Dawn of Ash (Imdalind, #6)(61)

He said nothing more before walking back to the middle of the street without shielding himself this time.

My heart rate accelerated as I watched him, caught in awe at the brazenness of his confidence, of his ability. Ilyan’s enemy stood in the open, smiling. It was beautiful the way he positioned himself with the red light bathing him, casting a long, black shadow behind him like a cape, the darkness of it matching so much of who he was.

A tense knot rippled through me and I smiled, the long-ingrained fear of this man growing.

“Come, Ovailia.”

Leaving the still sniveling child in a heap of dried blood and what looked like fresh vomit, I joined my father where he stood in the middle of the road, facing the pillar of black and blue smoke that spiraled from the cathedral.

The lazy circles of black and blue drifted through the air like feathers. Even with the red tint of light, the smoke was an unnatural shade of blue, which could mean one thing.

“Magic.” The gasp of understanding seeped out of me in a rush, the shock met by a low chuckle from my father.

“Yes,” he hissed. “And if the smoke is magic … Well, there is only one way it would be there, wouldn’t it?”

“But we checked—”

“And your brother is one of the most powerful Sk?íteks, mated to a more powerful Drak. Imagine what together they could do with that power.” He spoke with the same hunger I had heard before, the same eager desire he had whenever he spoke of Wyn’s gifts; except, this was more.

I cringed against it, already knowing what was coming.

“Imagine what I could do with that power. She is worth more to me alive than dead. I must have it.”

The awe that had loosened the knot in my stomach tightened up my spine like a poorly made corset, twisting as the poison inside of me reacted to his words.

“Shall I bring you Joclyn’s heart?”

“No.” He stepped away from me, toward the smoke that was quickly dissipating, his eyes wide with greed.

“No?”

“This one, I will get for myself. At the very end, when Ilyan is nearly dead, I will make his mate mine, and I will force him to watch. The same way I made you watch. The same way I made Wynifred.” He turned toward me in one swift movement, the dark cloak of his shadow falling over me in an oppressing shroud.

I watched him, watched his smile, watched his icy eyes flash as he took a step forward. The horror on his face brought back flashes of memories that ran from exhilarating to traumatizing.

I knew I shouldn’t let him see my recoil, but he saw anyway. His smile increased as he stepped right up to me, his hand twisting around my waist before pulling me closer to him.

“Would you like to see that?” he asked, his breath harsh against my face. “Would you like to see me break your brother? Finally break him as I did you? As I did Sain? As I did Wyn?”

It was his favorite game, his favorite form of torture, and despite something deep inside of me recoiling against it, I still wanted it. I still wanted to watch the power flow from him.

“Yes,” I hissed in eagerness as he smiled deeper and pulled me closer still.

“Would you like to see me hurt him as he did to you for all those years?” His teeth lashed with a smile so deep I was positive he expected me to pull away, to turn into the same sniveling heap of a girl.

But I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

Not after what he had said. Not after the fire that had erupted inside of me.

Ilyan had hurt me.

Ilyan had lied to me.

Ilyan had controlled me.

As my father had asked of me when I returned to his service a year ago, ‘Would I like to see him pay?’ The answer was still the same.

“Please.”

Edmund’s grin spread as he released me from his grip, my heels clicking loudly against the road as I regained my balance.

“Good.”

He left me standing in the street as he moved back to his pathetic excuse for a forward guard, the girl seeming to deteriorate the closer he came.

“Get up,” he demanded of her without so much of a hint of compassion.

“But it hurts.” Her moans were barely audible over the sobs, over the way she clung to her own chest, clawing at it as though it was hurting her.

I was convinced it was.

“Get up,” he insisted again, his voice harder this time.

“Hurts…” she moaned again, her body twisting more, as if the movement would help her escape it.

“It will hurt more unless you get up,” he warned, a harshness in his voice as the child slowly moved to attention.

If there was one thing she knew, if there was one thing she would continue to learn, it was pain. Edmund delivered it better than any other.

Her body shook as she forced herself to stand, her eyes downcast as she refused to look at her master, and her hand was still clutched against her heart, against the ?tít.

“Good.” The sneer in his voice had deepened. “Life is pain, little one. You either rise to the occasion, or you fall beneath it. Work hard and perhaps that pain will end, but until you can stand on your own two feet, get used to the agony.” He leaned over to the child, hissing in her face as she recoiled, her shoulders digging into her ears.

“We need to get in there,” Edmund announced eagerly as he turned toward me, the swaying child all but forgotten.