Brood of Vipers, Maggie Claire [e novels to read .TXT] 📗

That wound, the iron fillings—how long until he is rife with infection? Will it cause him to lose the arm? Helena trembles, biting her lip to keep from crying. “I hate you,” she mumbles under her breath, scowling at the king.

“Did you understand my terms, Helena?” The small, frail hand clasps Helena’s elbow, its razor-thin fingers jabbing into her skin just enough to cause pain but not enough to draw blood.

“Yes.” The word grinds out of Helena’s mouth, and she struggles to resist the urge to rip her arm out of the king’s grasp.

“Say it nicely.” The hand twists ever so slightly until Alaric’s fingernails slice deep into her flesh, almost as if the king is trying to etch her bones with the terms of their agreement.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Helena spits as though she has been poisoned, defiantly glaring into the king’s eyes.

“Say it, Helena. Or I will draw a knife and really give you a reason to be hateful,” Alaric challenges, his voice deadly calm.

I know exactly what he wishes to hear. The idea of even breathing the words makes me want to vomit on his shoes. Helena raises her chin, keeping her mouth tightly closed.

“For the slave’s sake then? I will make sure his wound is cared for.” Alaric smiles when Helena’s resolve wavers, pleased to have found a bargaining chip he can use to keep her in line. “Healing for the ex in exchange for one special word. All you have to do is say it.”

For Ithel, Helena’s heart begs, even as the thought of uttering what Alaric wishes to hear makes her wish she could drive a knife into her gut. For the one man of integrity in this horrible place. For the lover, I’ll have left behind twice. I can say the word if it protects him, can’t I? To save Ithel’s life the way he has done for me, surely I can demean myself just a little. Helena sighs, closing her eyes as she whispers, “Yes…Father.”

“Wonderful!” A cackle of glee erupts from the king as his icy lips brush Helena’s cheek. Alaric pushes the hair back from Helena’s ear, leaning close as he whispers, “Remember, you have six months to find the traitor, my daughter, or I will kill your precious Ithel myself.”

Chapter 8

This pounding in my head will be the death of me, Wolf sighs, rubbing his temples as he sits in the only good chair on the porch of the House of Piranhas. The roar of the ocean tunes out the clattering swords as soldiers spar in the sand. He can’t even hear Lynx’s child whimpering in Wren’s tent. Yet Wolf feels his jaw tighten as another wave of nausea overpowers his stomach. He swallows hard, fearing he will lose the contents of his stomach in front of his men. Such a weakness cannot be tolerated. All because of that damned woman! Now I have to relieve the withdrawal symptoms from losing her. Why couldn’t she just stay with me?

“Sir? Everything all right?” Jackal questions, stepping up onto the whitewashed porch. “You look ill.”

“If I wanted your opinion, I’d ask,” Wolf snarls, the blinding sunlight forcing him to squint. It feels like thousands of razorblades slice into his eye, hammering into his orbital socket in a reckless, relentless march to shred the fibers of his brain. Turning his face away from Jackal, he wheezes, “What do you want?”

“I was told you had orders for me,” Jackal replies, his brow furrowing in confusion. “There was a notice on the table in my tent saying I was to report to you as soon as I could. Did you not leave it for me?”

Wolf struggles to recall sending for Jackal. Searching his memory, he draws a complete blank. Yet rather than admit his mistake, Wolf states, “I decided to send Wren on my errand instead. Leave me, Jackal.”

Jackal rocks back on his heels, his face a mask of rage as he challenges, “Was it really wise to trust that outsider? And why did you feel like you had to when you have me and Coyote and Hyena? We’ve been on your side since the very beginning.”

“You dare to question my decisions now?” Wolf raises his voice, clutching the arm of his chair to keep his anger in check. If he should try to stand or make any sudden movements, Wolf knows he will pass out from the pain in his head. “If I decide Wren is an ally, then I expect you to do so as well. Is that understood?”

***

“Fine,” Jackal hisses, stomping off without another word to his leader. He marches over one of the nearby communal campfires, grumbling to himself as he pulls a pot of stew from the fire. Serving himself, he plops down into the sand and slurps at his meal greedily. Only when he lowers his bowl from his chin does he realize he’s sitting across from his enemy. “So, I see you’ve managed to get in good with the big boss, hmm? What’s your secret, Wren?”

Wren keeps his face stoic, a difficult task when a wide smile of delight threatens to spread across his features. “I have no idea what you are talking about, Jackal,” he replies, feigning innocence.

“I just can’t figure it. You show up here completely refusing to take on a new mask and join our House—a feat that should get you beaten and sent to live among the nameless unchosen—and yet Wolf decides not only to show you mercy but to trust you. What errand did he send you to do? Did you meet with his border guard ally, Matthais? Or is Wolf up to something else?” Jackal’s bowl trembles in his left hand, his right one slinking toward the knife in his belt.

Wren forces his brow to furrow, blinking a few times as if he’s confused. “I’m sorry, Jackal. I don’t understand what you are saying. I’ve been here all day, and I’ve had no special mission from Wolf.” Keep still, and look