Chapter 219: Et Tu, Guest?

BRADLEY

I don’t remember turning around. I remember the familiar weight of my pistol in my hand, the weapon torn from its holster as instinct took over. I swung toward the centre of the room, my finger already tightening around the trigger.

I’d fired a thousand times in my life. At the range, in the field, in situations where a moment’s hesitation could cost someone their life. My aim was steady.

But the trigger wouldn’t move.

I squeezed harder. Nothing.

My finger had locked in place, the tendons rigid beneath my skin as though someone had poured molten iron through my hand and let it cool. I strained until the muscles in my forearm burned, but the trigger remained stubbornly beyond my control.

The pistol hung uselessly in my grip.

A woman stood in the middle of my office.

She wasn’t particularly tall. A long, dark cloak fell around her, pooling at her feet, and straight black hair spilled past her shoulders. The hood cast most of her face in shadow, revealing little beyond a pale jaw and a mouth painted a deep, striking red. One slender hand held the cloak aside, the gesture almost courtly, as though she’d arrived at a formal gathering and was waiting for someone to announce her.

I knew her.

"You," I breathed.

"Yes." Her lips curved into a smile. "Me."

"It was all going so well again," she said, strolling past my desk as though she had every right to be there. Her fingers skimmed the scarred corner of the walnut. "A little grief. A little loyalty. A lovely, ripe voicemail from beyond the grave, just as I’d expected Cornelius to leave. He was a mastermind like that, after all."

She gave a soft, appreciative hum.

"And then you had to go and consider betraying him."

"I wasn’t..."

"You were." She clicked her tongue, cutting me off before I could finish. "I heard you. Half a sentence into a recording, and you were already preparing to confess everything to a boy who shouldn’t even hear that part of it."

Her expression soured.

"I’m writing a beautiful story, Beta. I refuse to let you ruin it."

The gun remained fixed in my hand, my finger trapped against the unyielding trigger. I could feel my pulse beating against the metal.

"What the fuck do you want?"

"That’s none of your concern."

She reached across the desk and picked up the red vial between two fingers.

My stomach clenched.

She held it against the light, examining the contents with the casual interest of someone inspecting a particularly fine piece of jewellery.

"Hmm. Good. You chose well." She turned the vial slightly, watching the liquid move. "Did you know Edelina called you a sycophant? And that was even today. I thought it was rather fitting. A dog barking at the wrong gate for twenty years."

She returned the vial to its place with a delicate click.

"But your heart is softening, isn’t it? For this new boy King." She looked at me, her smile widening. "I can smell it on you. Like magic."

A cold unease settled beneath my ribs.

"You’ve been in this house."

"I’ve been plotting this for a very long time." She shrugged, the movement small and elegant beneath the dark fabric. "Many people have already played their parts. Cornelius played his most wonderfully, bless him. He died so beautifully."

Something in her expression sharpened.

"But I do hate meddlers."

She turned to face me fully.

"People like you. And that..." She paused, her upper lip curling. "That girl. The healer."

The air in the room seemed to thin.

"She nearly ruined the ending I’d written for Cornelius. I had to intervene, right in the middle of the scene, because she was busy trying to heal him." Disgust coloured every word. "And then I discover she is a fucking god, or close enough to one. Thank the Goddess I’d had the sense to keep watch on her."

My thoughts snagged on something I’d been trying not to examine too closely.

The singular black feather in the mortuary box.

Warm against my palm. Warm in a way no ordinary feather should have been.

"The crow feather," I said. The words came out slowly as the pieces fell into place. "You were there."

"Yes."

"When he died?"

"Naturally." She sounded almost fond. "I was in the library the entire time, wearing a rather lovely little disguise. I watched her place her hands on him, and then I made her stop that nonsense. After that, I watched him slip away, and I made certain he slipped in precisely the way he was supposed to."

I stared at her.

"Why?"

"Because that was my will." Her tone remained light, almost conversational. "That was how I wanted the story written."

She resumed her leisurely pacing, moving around the office as though she were inspecting a room she intended to redecorate.

"And as for that Shelter girl, did you know Lycaon was the one who used her body? Another complication for me to account for." She sighed, as though the inconvenience had personally offended her. "Still, the demigod’s meddling serves my purpose rather nicely. The witches will grow wary when they learn what happened. Even the Delicates will avoid this estate like the plague."

She glanced over her shoulder.

"It’s only the beginning."

"What do you want?" I demanded again. My voice cracked, betraying me at precisely the moment I needed it to remain steady. "Don’t tell me you’re still holding a grudge over what happened all those years ago."

She stopped walking.

For the first time since she’d appeared, the amusement left her face.

She raised one hand.

The blow landed before I saw it coming.

Something struck me across the face with the force of a shovel swung at close range. My head snapped sideways, and the room lurched out of alignment. Pain burst across my cheekbone, bright enough to blot out everything else for a moment. I tasted copper, and when I straightened, blood had already gathered in my mouth.