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

had served their purpose, and Jackal was just cleaning up loose ends.” Before Wolf can respond, Wren adds, “It really doesn’t matter. The fact remains that he and Lynx are long gone by now.”

“Another one running off to join her,” Wolf spits, clenching his hands into fists. “Condor, Fox, and now Jackal. How many more will she take from me?” Wolf’s eyes glaze as he relives Mynah’s supposed betrayal; it eats away at his sanity. Words spill from his lips in garbled, paranoid ramblings. “No doubt Jackal and Lynx will share our location with the overgrown lizards. Fox has probably told her everything about the way I run my camps, so I can’t hide behind my usual defenses. And she will mount an attack, so desperate is she to take away my throne before I’m even fully declared king.”

“Then let’s get away from here,” Wren suggests innocently, relief flooding through his veins at how natural it had been to steer Wolf to this plan. So easy, Wren sighs, ignoring the angry protests of the spectral versions of Hyena and Coyote. The faces of the dead don’t seem to disappear from Wren’s mind; their voices whisper into his thoughts despite his efforts to quell them. “Wolf, let’s just go—”

“Where? She and her monstrosities will find us wherever we run,” Wolf snarls, unable to stomach the thought of turning coward and slinking off into the shadows to wait for his enemies to find him. “There was a time when I’d never have believed she would be my enemy. But now, there is nowhere to escape from her. She will scour the land in her search, Wren.”

“That’s true if we try and hide on this side of the mountains,” Wren interrupts, watching Wolf’s face for any signs of opposition. “We have allies in Déchets, right? Maybe it’s time for us to visit them.”

“She’d never look for us there,” Wolf agrees, the bright light of the sun boring into his skull, apparently causing his head to pound. It’s the thought of her, Wren knows, watching Wolf grit his teeth as another wave of nausea roils in his stomach. Wolf sways, knotting his hands in his hair as a soft groan burns in his throat.

“You are not well; if we do not figure out how to break this bond, it will kill you.” Wren shows his concern, carefully hiding his ambivalence to Wolf’s predicament. “Perhaps someone in Déchets will have the answers we need to spare you this agony.”

“Tell the men to break camp,” Wolf mumbles, almost biting through his lip as another wave of pain slams into him. “We leave for Déchets in two hours. Whatever isn’t packed by then gets left behind.”

“As you wish,” Wren whispers with a slight bow, walking back to his tent. So easy and yet, so costly, Wren thinks, grimly stomping through the rows of white canvas, shouting Wolf’s orders to the men. The stench of death still clings to Wren’s skin. The memories of sightless eyes and wide, bloody smiles torment Wren’s mind as the soldiers hurry through the camp to prepare for departure.

Wren pauses, standing completely still in the middle of the chaos. He closes his eyes, getting lost in the cacophony of whinnying horses, grumbling words, and stomping feet. In the midst of the noise, Wren holds his body still, forcing himself to remain calm.

The hours pass quickly, and a hand clutches Wren’s shoulder. “Get moving,” a gruff voice demands, but when Wren’s eyes open, he sees no one standing beside him. A lone tent flaps in the perpetual ocean wind. The rest of the men have already stowed their gear and begun marching the caravan away from the House of Piranhas. Those that aren’t so fortunate to have a horse are running alongside, their steps as eerie as rolling thunder.

Alone again in a wasteland. How much longer can I bear it? Wren mumbles to himself, savoring the silence for a few heartbeats before turning away from his tent and hurrying after Wolf and his men.

***

Rosined bows slither across their instruments as the king’s players perform their sultry, mysterious tunes. A single bright light shines in the empty space at the heart of the room. All the court tables line the walls like they are purposefully skulking in the shadows, hiding the debauchery of their guests in the thin veil of darkness.

A mixed blessing, Helena thinks to herself as she stalks toward Alaric’s seat, grateful not to see the horde of people that are certain to be watching her entrance. I don’t have to witness the court’s depravity, but I cannot see if any of them are preparing to attack me. A well thrown dagger or a precisely shot arrow could easily kill her before Helena can react. And Helena has no doubt that a few of the court nobles must be itching to bring her down. Is this purposeful, Alaric? Are you giving your men a fair chance to kill me? Helena wonders as she carefully inspects the darkness, searching for any sign of metal glinting in the low light. Or did you set up your feast like this just to make me feel fear?

A few bawdy laughs and outraged cries break through the music. There will be more than a few unlucky kitchen maids covered in purplish bruises by the end of the night. Helena’s face betrays none of her pity as she stands beside Alaric’s seat, trying not to sigh at his late arrival to his own feast.

“The king sure likes to make an entrance, doesn’t he?” Andras’s rough, rumbling voice whispers in Helena’s ear.

Startled, Helena struggles to maintain her composure, her heartbeat thumping wildly like the hooves of stampeding horses. “H…He’s always been like that,” Helena stammers, some inner part of her core trembling so forcefully that her voice wavers.

“I’ve noticed,” Andras mutters, the corner of his mouth crooking into a tiny smile, surprised to see Helena so easily flustered. “He’s been late to every one of these parties when I’ve been