The Queen headed back to their suite to gather up her guitar and wriggle her way into the Lycra contraption and thigh-high boots she had laid out to wear to her big night.
Faith woke alone.
She sat up in bed, startled out of sleep by
who-knew-what, and looked around, panting. The sheets were twisted all around her bare legs, and the comforter had gone missing; one pillow was still up by her head, but the other was on the floor.
“Hello?” she called hesitantly, but she knew even as she spoke that the room was empty. There were clothes tossed all over the place, but they were all hers.
Relieved, she flopped back onto the bed. Her muscles complained bitterly—her back, her thighs, even her neck were all sore, and she was starving.
Faith put her hand over her eyes to still the hangover she could feel building in her skull. She really should have stopped after her sixth … seventh … eighth? drink, but they just kept appearing every time her glass was empty. “God, what were you thinking?” she muttered. The sound shot pain through her head.
Her com chimed, and she groaned. “Star-three,” she said. Her voice was a little hoarse—had she really done that much screaming? Good God.
“Um … Second Faith … are you all right?”
Faith frowned. “I’m fine. Why?”
“You were supposed to be here at the tournament twenty minutes ago. You’re never late for anything, so—”
Faith cut Elite 20 off with a long, colorful series of curses and sprang out of bed. “Shit! Are we up yet?”
“No ma’am. Our first round is in thirty. You should make it in plenty of time.”
“I’m on my way.”
She stripped the sheets from her body and threw them on the floor, then bolted into the bathroom and into a freezing cold shower. The water hit her like bricks, shaking her the rest of the way awake, and she probably would have been humiliated if she’d had time to think about it. She washed the sweat and blood and man-smell off herself as fast as she could, not bothering with her hair—she was about to get it dirty anyway.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she said as she grabbed the clean uniform she’d laid out yesterday; she always had one ready
to go in case of bloodstains or emergencies. She had it down to a science and was dressed in five minutes, though her clothes were sticking to her because she hadn’t gotten completely dry.
Boots, weapons, phone. She grabbed her best sword from the cabinet that held her arsenal and strapped it to her hip as she hit the hallway at a trot.
She could hear the fighting even before she reached the Elite training building. Swords clashed amid the sounds of a crowd’s murmur. Only about half the Primes and a handful of Queens would be watching the quarterfinals; the entire Council would attend the last round to see which Elite took home the trophy this decade. Most of the tournament took place while the Council was meeting.
It had started as a way for the Elite to pass the time while their employers were wrangling with politics. A few exhibition matches had evolved into an organized event; each participating territory sent eight of its warriors, handpicked to represent their Elite. They competed in single and group combat and were judged by a panel of their peers—usually Japan, as Tanaka abstained from the tournament, which was a shame, since Faith had heard his Elite were a thing to behold.
For the past thirty years the trophy had been securely positioned in California, but Faith had spent most of her tenure as Second improving the training program in the South, and she was confident her team would at least make it to the finals this year. To be late for this … it was more than embarrassing, it was inexcusable.
She hoped against hope that the Prime wasn’t there, but her heart sank as she slipped into the room and saw David standing at the edge of the audience, arms crossed.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Faith steeled herself and went to join her team.
“Cutting it a little close, aren’t you?” David asked without looking at her as she passed him.
“I’m sorry, Sire. I was delayed.”
The Prime raised an eyebrow. “You might want to brush your hair. It looks rather postcoital.”
Faith flushed and yanked her hair back into a tight ponytail where it wouldn’t matter if it was a little unruly.
She took her place in line with the other Southern Elite and tried to get a grip on herself. Aside from a few strange looks, it didn’t seem like that many people had noticed she was late. Everyone’s attention was on the first round of solo combat, between the Seconds of South Africa and China. A group competition was going on, on the other side of the broad room. She looked over at the grid where the upcoming matches were listed, and the brackets for the semifinals were still blank. Good; she hadn’t missed …
“Son of a bitch,” she said, startling Elite 20, who was standing next to her.
