The Dragons of Nova (Loom Saga #2)(36)

“Not quite.” Finnyr spoke hastily as Yveun began to vivisect him with his eyes. It would be mere minutes before he was doing it with his claws. Given Finnyr’s generally depleted state, Yveun wasn’t sure how long the other man would survive. “She is suspicious of me, of my loyalty still. She tests me still. She doesn’t want me to return home often because she says I am more valuable to her here. But she does not give me any information on what is happening in the Xin manor.”

“Finnyr, I am not a man who has time for excuses,” Yveun snarled.

Finnyr wrung his hands, over and over and over again. “I know one thing.”

The fact the Yveun had yet to gnaw on his sinew and bone was encouragement enough for Finnyr to continue.

“She demanded my hands.”

“Your hands?” Yveun narrowed his eyes.

“Mine, specifically. She said she needed them, for the glory of the house.”

“You mean…?”

“To harvest,” Finnyr clarified weakly.

Once more, Petra affirmed what Yveun knew to be a fundamental truth about women: they did not hesitate. They waited for none to spoon them their desires. They took what they deemed theirs gratefully, forcefully, unapologetically, gracefully, or viciously. It didn’t matter so long as it rested with them when the day was done.

He admired them for it. Not a dawn rose that he didn’t envision how he could be more like his wife in that respect.

“Why?” Yveun asked himself as much as he asked the Dragon before him. Finnyr had magic in his hands, but so did many other Dragons. Many, no doubt, under Petra’s direct supervision. She didn’t need to call back her brother simply to harvest a pair of hands.

“Because it’s Petra and she delights in my displeasure?”

Yveun was loath to admit that he and the Xin’Oji had anything in common, so he let the remark fade. “That’s not enough for Petra. She called you from under my care… She wanted your hands.”

“Cvareh told me nothing else quite matched their specific ends.” Finnyr scowled at the mere mention of Cvareh’s name.

Yveun had no doubt the careful phrasing was chosen by Petra herself, so he turned it over again and again in his mind, trying to make sense of it. Matched. That was the odd word out. “Did you smell a Chimera on him?”

“On Cvareh?” Finnyr clearly couldn’t fathom why Yveun would even ask. “I doubt my younger brother knows even the first thing about Chimera.”

They were getting nowhere. While Yveun wasted time trying to turn Finnyr into something he wasn’t, Petra was clearly unfurling more banners to lay claim upon the edges of Yveun’s control. He had stalled enough.

“No more half measures,” Yveun muttered to himself.

“Dono?”

“How long has it been since the last Crimson Court?”

Finnyr blinked at the sudden shift in conversation, but recovered quickly. “Perhaps four years? No more than six…”

“I think it is time I summon my nobility together.” Yveun grinned with malicious glee, a new plan unfolding before him. There was one way Petra could not keep Finnyr out, or him, or half the noble Dragons upon Nova. “Contact your sister. Be thrilled that you will be the first to tell her that I am holding a Crimson Court.”

“When should I tell her this will take place?”

“A fortnight.” Yveun wanted to waste no time. He started for the door to return to the Hall of Whispers; there were preparations to be made. “But you did not ask the most important question, Finnyr. It is not when it will take place. It is where.”

Finnyr was slow on the uptake, but his eyes widened as he suddenly understood the source of the King’s mirth.

“Tell her that she has the delight of hosting the Crimson Court on the Isle of Ruana. And I expect every man, woman, and child under House Xin’s care to be in attendance, regardless if they are usual Court members or not.”

He would root out the truth himself. He would see the blood of every member of House Xin stain the ground if that was what it took. He was Yveun Rok’Oji Dono, and he did not operate in half measures.





16. Florence


The endwig crawled over the precipice. They nearly floated down around the face of the waterfall like wraiths in the darkness. Florence’s eyes were locked on them, their glowing white orbs staring back at her.

They would consume her soul, and her sanity, before they started on her flesh.

The monsters continued their approach, humming in their dark and mind-numbing way. Florence’s fingers rested on the hilt of her revolver, though the world around her seemed to be moving under water. The weapon was a steely reminder of the truth: she was about to die. Her brain would be sucked out through her nose and the endwig would fill her mind with its black poison. It would control her. It would use her as a lifeless puppet to draw them back to her friends. To get close enough that their whispering siren song could fatten their stomachs further.

Florence gripped the gun. The noise grew to a crescendo as the creatures fought against her will. They uttered their dirge of self-preservation while Florence’s hand shook, struggling to draw the weapon from its holster. The weapon fell to her side like a block of lead, her arm useless.

Sweat dotted her brow despite the chill air. Florence tilted her wrist. The creatures stalked through the water, but all she heard was the incessant humming. She would grin if she could, but it took every ounce of concentration she possessed to squeeze the trigger.