As Spymaster to the Queen, Aya's blood oath ensures she protects those she fights alongside – including Will, the Queen's Enforcer and Aya's bitter rival. When rumours of dark magic rise in a nearby kingdom, both are sent to investigate. But when Aya's power acts beyond her gods-given affinity, she risks being turned into a weapon in a war she doesn't know how to win. An enemies-to-lovers, fantasy phenomenon that will have you begging for more.
1
Between the blood on her hands and the beer on her cloak, it was shaping up to be a horrible evening.
‘Bitch,’ the man snarled as he clutched his nose. The blood seeping between his fingers added to the steady drip of beer that flowed off the bar, left there by his shattered mug.
Aya merely dragged her palms down the leather of her pants, a frown creasing her brow as she took in the stains of red on her hands.
Tova would never let her hear the end of this. Her friend was always commenting on Aya’s ability to come back to the Quarter covered in someone else’s bodily fluids and smelling like she’d bathed in a pig’s trough. But she was never truly surprised. Aya, as the Queen’s Third, had certainly seen her fair share of blood. The Queen’s Eyes, they called her. Gianna’s spymaster.
‘Touch me again, and I’ll break something you hold far more dear,’ Aya crooned to the man. She was no stranger to the mess of the Squal, having tracked the men there three times in the last two weeks alone. But the drunk, handsy patron had snapped the ever-shortening leash she kept on her temper.
No one had even batted an eye when she struck him. The Squal attracted the worst of Dunmeaden and its visitors – gamblers and brawlers and thieves. Apparently, Aya fit right in.
The man stormed off, still swearing, and Aya shot the barkeep a coy smile. He’d been eyeing her all night – every night she’d been here, actually. He ambled over now, his broad frame gobbling up what little light flickered behind the bar.
‘Nice form,’ he said with a smirk. He rubbed a hand over his hairless head, his biceps rippling with the movement. All Zeluus – those blessed with superior strength – were practically walking giants. This one had the ego to match. ‘I’ll have to charge you for the glass though.’
Aya unfastened her cloak and tossed it onto the stool next to her as she leaned a hip against the bar. ‘Perhaps I could find another way to make it up to you.’
His eyes lit at the suggestion, his thick forearms bracing on the counter. ‘I know how to throw a punch too, you know. Have I told you about the time I took on two Anima with my bare hands?’ She’d heard the story twice. He loved to brag about his days as a ring fighter. The first time he’d shared it, Aya had hardly been able to keep from rolling her eyes. While the Anima used their life and death affinity to serve mostly as healers, they could be lethal. A simple touch of their hand, and one’s pulse could be lowered in seconds. Even a Zeluus like the keep couldn’t stand against them.
She was fairly certain Anima were banned from ring fights, anyway.
Aya leaned in closer, willing her face into rapt interest as he launched into the tale again. She smiled blandly and twirled her dark brown hair around her finger as the keep droned on, his arms gesturing wildly.
Carefully, she let her affinity flow from her.
No shield. Excellent.
‘How did a strong fighter like you end up in a place like this anyway?’ she asked as she took a sip of her beer. His gaze followed the path of her tongue as she licked the foam from her lips.
He shrugged. ‘It’s not all bad. I’m management, you know.’
Aya forced her eyes wide. ‘Are you really ? So is that your office you keep sneaking back to then?’ She nodded toward the guarded back hall to the left of the bar. She knew full well a shithole like this didn’t have an office. But she let her hand dance across the sliver of space between them, her fingers tracing the Corpsoma tattoo on his wrist – a circle, with a line through the middle. ‘Perhaps we could go there. Seems more . . . private.’
The keep shook his head. ‘Not my office.’ He paused and looked around. ‘I really shouldn’t say, but . . .’
She pushed her affinity harder, and the man continued, oblivious to how she persuaded the information from his mind and mouth.
‘Two men have been making visits here for weeks. From Trahir, I reckon, given their accents. They don’t bother to filter their talk around me. But I listen.’ He glanced around them again before leaning in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘They’re buying weapons outside the Council. I’m thinking I can get a cut of it in exchange for not turning them in.’
‘Really,’ Aya breathed. As the primary weapons provider for the realm, the Tala Merchant Council had always been mindful of regulating their weapons trade and how much they sold to the other kingdoms.
“The woman gasped and grabbed a fistful of his white hair as she threw him into the burly gentleman playing billiards behind her, and then . . . Pandemonium.”
Apparently, Trahir had had enough.
The keep grinned. ‘Dealing under the table is no joke. I have leverage.’ He dragged his eyes down her body, his stare lingering at the deep neckline of her black sweater. ‘Maybe I’ll buy some of your time. You’re too pretty to be working the Squal.’