“Are you all right?” the Elite asked, concerned. “You look a bit flustered.”
Faith tore her eyes from the bracket where her first opponent was written:
Jeremy Hayes, Northeast
. “I’m fine,” she said curtly.
She looked around the perimeter of the room, where the upcoming teams were all waiting, each in a line with their leader on the right. Sure enough, there he was, standing at attention in full uniform, armed and ready to fight.
Faith felt a quiver in her stomach as flashes of the day before came back to her. Much of it was blurry with alcohol, but she knew one thing: If he was as good in the ring as he was in bed, she was in trouble.
Nonsense.
She squared off her shoulders. No man was going to best her, not here. She’d made a mistake last night—fraternizing with Hart’s Second wasn’t against any particular rule, but it was inappropriate and ill-advised. But she didn’t think he would mention it; they were both professionals. His boss probably wouldn’t like it any more than hers would. There was no reason to let the whole thing rattle her. People met and slept together and parted company all the time at these things. There were even a few of
her own Elite who had regular bed partners among other Elite that they met up with only every ten years. No need for drama.
He felt her staring and met her eyes.
Faith tried to look away but couldn’t. In this light, his eyes were hazel, but in the dark of her room they had been smoky green, almost …
Almost too quickly to register, he winked at her, then returned his gaze to the ring where South Africa was trouncing China.
The match ended to applause, and Faith heard her name called. She cast a glance over to where David had been standing, but he was gone, either to sit among the other Primes or to deal with some other business. She rather hoped he wasn’t watching, just in case.
With a nod to the judges, she stepped out into the ring; the audience cheered for her, and less so for her opponent, who joined her. Second bowed to Second and each drew a sword.
The bell rang.
Faith went into a ready stance, sword up, watching Jeremy with narrowed eyes, calculating his relative strength and agility from what she’d … observed. They both had an advantage there—they’d seen each other move, and he had no doubt sized up her physical abilities as she had his. She had cataloged everything, from the curve of his biceps to the pale scar across his stomach that looked like the remnants of some surgery—
The attack caught her off guard, and she bit back a curse and leapt backward as his sword slashed the air a scant half inch from her chest.
She countered, wrenching her attention back to where it belonged. This was no time to daydream! She could hardly represent her Signet mooning like a schoolgirl!
Circling slowly around her, Jeremy smiled. “Preoccupied?” he asked quietly with a knowing look. “You seemed a lot more focused yesterday afternoon.”
“Fuck you,” she hissed before she could stop herself.
“It’s a date,” he replied.
“Was all of that last night just to get under my skin?” she asked between swings of her blade, each of which he parried expertly.
“No,” he said. “It was to get under your clothes. You’re far too experienced to let one shag throw you off your game … aren’t you?”
“Trust me,” she snapped, “you’re hardly worth losing concentration over.”
He grinned. “Keep talking. I can go on all night.”
“Since when?” Faith fought hard not to grin back, but something of a chuckle got past her guard; they spun around each other, steel striking steel, neither yielding the advantage. On the other side of the room she heard the crowd react to something in the group combat ring; those watching her and Jeremy were no doubt silent, waiting for one of them to screw up. Thankfully the noise level ensured none of the Primes could hear their conversation.
Faith threw herself into the fight, determined not to shame her Elite—even if she lost, they could still make the finals as long as the team didn’t lose any other matches, but giving up a victory to Hart’s team was unthinkable. She wouldn’t do that to her team, or to David. It wasn’t just her reputation on the table here.
She didn’t have the psychic fighting skills that Deven and David had, but she hadn’t gotten to Second on her good looks; there was a reason that the South was the envy of every Elite save, perhaps, the West’s. She battled Jeremy back and forth through the ring, and though he was certainly strong and nearly as good as she was, she was better … and they both knew it.
Faith did one of her trademark backflips, earning a cheer from the crowd, and when she hit the ground, she whipped her blade in an arc that caught his and slammed it out of his hand. The blade clattered to the ground outside the ring, and she whirled around again, freezing with the point of her sword at his throat.
