SWNOVELS Furyborn: Chapter 8
“They call him the Wolf. He’s the Prophet’s favorite, our informants tell us. They say he cannot be captured, but rest assured, my lord: we will find this Wolf, carve every secret from his body, and leave him to bleed dry.”
—Report written by Lord Arkelion of Ventera to His Holy Majesty, the Emperor of the Undying
June 21, Year 1018 of the Third Age
The Wolf bound her hands to the stair banister and ordered her to sit on the bottom step. Then, to her surprise, he took off his own mask and lowered his hood.
Eliana’s madam acquaintance had greatly exaggerated.
His scars were silvered streaks across his forehead, nose, and cheeks. There were patches of marred skin, worn from fire or wind, but the face itself, framed by tousled ash-blond hair, was stern, sharp. Handsome.
But the madam had been right about his eyes: winter blue and diamond cold.
“See something you like?” Eliana glanced up at him through her lashes. Shifted her body toward him, arched her back just enough to make a point.
The Wolf knelt before her. “You’re good.”
Grinning, she looked him up and down—lean and tall, slim-fitting trousers and vest and cuffed sleeves, weapon holsters on a sash around his torso and a low-slung belt around his hips. “So are you, Wolf. It’s a shame I’ll have to kill you. Were our circumstances different, I’d ask to see your sword.”
“A bitter disappointment, to be sure.” Now he was the one to let his gaze roam over her. “You’re much more fun than I had imagined.”
“Fun?” She laughed low in her throat. “You’ve no idea just how fun I can be.” She leaned back as best she could with her hands bound, feigning boredom. “So. You exist after all. The mighty Wolf. Fearsome Red Crown captain, unstoppable soldier. Right hand of the Prophet himself. More like a dog than a wolf if you ask me. You rebels are all the same.”
“Are we, now?” His easy smile chilled her.
“Tell me,” she pushed on, “when you report back to the Prophet, do you crawl on your belly to him? Kiss his boots? Does he whip you for not having managed to overthrow the Emperor yet? You’d better get on with things, you know. More rebels are dying every day.” Smiling, she leaned closer, willing her pounding heart quiet. “I make sure of it.”
He shifted closer to meet her. Even kneeling, he was tall. “If you’re trying to make me angry,” he murmured, their mouths mere inches apart, “I’m afraid it won’t work.”
With every moment he crouched there staring at her, his eyes wandering over each plane and curve of her body, Eliana felt closer to outright terror. There was a stillness about him—a sense of something horrible lying in wait, tightly coiled—that pressed against her skin like the memory of a bad dream.
For a moment, she lost her nerve.
“What do you want?” she asked.
His smile spread slowly. “Why, Madam Dread, I want you.”
The strange tenderness in his voice sent ice up her spine. “Where is my mother?”
“I haven’t the faintest.”
She scoffed, rolled her eyes. “I didn’t realize Red Crown was in the habit of snatching defenseless women from their beds. Aren’t you people supposed to be heroes? Fighting our oppressors, saving the world from tyranny?”
“Red Crown is not responsible for those abductions.”
“Then who is?”
“A good question. I have my guesses.”
It was pointless to accuse him further. She had long ago ruled out Red Crown’s involvement in the disappearances.
But she could not stop imagining her mother held captive somewhere, alone and afraid, wondering when her daughter would come for her.
Eliana’s eyes grew hot. Her fingers itched for her daggers. “Either kill me,” she said cheerfully, “or untie me so I can cut out your lying tongue.”
“I’ve no interest in doing either of those things.” A smile pulled at his mouth. “I have a proposal for you, but I’d rather not talk about it here, in case whoever took your mother decides to return. What say we take our secrets elsewhere, little Dread?”
Little? The moment she had the chance, she would knock him on his ass.
“Are you mad?” she snapped.
“Many have wondered.” He curled two fingers under her chin, made her look at him. His touch jolted her; she forced herself to lean into his hand.
“I hunt people like you,” she told him with a slight, hard smirk.
“Yes, and you do a fine job of it.” All humor in his voice died. “Tell me, Madam Dread: If I pledge that I will help you find your mother, in exchange for your assistance, will you join me?”
Eliana tried to read him and could find nothing to go on. Join him? A ludicrous thought. She could not possibly trust him.
And yet, if she refused him, if he fled the city and she went to Lord Arkelion empty-handed, what then?
She longed to shut her eyes and have a moment alone to think. Mother, I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry. I’m coming as soon as I can. I’ll find you. I swear it.
“I leave this city tomorrow,” the Wolf continued, “and you might just get the shit kicked out of you for letting me slip through your fingers. So you can join me or not, but either way, you won’t catch me.” A small smile. “You want to find your mother, yes? Wouldn’t it be smarter to do it with help?”
Her thoughts scrambled and raced. “Goodness me, what a night. The famous Wolf, needing help from a girl—”
“My mission begins tomorrow evening. Do we have a bargain or not?”
