank. Even with the crisp autumn day, the sun was merciless and had quickly set him perspiring soon after beginning his morning workout. His stomach muscles trembled, sweat dripping off them, too, and his back strained with the effort of keeping his wings from drooping onto the ground.

Seconds ticked by, one after another. He swallowed down the discomfort, the exhaustion. The sun seared his back, and he swallowed down the heat of that, too.

His shadows kept to the interior of the mountain, avoiding the sunny training area.

He’d awoken this morning hoping, in that second before he opened his eyes, that he’d be at the river house, in his bed, and nothing as catastrophic as last night had occurred. That the morning at the temple, with Bryaxis, hadn’t occurred, either. But he’d scented the familiar red rocks of the House of Wind, felt the clearer sunlight streaming through the wall of windows—he hadn’t bothered to close the drapes—and knew.

It had happened. The swarming fear. Then the desire, the need, the pleasure—and the implosion.

It seemed odd that Velaris, the world, was still standing. That people were going about their lives as usual far below. How could any of that be possible when his own life had been turned inside out?

His arms shook, but he shoved back his heels, willing strength through his legs, his whole body. His chest ached, and it wasn’t just from the position he was holding.

“What happened to training?”

Az managed to lift his head enough to see Cassian leaning against the archway, arms crossed.

“They were done for the day when I got up here,” Az grunted.

He began to lower himself to the dirt, but Cassian said, “Thirty more seconds.”

A commander’s voice. The general of the Night Court’s voice.

Great. Another brother here to rip him to shreds. He refrained from telling Cassian there wasn’t much left to tear up as he obeyed, holding the plank.

“Ten,” Cassian counted down. “Nine . . .”

After his workout ended today, what then? What could he even do that wouldn’t be considered licking his wounds?

“. . . two . . .”

Az gritted his teeth, knowing that Cassian was dragging out the last second, getting five, then ten more seconds out of him, the fucking asshole—

“One,” Cass declared, and Az let himself drop to the dirt. The grit and small stones scraped against his bare torso, little stings that he welcomed.

He buried his head between his arms, Siphons cool against his brow, and panted great, heaving breaths to steady himself.

His shadows remained crouched by the shade of the doorway. He’d never forgive them for last night, for not alerting him when Lucien had been approaching, for causing all this—

“You get thirty seconds down there, then we’re doing another plank.”

Azriel pulled his face off his arms to find Cassian pushing off the archway, stripping out of his own shirt. Lowering himself onto the ground beside Az.

Cassian threw him a grin, spreading his fingers to get into position. “You’re in such deep shit.”

Az blew out a breath through his nose, as close to a laugh as he’d get today. “I know.”

Cassian easily heaved himself up, then settled into the plank, wings folding gracefully across his broad back. “Want me to work you into the dirt?”

Az snorted and hauled himself back into position. He didn’t deserve his brother’s kindness, didn’t deserve this offer of normalcy to help him work through everything that warred in his mind. Didn’t deserve a lick of it. And yet . . .

“Yes, please.”

* * *

The exercise helped. Not entirely, but by the time Cassian was through with him, Azriel was so exhausted it took all his focus to reach his room.

Cassian swaggered down the steps as if barely winded. Bastard. Apparently, he’d told the others he was going to Windhaven for the day, and still intended to. But in addition to Cassian’s preternatural strength, his brother was also an unnaturally good male—so he’d come here first to check on Az.

As he washed and dressed, Az kept thinking about how he didn’t deserve Cassian’s kindness. Especially as he dropped onto the sofa in his room at the House of Wind and willed his worthless shadows to disperse into the city, to hunt. And ten minutes later, summoned by those shadows, Erebos appeared.

Certain spies were suited for certain tasks. Certain deeds. Nuala and Cerridwen were best for political intrigue, for listening and waiting and blending in.

Erebos was a terror that made people start talking. The sort of creature that children dreaded lurking under their beds. And, more often than not, Erebos did—under their parents’ beds, anyway.

There were some nightmares that had given the Night Court its fearsome reputation, after all. And who better than Az to wield them?

Crafted from pure shadow, yet not wholly shadow, Erebos had no discernable features. Though a lanky humanoid in shape, he bore no mouth, no nose—only golden eyes that simmered like hot coals.

Shadow-men, the humans had once called Erebos’s people, millennia ago—shadow-thing was a better term, Az thought. Beings that traveled in shadow and darkness, and fed on the fears both inspired. Beings that liked to toy with their prey, drawing out that delicious terror for as long as possible.

Az didn’t enjoy dealing with Erebos—Mor had been telling him to get rid of the abomination for years now—but the creature was effective. Skilled, even. Able to resist his urge to feed on targets, while utilizing his horrific stalking instincts to glean as much information as possible.

And, given his people’s ancient worship of shadowsingers, totally loyal to Azriel.

Erebos had been the one to find Az, centuries ago. Drawn by the darkness in him, Erebos had unequivocally pledged his lifelong services to Az and this court. An unsavory ally, perhaps, but one who had uses.

And for this task, Erebos was precisely who—what—Az needed.

Az’s shadows seemed to recoil to the corners of the room, as if seeking any crack or crevice to escape through. To avoid being in Erebos’s presence. The power of the Siphons atop Az’s hands felt distant somehow—like it wanted to be far away, too. Even Bryaxis hadn’t done that, he realized with no small amount of distaste. His own shadows and Bryaxis’s were made of something different than what Erebos bore—what the shadow-thing was crafted from.

“Yes?” Erebos hissed, a splotch of solid, impenetrable black against the glare of the morning sun. The creature bowed low at the waist.

