An armored figure cuts through my glare, sidling around my guards to plant himself between the king and me. He keeps pace with us, a dogged guardian even though he doesn’t wear the robes or mask of a Sentinel. I suppose he knows I’m thinking about strangling Maven. I bite my lip, bracing myself for the sharp sting of a whisper’s assault.
But no, he is not of House Merandus. His armor is obsidian dark, his hair silver, his skin moon white. And his eyes, when he looks over his shoulder at me—his eyes are empty and black.
Ptolemus.
I lunge teeth first, not knowing what I’m doing, not caring. So long as I leave my mark. I wonder if Silver blood tastes different from Red.
I never find out.
My collar snaps backward, pulling me so violently my spine arches and I crash to the floor. A bit harder and I would’ve broken my neck. The crack of marble on skull makes the world spin, but not enough to keep me down. I scramble, my sight narrowing to Ptolemus’s armored legs, now turning to face me. Again I lurch for them, and again the collar pulls me back.
“Enough of this,” Maven hisses.
He stands over me, halting to watch my poor attempts to repay Ptolemus. The rest of the procession has stopped too, many crowding forward to see the twisted Red rat fight in vain.
The collar seems to tighten, and I gulp against it, reaching for my throat.
Maven keeps his eyes on the metal as it shrinks. “Evangeline, I said enough.”
Despite the pain, I turn to see her at my back, one fist clenched at her side. Like him, she stares at my collar. It pulses as it moves. It must match her heartbeat.
“Let me loose her,” she says, and I wonder if I misheard. “Let me loose her right here. Dismiss her guards, and I’ll kill her, lightning and all.”
I snarl back at her, every inch the beast they think I am. “Try it,” I tell her, wishing with all my heart that Maven would agree. Even with my wounds, my days of silence, and my years of inferiority to the magnetron girl, I want what she offers. I beat her before. I can do it again. It is a chance, at least. A better chance than I could ever hope for.
Maven’s eyes snap from my collar to his betrothed, his face falling into a tight, searing scowl. I see so much of his mother in him. “Are you questioning the orders of your king, Lady Evangeline?”
Her teeth flash between lips painted purple. Her shroud of courtly manner threatens to fall away, but before she can say something truly damning, her father shifts just so, his arm brushing her own. His message is clear: Obey.
“No,” she growls, meaning yes. Her neck bends, inclining her head. “Your Majesty.”
The collar releases, widening back to size around my neck. It might even be looser than before. Small blessing that Evangeline is not so meticulous as she strives to appear.
“Mare Barrow is a prisoner of the crown, and the crown will do with her as it sees fit,” Maven says, his voice carrying past his volatile bride. His eyes sweep through the rest of the court, making his intentions clear. “Death is too good for her.”
A low murmur ripples through the nobles. I hear tones of opposition, but even more agreement. Strange. I thought all of them would want me executed in the worst way, strung up to feed vultures and bleed away whatever ground the Scarlet Guard has gained. But I suppose they want worse fates for me.
Worse fates.
That’s what Jon said before. When he saw what my future held, where my path led. He knew this was coming. Knew, and told the king. Bought a place at Maven’s side with my brother’s life and my freedom.
I find Jon standing in the crowd, given a wide berth by the others. His eyes are red, livid; his hair prematurely gray and tied into a neat tail. Another newblood pet for Maven Calore, but this one wears no chains that I can see. Because he helped Maven stop our mission to save a legion of children before it could even begin. Told Maven our paths and our future. Gift-wrapped me for the boy king. Betrayed us all.
Jon is already staring at me, of course. I don’t expect an apology for what he did, and do not receive one.
“What about interrogation?”
A voice I do not recognize sounds to my left. Still, I know his face.
Samson Merandus. An arena fighter, a savage whisper, a cousin to the dead queen. He shoulders his way toward me, and I can’t help but flinch. In another life I saw him make his arena opponent stab himself to death. Kilorn sat by my side and watched, cheering, enjoying the last hours of his freedom. Then his master died, and our entire world shifted. Our paths changed. And now I sprawl across flawless marble, cold and bleeding, less than a dog at the feet of a king.