She heard the bell go off again and the audience—as
well as the other Elite—applauding loudly. The announcer called the round.
Jeremy didn’t look terribly upset about losing to her. He was, in fact, smiling again as he bowed. “Good match,” he said.
Faith nodded. “Good match.”
As a show of sportsmanship, she retrieved his sword and handed it to him.
When they drew close enough to shake hands, he said, “Tonight, after the meeting’s over … your place?”
She met his eyes. “Yes.”
Then, taking a deep breath, she turned away from him and went to rejoin her team.
Isis, lithe and swift as a deer, leapt over the stream so smoothly that Cora barely felt the jolt of the Friesian’s front hooves striking the earth on the far bank. Cora leaned into the horse’s neck, her hands almost slack on the reins, letting Isis take the lead—the animal knew these trails backward and forward and, when allowed to run free, responded with a joy that Cora felt echoing in her own body.
Cora felt and heard the lighter impact of four paws alongside them; Vràna kept up easily, her tongue lolling out and her tail high.
The Queen knew she was going to be late for the party. She didn’t especially care.
Jacob had taught her to ride almost the day they’d arrived in Prague. His love for his horses was infectious, and though the size of the beasts had intimidated her at first, she had quickly caught her mate’s fever, and now she had her own Friesian, a gelding named Zimní—which meant “winter,” though his full registered name was something like, “Damn, the Winters Here Are Hellish.”
She had asked Jacob if he thought Prime David would mind her taking Isis out for a run; Jacob had told her she ought to ask him herself, probably to nudge her past her fear of the Southern Prime … of every Prime but Jacob
and Deven, truth be told. She had screwed up her courage and approached David on his way to the Council meeting.
He had been thrilled to give her access to the stables; he still hadn’t persuaded Miranda to learn to ride, and Isis was temperamental with most of the staff, so the mare got less exercise than David would have liked.
Cora was sure the horse remembered her. She had walked up to the stall and bowed, saying, “My Lady Isis, would you care for a run?”
Isis stepped delicately up to the gate, leaned over, and whuffled her hair; then she tossed her enormous head in an unmistakable nod.
An hour later, here they were, galloping around the perimeter of the Haven grounds, with Vràna keeping pace, all three of them practically whooping with happiness.
Cora would never have believed that one day she would love riding horses or doing yoga or running with her dog. The thought of enjoying anything had been ludicrous back when she lay beneath Hart. But thanks to the will of the Signets—which she was convinced was the will of God—she had stumbled headlong into a new, wonderful life, and whatever she had to do to keep it, she would.
Miranda was right. Her life was worth facing down Hart every ten years, assuming he lived for another decade. She knew war was coming … It might not be outright battle, as that was a rarity among Signets, but there were many, many ways to destroy someone, and she knew that Hart was a master at the slow torment of a lingering death.
As she, horse, and dog came around the last turn before the stables, she reluctantly pulled Isis back from her run and into a slower gait to cool her off; they’d take one last turn around the back loop before heading in to the pasture at a walk. Cora didn’t want to go to the Queens’ gathering; she didn’t really want to have anything to do with the other Queens, who so far had mostly ignored her or looked down their noses at her. She had done nothing to deserve their ire, yet they apparently thought she was on a lower level of royalty than they were. She had promised Jacob she would
try to make friends, mostly because he worried she was too withdrawn, but she was already anticipating an awkward, if not outright miserable, evening.
She saw in the distance that someone was standing at the pasture fence. Vràna identified the figure first and bounded over; it didn’t take long for Cora to recognize him as well.
“My Lord Prime,” she said, drawing Isis up by the fence. “Should you not be in the meeting hall already?”
“I was on my way,” Deven said with a smile. He was standing up on the lowest rail of the fence, which enabled him to see over it. It was, she thought, absurdly cute, especially considering that he was probably armed to the teeth. “I saw you gallop by and thought I’d check in on you. We haven’t had a chance to speak much this weekend.”