A Darker Shade of Magic (12 page)

There it was, in the corner of Holland’s mouth, the crease of his eye. Anger. Pain. Defiance. Athos smiled, victorious.

“We better go,” he said, hand falling away. “Before Astrid swallows our young guest whole.”

IV

Astrid beckoned.

Kell wished he could set the letter on the narrow table that sat between the thrones and go, keep his distance, but the queen sat there holding out her hand for it, for him.

He drew King Maxim’s letter from his pocket and offered it to her, but when she reached to take it, her hand slid past the paper and closed around his wrist. He pulled back on instinct, but her grip only tightened. The rings on her fingers glowed, and the air crackled as she mouthed a word and lightning danced up Kell’s arm, followed almost instantly by pain. The letter tumbled from his hand as the magic in his blood surged forward, willing him to act, to
react
, but he fought the urge. It was a game. Astrid’s game. She
wanted
him to fight back, so he willed himself not to, even when her power—the closest thing to an element she could summon, something sharp, electric, and unnatural—forced a leg to buckle beneath him.

“I like it when you kneel,” she said softly, letting go of his wrist. Kell pressed his hands flat against the cool stone floor and took a shaky breath. Astrid swiped the letter from the ground and set it on the table before sinking back into her throne.

“I should keep you,” she added, tapping a finger thoughtfully against the pendant that hung from her throat.

Kell rose slowly to his feet. An aching pain rolled up his arm in the energy’s wake. “Why’s that?” he asked.

Her hand fell from the charm. “Because I do not like things that don’t belong to me,” she said. “I do not trust them.”

“Do you trust
anything
?” he countered, rubbing his wrist. “Or any
one
, for that matter?”

The queen considered him, her pale lips curling at the edges. “The bodies in my floor all trusted someone. Now I walk on them to tea.”

Kell’s gaze drifted down to the granite beneath his feet. There were rumors, of course, about the bits of duller white that studded the stone.

Just then the door swung open behind him, and Kell turned to see King Athos striding in, Holland trailing several steps behind. Athos was a reflection of his sister, only faintly distorted by his broader shoulders and shorter hair. But everything else about him, from complexion to wiry muscle to the wanton cruelty they shared, was an exact replica.

“I heard we had company,” he said cheerfully.

“Your Highness,” said Kell with a nod. “I was just leaving.”

“Already?” said the king. “Stay and have a drink.”

Kell hesitated. Turning down the Prince Regent’s invitation was one thing; turning down Athos Dane’s was quite another.

Athos smiled at his indecision. “Look at how he worries, sister.”

Kell did not realize she had risen from her seat until he felt her there beside him, running a finger down the silver buttons of his coat.
Antari
or not, the Danes made him feel like a mouse in the company of snakes. He willed himself not to pull away from the queen’s touch a second time, lest it provoke her.

“I want to keep him, brother,” said Astrid.

“I fear our neighboring crown would not be pleased,” said Athos. “But he’ll stay for a drink. Won’t you, Master Kell?” Kell felt himself nodding slowly, and Athos’s smile spread, teeth glinting like knifepoints. “Splendid.” He snapped his fingers and a servant appeared, turning his dead eyes up to his master. “A chair,” ordered Athos, and the servant fetched one and set it behind Kell’s knees before retreating, quiet as a ghost.

“Sit,” commanded Athos.

Kell did not. He watched the king ascend the dais and approach the table between the thrones. On it sat a decanter of golden liquid and two empty glass goblets. Athos lifted one of the glasses, but did not pour from the decanter. Instead, he turned toward Holland.

“Come here.”

The other
Antari
had retreated to the far wall, fading into it despite the near black of his hair and the true black of his eye. Now he came forward with his slow and silent steps. When he reached Athos, the king held out the empty goblet and said, “Cut yourself.”

Kell’s stomach turned. Holland’s fingers drifted for an instant toward the clasp at his shoulder before making their way to his exposed side of his half-cloak. He rolled up his sleeve, revealing the tracery of his veins, but also a mess of scars.
Antari
healed faster than most. The cuts must have been deep.

He drew a knife from his belt and raised arm and blade both over the goblet.

“Your Majesty,” said Kell hastily. “I have no taste for blood. Could I trouble you for something else?”

“Of course,” said Athos lightly. “It’s no trouble at all.”

Kell was halfway through a shaky sigh of relief when Athos turned back to Holland, who’d begun to lower his arm. The king frowned. “I thought I said cut.”

