Days of Blood & Starlight(116)

It was only in the next moment that this conviction was shaken.

Karou turned to Thiago—to Thiago, of all living creatures in two wide worlds—and shared a look with him that was brief and secret, unguarded and full of pain—but it was shared pain and it was… tender. It was so profane, that tenderness, and so unbearable, that Akiva forgot everything else. All his dwindling vitality gathered in a last-gasp burst of strength and he flew at Thiago.

And Thiago caught him by the throat with one clawed hand. He held him at arm’s length; he made it seem easy. Their eyes met, and as Akiva felt his throat crush closed in the Wolf’s vise grip, he saw a trace of that perverse tenderness lingering in his enemy’s gaze. With that, he just let go. His eyes rolled back. His head fell.

He let the darkness have him, and there was a part of him that hoped it would decide to keep him.




When Akiva collapsed, the Wolf’s relief was as profound as his abhorrence for the words he had forced himself to speak, and for the sound of them issuing from this throat that was Thiago’s throat, as this voice was Thiago’s voice. And these hands that were a dead match for Karou’s bruises? They were Thiago’s, too.

But the nightmare? That was all Ziri’s.

He wanted to ease the angel down to the floor, but he made himself thrust him roughly back to the other seraph, the beautiful female who looked as lost as she did savage. She caught Akiva, staggering under the dead weight of him—but no, not dead weight. Akiva wasn’t dead. The Wolf wouldn’t let Beast’s Bane die so painlessly. As for Ziri… he wouldn’t let him die at all, if he could help it.

If.

That the first test of this deception should be to decide the fate of the seraph who had saved his life, it was… unfair. He wasn’t ready to be tested. The skin still fit too ill, or he wore it poorly. It wasn’t the physical fit. As a vessel it was strong, graceful; it had a suppleness and tensile power that felt enhanced, and he knew it was a thing of beauty to behold, but he couldn’t overcome his revulsion for it. When he had taken possession of it… Oh, Nitid, the taste of Karou’s blood had still been in its mouth.

That was gone now, but his revulsion lingered, and the worst part: So did hers. And how could it not? Ziri had seen the state of Thiago at the pit; he knew what he had done to her—or tried to do, he hoped only tried to do, but he hadn’t asked, how could he ask her that? She had been drenched with blood when he found her, and shaking with a violence that was like shivering in killing cold, and even now she could barely bring herself to look at him.

How many days past had he been gripped by the hope that she could see him for who he was—not a child anymore but a man grown, a man and… maybe a flint of luck to strike, his flint to her steel and his luck to hers. A man she might love. And now he was this?

If there was a will at work in the cosmos, the stars were ringing with laughter now. He could almost laugh himself. Had ever a hope been so annihilated?

But if it was unfair, at least it was his own doing. He had seen what needed to be done, and he had done it.

For her. For the chimaera, and for Eretz, yes, but it was her he had thought of when he dragged his blade across his own throat. He hadn’t even known whom to pray to, the goddess of life or of assassins. What a foul gift he had given Karou: his sacrifice. His body to bury. The enormity of this deception to carry forward.

And… the chance to change the course of the rebellion and claim the future. That was enormous, too, but right now the deception felt like everything.

What was already done—the dying—was the easy part. Now he had to be Thiago. If this was going to work, he had to be convincing, starting right here with these seraphim. Which was why he was so immeasurably relieved when Akiva lost consciousness and he could put a quick end to the encounter, at least forestall the inevitable and try to think what to do.

“Take them to the granary,” he told Ten, with what he hoped was the Wolf’s gentle and authoritative contempt. And after she obeyed, with Issa assisting the female seraph with Akiva’s body, and Nisk and Lisseth carrying the dead one between them, he closed the door behind them and fell back against it, squeezed his eyes shut and raised his hands to his face. But oh, how he hated the touch of them. He let them fall. He hated the touch of his own hands. His hands? He held them apart from his body—his body?—and in the tension of his misery they were rigid as rigor mortis, like the hands of the angel whose death he had made himself mock.

There was no escape from the vileness, because the vileness was him.

“I am Thiago,” he heard himself say in low, choked horror. “I am the White Wolf.”

And then, first at one hated hand, then both, Ziri felt a light touch and opened his eyes. Karou was right before him, pale and weeping, bruised and shaking, black-eyed and blue-haired and beautiful and very near, and she was looking at him—into him, to him—and holding both his hands in both of hers.

“I know who you are,” she said in a fierce sweet whisper. “I know. And I’m with you. Ziri, Ziri. I see you.”

And then she laid her head on his chest and let him hold her in his murderer’s arms. She smelled of the river and trembled like a breeze on a butterfly’s wing, and Ziri cradled her as if she were their world’s last hope.

And maybe she was.





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