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

Unwanted memories flash through Helena’s thoughts. The way she’d turn her face to the wall to hide her shame while he leered at her during the baths. They were the one day a month she should have been able to feel clean, and he always stole that sensation from her. She always tried to sleep against the far wall, but depression sometimes forced her closer to the bars. A few inches closer to free, fresh air was worth the risk—until her skin was covered in purplish bruises and sore spots from the guards’ unruly hands. And the smell of urine in her cell—gods, that was a scent she worried would never fully be removed from her body. It was etched into her skin cells, into her very pores, as if there was no soap that could ever scrub her clean again.

“You rat bastard,” Helena hisses under her breath, shivering as she fights the urge to cower in the guard’s presence.

“To me, you will always be the Princess Whore!” The guard skulks closer, sensing her defeat. “Now there’s nothing stopping me from taking what I desire, is there?”

The threat in his words is enough to make her heartbeat stutter. She starts to curl into herself, her arms wrapping around her body as if she could shield herself from danger.

“No, Helena! Don’t go down without a fight,” Ithel urges, clawing his way closer to the cell bars without any regard to his own wellbeing. His skin sizzles in a few places where his fingers and wrists touch the metal, but he doesn’t care. His concern lies only for the woman his heart still longs to love. “You can take him, Helena. Don’t you dare quit before the battle’s even begun!”

Helena’s attention snaps to Ithel. Her resolve strengthens, and she nods once. Then, with a calm spirit and steady nerves, she stands and faces her attacker.

“Oh-ho! Going to make me work for it, are you?” The guard scoffs, stretching his arms exaggeratedly and cracking the joints in his neck. “I’m going to enjoy this—”

A low growl builds in Helena’s throat, rising to a guttural roar. Helena’s hands tremble, her Windwalker magic whistling through the cells like haunting ghosts moaning their grievances. The breeze she creates swiftly becomes a forceful straight-line wind, slamming hard into the guard. Sand flies through the air, each granule like a miniature projectile. The guard is helpless against the attack, his exposed skin soon covered in long, thin scrapes.

“So, you’re stuck guarding this prison because you are lowborn and without Windwalker magic,” Helena taunts as the guard blindly attempts to catch her by the hair. Because he keeps his eyes shut to shield them from debris in the air, his hands grasp at the emptiness, never finding their mark. Helena smirks, relishing the view as the guard stumbles around helplessly. “You know this prison is for the ones the king finds embarrassing. Is that why he put you here too? Do you shame your country in your service? Or just in your lack of magic?”

A nonverbal cry rages from the guard as he races toward Helena’s dancing form. The sword at his side shifts out of its scabbard. Helena’s steel, strong hands clutch its handle, aiming the point at the guard’s throat. “Move, and you die,” she whispers, smiling to herself as his throat bobs nervously, almost slicing itself open.

“Fiend! You hide behind magic, but I will be waiting for you. They will bring you back to these cells one day! And when you return, you will never leave this prison again!” the guard bellows, furious to find himself beaten.

“My friend is in this cell,” Helena explains, leaning forward to whisper a warning in the guard’s ear. “And I will come back for him. If I find out that you or any other guard has hurt him, I will make your deaths painfully slow.” She lets the blade scrape lightly down his neck as it trails down toward more sensitive parts below his belly button. Her eyebrows raise coldly in challenge, enjoying the way the guard’s face turns white as the winter moon. “Do you understand my meaning? Lay low one hair on his head, and I will make you all pay for it.”

“You will—”

“I will what? Regret this? Die? Pay for the embarrassment you feel because you couldn’t control a woman?” Helena mocks, smiling to herself even as her voice lowers to whisper a deadly promise. “Think twice before you threaten me further, or else I’ll make good use of this sword. Your death would not cause me even a moment’s grief.”

The guard, to his credit, has the wherewithal to keep his mouth shut. His murderous glare is the only outward sign of his hostility.

“I will take this sword as a reminder of my plans,” Helena announces, slipping behind the guard and backing toward the stairs. Looking over the man’s shoulder, she focuses her attention on the bandaged hand she can still see pressing close to the cell bars. “I meant what I said, Ithel. I will come back to get you out of this place” Then, with a final howling breeze that gently caresses Ithel’s cheek, Helena disappears from the prisons, letting the wind dry her tears as she floats back to the infirmary to await the arrival of her new guard.

***

“Why? Why on earth would you keep something like that from us, Iris?” Cyrus demands, slamming his hands into our makeshift table we created from a dry husk of bark from one of the few trees brave enough to try surviving in the Pith lands. The gesture only manages to crack the already fragile wood, scattering our poorly drawn maps and writing utensils on the cavern floor. “That Vibría monster tells you the best plan is to come into Déchets alone—”

“It wasn’t just that! My so-called father made it clear to me in my death dream that I had some standing in Déchets’ as well. Lady Vatusia only confirmed his words,” I interject, hating