Snow Like Ashes(102)

“Do you remember when I first saw you?” Herod whispers. He stops at the edge of the bed, his fingers twirling down the post that holds the canopy above my head. “Years ago. You were a child still, small and fierce.”

I stand, grab the opposite post, and start to swing around, propel myself off the bed, but Herod dives, his hands grabbing my thighs and landing me flat out on the silk quilt. As horror shoots through me, Theron shouts from the wall, still pulling uselessly at the chains. Blood drips from his wrists now, jagged tendrils of red falling onto the floor as he pulls and looks back at me with such helplessness my heart cracks.

I jerk to Herod, scrambling for any last bits of strength. “You didn’t have time to get them, did you? Theron’s army interrupted your master’s fun?”

“My master has nothing to do with this. He merely makes me”—he pauses and smirks—“unstoppable.”

Herod whirls me around so I land on my back with him on top of me, his bulk pressing me into the mattress. I want to believe it’s a lie. I want to believe he’s still human in there, somewhere, a small flicker of someone who doesn’t want the things he’s done. But when I look in his eyes, there’s nothing. A vast and horrible nothing lined by need and obedience and strength. He doesn’t exist outside of Angra’s commands. Maybe he never did.

“I regret that this will be faster than I always imagined,” Herod whispers, his warm breath cutting my skin like knives. “But your prince has forced my hand.”

I wiggle against him, hands slipping on the quilt. Herod rolls against my movements, pinning me more and more until he grabs one of my wrists and traps my arm above my head. My other arm twists under my back, useless without a plan.

Herod pauses, eyes darting over my face. He wants me to fight him. He wants me to struggle. And everything in me, every part of who I am, wants to fight him too.

This is where my most unbearable nightmare will play out. Moments before the Cordell-Autumn army can save me, Theron so close yet worlds away. A knot of terror locks my throat tight, making me wheeze as I fight down desperate sobs.

Herod shifts, his body pressing more heavily on top of me. Something jabs into my hip, something sharp—

A medal on his jacket. Some military badge of honor that dangles lopsided off the fabric.

A rush of cool, sweet hope turns my sobs into gasps for breath, and I wiggle my arm almost free. Herod takes my motion as more fighting and laughs, pressing my trapped right arm more firmly into the bed. His other hand tangles in my hair, tilting my head and neck into a painful arch.

But the medal is free now, dangling over my hip.

“Looks like I was right,” I hiss. “I will kill you before this ends.”

Herod hesitates and I flip my arm up to rip the medal off his jacket. The fabric tears, giving me a sharp gold pin that glints in the afternoon light from the open windows. I shove it up, the medal folding into my palm as I jam the pin into Herod’s left eye.

He screams, lurching off of me and cupping his hands over his head as I fly out from under him and roll off the bed, using the bedpost to propel myself around.

“Meira!” Theron tugs back against his chains, his whole body angling toward the desk where my beautiful weapon sits.

Herod bellows and rips the pin out of his eye, blood running in a morbid tear down his face. He roils with pain and fury, his one good eye locking on me.

I can’t get to the desk without skirting between Theron and Herod. There are no other weapons near me, no chairs I can break or vases I can throw.

Herod yanks a dagger out of his boot and lunges forward in a wave of rage. I shove off the wall, gain momentum, and drop to my knees, sliding between the wall and Theron, ducking just under his bloody chains. My tattered cotton pants glide across the wood floor until I whip my foot around, catch on the edge of the desk, and pull to my feet.

A lump gathers in my throat. My chakram. The one Herod stole months ago, the great curving handle worn smooth from my palm. I grab it off the top of Herod’s desk and spin around, body coiled in the effortless motion of the breath before a throw. As I turn, the entire expanse of the world around us freezes, holds, caught between me with my chakram ready and Herod with his knife to Theron’s throat. The pause before a fight—

A close-range fight. I choke on a sob at the sudden memory of Mather sparring with me, of Sir refusing to let me go on missions until I got better at it, and now here I am—my life, and Theron’s, depends on me killing Herod at close range.

“Drop it,” Herod hisses. His left pupil lies sightlessly in a mess of purple and red, his right eye fierce and fuming.

Theron doesn’t flinch, just keeps his dark eyes fixed on me. His lip curls and his eyes shine with panic, mouth moving in four small words. Don’t listen to him.