Suppressing a cringe at the way the word slithered over his skin, Az sighed, scrubbing his face. His arms ached just from the movement. But his sore body was the least of his concerns.

“Any news from Koschei’s castle or lake?” Az had ordered Erebos there months ago.

“Nothing,” Erebos said, sounding for all the world like he was bored. “I cannot get close enough to learn anything interesting.”

“Station one of your underlings to watch it, then,” Az said tightly. Erebos had shadows that worked for him, much like Az’s own shadows. The similarities were too unnerving to dwell on often, but the differences at least proved useful. Erebos could leave them behind—pieces of himself, the shadow-thing had once called them—to report back to him. “I have a different task for you.”

“Oh?”

Az might have ruined any chance of help from Lucien, but he had to ensure that the male wasn’t going to do anything that would threaten this court. The Mother knew they already had one major threat within it.

“Go to the human lands,” Az ordered, “and follow Lucien Vanserra. Where he goes, you go. Any movement out of the ordinary, you report back to me. He makes contact with the Autumn Court, you tell me immediately. Understood?”

Erebos’s golden eyes flickered with twin flames of delight. “The lordling of Autumn will be an interesting target.”

“Not target,” Az warned. “Don’t touch him.”

He could have sworn Erebos pouted. Az’s shadows clung to the corners of the room, more repulsed than terrified.

The creature’s eyes slid toward them, slitting with pleasure—like he was well aware of their disgust. But he bowed again to Azriel. “As you will it, Shadowsinger.” When Erebos straightened, he pointed to Azriel’s side, darkness rippling off his finger. “Where is your blade? The one that sings.”

Azriel knew he meant Truth-Teller. It was at the town house, still in the corner he’d chucked it into. Where it would remain forever. But Erebos’s comment was intriguing enough that he found himself asking, “What do you hear when it’s around, exactly?”

Erebos cocked his shadowy head, serpentine in his movement. “A dirge. A lament. A scream.” All the more reason to ignore the blade. To never draw it again. Erebos shuddered with pleasure. “A Song of Songs.”

And that was more than enough. “You’re dismissed,” Az said.

With a final sigh of longing, Erebos faded into shreds of black mist. “May the Mother’s dark blessings be upon you, Shadowsinger.” Then he was gone.

Az rubbed his eyes with relief. He trusted Erebos to not touch one red hair on Lucien’s head, but . . . gods, he hated dealing with that thing.

Erebos had seen Truth-Teller plenty of times through the centuries, but had never mentioned singing. Was this another change Bryce Quinlan had brought about?

It didn’t matter. Az would never use or even wear that blade again. He stalked back to the couch and collapsed onto it, his shadows now rushing to curl at his feet, his knees. He ignored them and instead stared at the age-worn carpet. As if he could see through it, through the mountain, all the way to the pit where he prayed Bryaxis now slumbered. Or perhaps she was patiently waiting for her next victim.

Fear itself had returned home to the mountain.

Yes, a number of Valkyries now stood between that monster and the city, but if even Nesta had been ineffective against Bryaxis yesterday, what good would they do?

Worse, the last time Bryaxis had resided here, the House had been just . . . a house. Now Nesta had Made it into something more. Something sentient. Powerful. How would Bryaxis be affected by dwelling within that sentience?

There were too many possibilities, none of them good. And with Clotho having locked them out of the library for the time being, answers would have to wait. Not that they were in a hurry to confront Bryaxis. Only one of them had even been able to face her and fight, and that had ended with Bryaxis still intact.

Watch your tone, Nesta had snarled at Rhys the night before. As unafraid of the High Lord as she’d been of Bryaxis.

Something like guilt panged through him. She’d defended him last night. Gone toe to toe with Rhys, knowing full well the High Lord was dangerously close to violence.

Nesta shouldn’t have wasted her breath.

And yet . . . perhaps she’d done it because she knew precisely how it felt to be on the receiving end of Rhys’s wrath. To be shoved to the outside and forced to look in. Nesta understood, and even though he’d been a piece of shit to her recently, she’d fought for him.

He had no idea where that left him. Cassian, too, was still speaking to him, but the rest . . .

Mor certainly wasn’t going to talk to him anytime soon. Nor Rhys. And Mother save him when Amren found out. Az rubbed his neck, his stomach muscles aching with the motion.

He should speak to Elain. Somewhere outside, perhaps, so he wasn’t tempted in any way. But they should talk, and try to figure everything out. Even if he didn’t really know what everything was, what he wanted, except for her.

Rhys couldn’t understand, not really. So if Rhys wanted to banish him somewhere, fine. Elain would come with him. They’d leave, and good fucking luck to Rhys with the impending war.

To hell with all of them for trying to come between him and Elain, for not grasping what was so very obvious.

Some small part of him bucked and thrashed at that thought. Some small part of him wanted to shake himself by the shoulders and roar.

But what did he have left, really, if not this blisteringly bright thing with Elain? She made his shadows disappear—made them run. How could the others not understand what a gift that was to him?

He was death, and she was life. Where his soul was soiled and bloodied, hers was pristine, verdant.

Perhaps his father’s hateful wife had been right: he was a demon who should have been drowned at birth. If Bryaxis had taught him anything yesterday, it had been that, deep down, he was still that monster, still capable of doing things his friends would never, not in a million years, consider.

His shadows curled at his shoulders, in his lap. The world is dimming, they cautioned. The winter dark closes in on all sides—

He banished them with a flash of teeth. They slunk back to the corners of the room.

He’d find Elain. He’d talk to her, after everyone had some time to cool off. Together, he and Elain would figure out a plan.

And then they’d make everything right.