Torrent of Tears (Scourge Survivor Series Book 3)(77)

I slid that journal back in place and pulled one out further down the line. It was older, but still not far enough back. A few more tries and—

“Someone’s coming,” Rowan hissed. “Get the light.”

I willed the flame to snuff as he slid the door a sliver from being shut tight.

“What are you doing in here?” A voice barked in the chapel.

“Enjoying some privacy,” Rowan answered. “Is there a problem?”

I held my breath and stood statue still. The sound of shuffling feet moved closer. My heart thrummed double time. Was the opening of the door noticeable? Could I get out to help Rowan if things went south?

“What’s this?” the Strati asked.

I drew my knife from under my skirt and readied to launch. The ping of a phone stick seemed to echo off the chapel walls. “No, not her, but I found the Queen’s whore in the chapel . . . yes sir . . . on our way.”

I swallowed hard, but the lump in my throat remained. Don’t take Rowan. Don’t take Rowan. Please, Fates if you’ve ever listened to me, don’t let him take—

“Come with me,” the Strati commanded. “The last of the dramas has begun. The Nobles are readying to begin the marriage ceremonies.”

“I’ll be right up,” Rowan said. “I just need to—”

“—you’re coming now, whore,” the soldier boomed. There was a quick shuffle, then a dull thud and Rowan choked for breath. I moved with as much speed and stealth as I could, intending to blast through the door, but stopped just short of the door. The chapel was silent. I leaned close to the crack in the door and searched the chapel beyond.

They were gone.

The thought made my stomach queasy and my palms sweat. Gods, my heart was not so much beating, but flipping out in my chest.

He’s fine. We were just going our separate ways for a bit and then I’d find him and everything will be fine. Yeah . . . right. Damn. I couldn’t even believe my own bullshit.

Turning back to the journals I brought the lantern back to life and continued reading what I’d found. There were dozens of entries during the period the Queen had fallen ill. Speculations and panic from healers, the doctor at the time, clergy, and any number of others they hoped could shed light on what was happening.

What caught my attention were the references to her eye color. In the beginning examinations, her eyes were listed as moss green and clear. Later, during intermittent exams, while she’d lain unconscious for weeks, her eyes were listed as being a deep emerald.

There were also mentions of fitful dreams and her healers complaining of an evil entity trying to possess her. They dismissed it as hoohaw. I shivered as the memory of the icy chill entered my chest. Hoohaw my ass. The notes from the final examination on her blood work that gave me the quakes.

No. Fucking. Way.

Reduced to mono-syllabic thoughts I fought to think of another answer. It couldn’t be. But what else could it be? Nothing. Apparently, after weeks of her lying in a fitful coma she’d just woken up. Her eyes had popped open and she sat up, right as rain. Under protest she’d agreed to a final exam which was when they’d discovered that her blood had changed from the normal scarlet to a rich, royal violet.

Royal . . . violet.

I dropped the book and bolted for the crack in the door. As I tugged at the stone edge I let my mind fly through the impossibility of what I was thinking.

The only people I knew that had purple blood were the Originals. The royal family of the Fae Pantheon. Castian had it. I’d seen the depiction of his seven drops of purple blood creating the Elven race a zillion times on the walls of the castle stairway. Zophia had it.

The door gave way enough for me to barely squeeze out. Not all Originals had emerald eyes . . . only Castian, his brother Dane and his half-sister—Rheagan.

The golden train of my outfit caught on the stone of the door and tore as I forced my way into the chapel. The carved frieze on the wall seemed to be mocking me. Why hadn’t I figured this out when she pricked her finger in her study . . . the purple blood . . . the emerald eyes . . . my mother was possessed by Rheagan, and the bitch was making a play for a comeback into the Realm of the Fair.

I fell to my knees and for the first time in my life I prayed—prayed as though my life depended on it.

Because it did.





CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE


The pounding of my boot heels into the marble floor vibrated in my head. My thighs burned as my strides cut the distance between me and the amphitheatre. I flew around a corner, the tattered train of my dress billowing behind me as the halls disappeared in a blur of white.

The Queen would be in the amphitheatre, overseeing the dramas, manipulating my mindless sisters into half a dozen arranged marriages. I sort of felt sorry for them. They were sheep. My heart pounded in my chest, the tightness of breath the same now as when the Queen had tried to possess me—

No. Rheagan tried to possess me. The same way she possessed my mother. Gods, was there any chance my mother—the true Queen—was still somewhere inside herself.

With my insides balled up and writhing in my gut I paused inside the archway to the amphitheatre. The place was packed, the audience seated in ascending stone benches arcing from one side of the stage to the other, rising in rings to a hundred feet near the back. The crowd, absorbed with the drama on stage, was a scene from a Greek tragedy themselves. They were puppets and they either didn’t have the distance to see it, the courage to question it, or were too entranced by the illusion Rheagan had cast to realize it.