“Tomorrow is His Lordship’s naming day. There’s a fete at the palace.”
“What a happy coincidence.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Only tomorrow night?”
“No. Our mission will be longer.”
“How much longer?”
“I cannot say.”
“Or you will not.”
“Those are my terms. Do you accept?”
Her wound-up nerves felt ready to detonate. She managed a disinterested sort of sneer. “Why me?”
“You know the palace. You’ll make it easier to get inside.”
“And after that? Why bring me with you?”
“Because I need to move fast, and I need another killer on my side. Someone as good as I am.”
“Or better.”
“She says, bound on the floor.”
“You pulled a gun on me. I would have beaten you, otherwise.”
“Perhaps.”
“Must be quite an important mission,” she continued mockingly, “and yet you would risk trusting me.”
“I’m gambling that you won’t risk losing your mother,” he replied.
The Wolf had her there. And judging by the look on his face, he knew it.
“And if I don’t accept this bargain?”
“Then I will leave and never see you again, and you’ll go on about your life here, if you can call it that. Unless they kill you for failing to capture me.”
Eliana stayed silent to see what he would do.
After a moment, he untied her wrists, discarded the bindings, and stood. “Well?”
She calculated how long it would take to kick him, send him staggering, grab his revolver, and shoot. She’d never used a gun—they were rare, expensive, and she never let herself spend the money on them—but pulling a trigger seemed simple enough.
Five seconds. Perhaps six.
She could do it. She rose.
And then she saw Harkan.
He was coming in from the kitchen, his body dipped in shadow, his favorite dagger in hand. Behind him, Remy watched tensely from the kitchen.
Harkan’s gaze found hers, held firm. I’ve got you.
“I’ll help you,” she told the Wolf slowly, “but only if I can take my brother with me.”
Remy’s eyes widened.
“The little baker’s boy?” The Wolf frowned. “You can’t be serious.”
Eliana kept her face blank. Just how much did he know about her? “I assume we’re stealing something from the palace, then delivering it somewhere. Some piece of intelligence? Wherever we’re taking it afterward, Remy will come. You’ll get him safe passage to Astavar and do nothing to harm him. Or we’ve no deal.”
He glared at her. “That wasn’t my offer.”
“Yes or no, Wolf.”
He tilted his head. His eyes caught the moonlight and made him look like something from one of Remy’s more fanciful tales—a night creature, made of secrets and sharp edges. An Empire monster for the Sun Queen to slay. “Only those who are frightened of me call me that. And you aren’t frightened of me. Are you?”
Harkan approached through the shadows—one step, two steps.
“Not even a little bit,” she lied. “So what shall I call you instead?”
He inclined his head. “You can call me Simon.”
“Fine. Simon. And one more thing: my friend, Harkan, will come with us as well.”
Behind Simon, Harkan raised his dagger to strike.
Eliana flexed her fingers.
Simon’s mouth thinned, the only warning. A turn, a shove, and then Harkan was flat on his back on the floor, Simon’s boot pressing into his throat, his weapon in Simon’s hand.
“Him?” Simon pointed at Harkan with the dagger. The look he threw Eliana was one of profound disgust. “Your lover?”
Eliana shot Simon a rakish smile. “Jealous already? Let him go.”
“El,” rasped Harkan, struggling to breathe, “we can’t trust him.”
“No,” she agreed. “But he can’t trust us either.” She held out her hand for Tuora. “Release him, or no deal.”
Simon paused, then returned Tuora to her and stepped away.
Eliana slipped the dagger into the holster at her belt, knelt at Harkan’s side, and helped him sit up. “Tell me more about this mission of yours, Wolf.”
“Information only as you need to know it, little Dread,” Simon said. “Until then, do as I tell you, and I’ll help you find your mother. You have my word.”
“The word of a rebel doesn’t count for much.”
“And what about the word of a fellow killer?” He took off his glove and held out his hand. “Have we a bargain?”
Eliana hesitated. If she accepted his offer, her life here would be forfeit. Lord Arkelion did not deal with defectors lightly, and Rahzavel would not allow her to disappear into the night. By doing this she would be endangering not only herself, but Remy and Harkan as well.
But if anyone could help her find her mother, and get all of them to Astavar and to safety, it would be the Wolf, with all of Red Crown—the very people she had spent so long hunting—at his disposal.
If she played this right, she could keep Harkan and Remy out of the Empire’s grasp for a few more years. She could elude Invictus, stay with her loved ones, find her mother, and keep them all safe.
She searched Simon’s eyes for lies and found only cold steel.
“Eliana, don’t agree to this,” Harkan rasped, glaring up at Simon. “We’ll find Rozen another way.”
But there was no other way. Eliana stood and clasped Simon’s hand.
“We have a bargain,” she said and tried to ignore the way her skin shivered at Simon’s touch—like the sensation of being watched from the shadows or the simmering charge of a storm she could not outrun.