Kell cringed as Holland raised his arm over the goblet and drew the knife across his skin. The cut was shallow, a graze, just deep enough to draw blood. It welled and spilled in a thin ribbon into the glass.

Athos smiled and held Holland’s gaze. “We haven’t got all night,” he said. “Press down harder.”

Holland’s jaw clenched, but he did as he was told. The knife bit into his arm, deep, and the blood flowed, a rich dark red, into the glass. When the goblet was full, Athos passed it to his sister and ran a finger along Holland’s cheek.

“Go clean up,” he said softly, gently, the way a parent would to a child. Holland withdrew, and Kell realized that he’d not only taken his seat, but was now gripping the arms of his chair with whitening knuckles. He forced his fingers free as Athos plucked the second glass from the table and poured the pale gold liquid into it.

He held it up for Kell to see, then drank to show the glass and contents alike were safe before pouring a new measure and offering it to Kell. The gesture of a man used to sabotage.

Kell took the glass and drank too fast and too deep in an effort to calm his nerves. As soon as the goblet was empty, Athos filled it again. The drink itself was light and sweet and strong, and went down easily. Meanwhile, the Danes shared their cup, Holland’s blood turning their lips a vibrant red as they drank.
Power lies in the blood
, thought Kell as his own began to warm.

“It’s amazing,” he said, forcing himself to drink his second portion slower than his first.

“What is?” asked Athos, sinking into his throne.

Kell nodded at the goblet of Holland’s blood. “That you manage to keep your clothes so white.” He finished his second glass, and Astrid laughed and poured him a third.

V

Kell should have stopped at one drink.

Or two.

He thought he’d stopped at three, but he couldn’t be entirely sure. He hadn’t felt the full effects of the drink until he’d gotten to his feet, and the white stone floor had tilted dangerously beneath him. Kell knew that it was foolish, drinking as much as he had, but the sight of Holland’s blood had rattled him. He couldn’t get the
Antari
’s expression out of his mind, the look that crossed his face just before the knife bit down. Holland’s visage was a perpetual mask of menacing calm, but just for an instant it had cracked. And Kell had done nothing. Had not pleaded—or even pressed—for Athos to yield. It wouldn’t have done any good, but still. They were both
Antari
. Luck alone cast Holland here in ruthless White and Kell in vibrant Red. What if their fortunes had been reversed?

Kell took a shaky breath, the air fogging before his lips. The cold was doing little to clear his head, but he knew he couldn’t go home, not yet, not like this, so he made his wandering way through the streets of White London.

This, too, was foolish. Reckless. He was always being reckless.

Why?
he thought, suddenly angry at himself. Why did he always do this? Step out of safety and into shadow, into risk, into danger?
Why?
he heard Rhy begging on the roof that night.

He didn’t know. He wished he did, but he didn’t. All he knew was that he wanted to stop. The anger bled away, leaving something warm and steady. Or maybe that was the drink.

It had been a good drink, whatever it was. A strong drink. But not the kind of strong that made you weak. No, no, the kind of strong that made you strong. That made your blood sing. That made … Kell tipped his chin to look at the sky, and nearly lost his balance.

He needed to focus.

He was fairly sure he was heading in the general direction of the river. The air was biting against his lips, and it was getting dark—when had the sun gone down?—and in the dregs of light, the city was starting to stir around him. Silence cracking into noise.

“Pretty thing,” whispered an old woman from a doorway in Maktahn. “Pretty skin. Pretty bones.”

“This way, Master,” called another.

“Come inside.”

“Rest your feet.”

“Rest your bones.”

“Pretty bones.”

“Pretty blood.”

“Drink your magic.”

“Eat your life.”

“Come inside.”

Kell tried to focus, but he couldn’t seem to hold his thoughts together. As soon as he managed to gather a few, a breeze would blow through his head and scatter them, leaving him dazed and a little dizzy. Danger prickled at the edge of his senses. He closed his eyes, but every time he did, he saw Holland’s blood running into the glass, so he forced them open and looked up.

He hadn’t meant to head for the tavern. His feet had set out on their own. His body had made its way. Now he found himself staring at the sign over the door of the Scorched Bone.

Despite being a fixed point, the tavern in White London didn’t
feel
like the others. It still pulled at him, but the air smelled like blood as well as ash, and the street stones were cold beneath his boots. They tugged at his warmth. His power. His feet tried to carry him forward, but he willed them to stay.

Go home
, thought Kell.

Rhy was right. Nothing good could come of these deals. Nothing good enough. It wasn’t worth it. The baubles he traded for, they brought him no peace. It was just a silly game. And it was time to stop.