Aya kept a coy smile fixed on her face as he reached forward and cupped her chin, his thumb stroking her jaw.
Disgusting. And disgustingly easy.
Persis couldn’t manipulate. They could only persuade someone to do whatever they were willing to do. But that willingness didn’t have to be strong – especially for a Persi like Aya.
She leaned closer, enough for her breath to brush across his lips. ‘You can’t afford me.’
Her hand snatched her mug and cracked it against his head, the glass shattering as the keep dropped like a stone.
Aya whirled and rammed her shoulder into the patron next to her, sending him stumbling face-first into the woman he’d been well on his way to charming. The woman gasped and grabbed a fistful of his white hair as she threw him into the burly gentleman playing billiards behind her, and then . . .
Pandemonium.
Aya snatched one of the abandoned drinks on the counter and downed it in a single gulp before aiming for the back hall. She had to move quickly. The keep’s information had been useful in confirming what she’d long suspected: the queen was right. Trahir was stocking up on weapons – perhaps even preparing for war.
And with the chaos in the bar, she only had moments before the tradesmen slipped away.
Aya felt that cool, calm feeling rise in her – the one that found her when the next step of a mission was clear. She let it spread until everything was muted, until her very veins were ice as she slipped through the brawling patrons, her small form easily dodging blows. She ducked under a chair aimed for her head, her steps never faltering.
Fifteen paces toward the back hall.
Ten.
Five.
The guards finally noticed her amidst the fighting. They made to raise their swords, their warnings primed on their lips. But they weren’t fast enough for the Queen’s Eyes. Her knife was already free from where it was strapped at her thigh.
‘The Dyminara sends its regards.’
She lunged for the first guard, her knife sliding under his sword arm and into his chest. He was dead before he hit the ground. Aya whirled, her blade slashing across the other guard’s throat. Blood splattered across her face, but she didn’t stop. She leapt over their fallen bodies and dashed to the door on the left, her shoulder ramming it open.
The room was cramped and dark. The small wooden table and chairs had been upturned in a rush to the exit, which sat open to the side alley. Aya pushed through crates and boxes as she raced out the door, her boots sliding when she hit the icy cobblestones. The two men were halfway down the street already, heading away from the docks.
As if the backstreets were safer.
Fools.
These streets were a maze, filled with twists and dead ends.
She fixed her eyes on the billowing brown coat of the closest tradesman as she adjusted her grip on her knife, her arm drawing back, her inhale deep and steady. The blade flew from her hand and embedded into the man’s shoulder with a soft thud. He fell with a scream.
His companion glanced back, his feet catching beneath him as he took in the blood on her face.
Aya sent a knife sailing toward his head, close enough to graze his ear.
‘The next one goes in your skull,’ she called after him. ‘I only need one of you alive.’ He drew to a stop, his hands rising slowly in surrender as he lowered to his knees. ‘Wise choice.’
Aya strolled towards the first tradesman on the ground, his shouts of pain echoing off the brick buildings that lined the street. ‘Quiet,’ she ordered as she hauled him off the ground. ‘Like I said, I only need one of you.’
The man whimpered, but he pressed his lips together, his body trembling in her grip. Aya glanced toward the docks. No sign of Ronan, the Royal Guard who had been assigned to the alley.
The supplier was missing too.
‘There’s supposed to be three of you,’ she said lightly, glancing between the tradesmen. ‘Where’s your supplier?’
The man on the ground shook his head. ‘There’s no one else.’
Aya sighed as she drew a rope from where she’d fastened it to her side. She dragged the tradesman she’d stabbed forward as she approached his companion, letting go only when she crouched down to tie the man’s hands together. He wasn’t going anywhere – not with that knife sticking out of his shoulder.
‘Lie to me all you want,’ she breathed. ‘But I’ll warn you . . . the Enforcer doesn’t take kindly to it.’
The man’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. Oh yes, the Queen’s Second had a reputation that far preceded him; even the foreign councilors knew he wasn’t to be trifled with.
Aya stood, her joints stiff and aching in the cold. She pulled out another piece of rope and knotted it around the second man’s wrists as she glanced toward the docks again. Still no Ronan. Perhaps he had pursued the supplier.
She pushed against the unease that fluttered in her gut and instead reached for her power.
‘I take it you two want to live?’ she asked, her head cocked as she studied the men. They glanced at each other warily before giving her a small nod. She let her affinity flow, let it wrap around that will to survive.
‘Then start walking.’
Extracted from The Curse of Saints by Kate Dramis, out now.
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