The Offering (4 page)

Zafir had noticed it too, and he snatched the box from my hands without asking my permission. He dropped to his knees as he reached inside, thrusting the flowers aside, until I heard his breath catch. I didn't wait for him to give me the go-ahead. I peered over his shoulder to see what it was that he was looking at.

I wished I hadn't.

I gasped and stumbled, falling backward and blinking too hard. I wished I'd never seen what I had, because I couldn't take it back. I couldn't undo what my eyes had just witnessed. I wasn't sure whether it was tears or fury that clouded my vision. My throat felt like it was closing, and all I could see, even when I closed my eyes, was what was in the box. All I could imagine—maybe forever all I would ever imagine—was that hand . . . the severed hand that Queen Elena had sent to me.

It wasn't until Max was there, pulling me back to my feet, that I recalled I wasn't alone. And then I looked up into his face and remembered something else. It wasn't just me who would be damaged by the dismembered limb.

If Max saw it . . . then he'd know who it belonged to. . . .

It was the scars that had given it away. Even as decayed as the hand was, I had glimpsed the intricate lacework of pale scars tracing the withered skin that outlined the knuckles. Scars I would've recognized anywhere.

Scars belonging to Xander.

I clung to Max, searching his eyes and trying to make my lips move. I struggled to find a way to tell him that his brother was likely dead at the hands of the queen he'd gone to make peace with, when I heard the sound—the bellow, like the piercing yowl of a wounded animal—at my back.

I knew it was Eden even before I found my next breath—her outrage and pain filtered through every part of me.

She'd seen it too. Xander's hand.

Her sword had been drawn, and before anyone could stop her or even had the chance to blink, she impaled the first messenger. The body hadn't even crumpled to the ground when she withdrew her weapon and repositioned herself, her blade readying to stab once more, a scream erupting from her as if it were being ripped from her gullet.

Zafir reacted first, and thrust himself in front of the wide-eyed, unarmed messenger who stood to be skewered next. The look in Eden's eyes didn't register recognition of the other royal guard. The only thing in her expression was misery. And ferocious determination.

But Zafir was determined too, and unlike me, he hadn't thrown his weapon down in the field. He drew his sword too—a sword named Danii—just in the nick of time, his blade clashing against Eden's and throwing hers off course less than a moment before it would've met the soft belly of the cowering messenger. The remaining two couriers had scattered, fleeing somewhere into the palace while their companion had been under siege by the heartbroken guard. I thought I should shout for someone to go after them, but I heard footsteps in
their wake, and I was too focused on Eden to summon the order.

I thought she would stab, or swing, again—she was too far past reason to stop herself. Behind both Eden and Zafir, I saw Brook, who was also armed but not with a blade. Her gun was readied and aimed at Eden's head. I knew she wouldn't hesitate to shoot if Eden attacked Zafir, and inside my chest my heart pounded wildly. I tried to give Brook a silent signal to wait, but she wasn't looking at me. Her attention was trained solely on Eden now.

Time seemed to slow as I watched Zafir, standing stoically, patiently, in front of Eden. He never moved, and I wondered if he even breathed.

Ultimately something must have registered with her: the earsplitting crash of their swords or the reverberation she'd surely felt moving up her arm. Or perhaps seeing her own comrade staring her down as he stood in front of her. And instead of striking him, she wilted to the ground. No longer a sentinel of the palace but a broken woman. A woman who may have just lost the man she loved.

Dropping her sword at last, she fell forward, her palms splayed as she clawed at the polished floor, her wail resonating, deep and hollow and pain-filled.

I ached for her, as I imagined we all did.

I ached for her and for Xander.

And for what this message from Queen Elena meant for our nation.

It took nearly half an hour—and an entire squadron of palace soldiers—to drag Eden away from the great hall. And away from the box containing Xander's hand. Yet it took only Angelina's presence to soothe Eden's mournful cries and settle her into an uneasy sort of peace. The fitful kind that comes with fevers or nightmares, but a peace nonetheless.

Angelina hadn't lost her capacity to heal, and there was no reason for her not to use it. Our abilities were no longer dangerous secrets that had to be hidden.

Once we were in Eden's small, no-frills room, Angelina laid her hands on her royal guard, and the energy in the air changed immediately . . . from the gut-wrenching anguish that had caused bile to rise in the back of my throat, to an apprehensive sort of acceptance. A sense that this was the way things were now. There was no going back.

Whatever had happened to Xander was already done.

Eden, who'd been thrashing beneath the hands of the three large men who had accompanied us to her chamber, stilled on her bed, which seemed more like a cot with a cushion too thin to be deemed a true mattress, and I couldn't help wonder why, in a palace filled with such sumptuous furnishings, Eden would choose to deny herself such a simple creature comfort as a decent bed. For a moment I thought Angelina had somehow damaged the woman rather than calmed her. Eden seemed comatose, she was so motionless. But then I realized I could still sense her, could still see her eyes, watching Angelina . . . and only Angelina now.

The two of them seemed to have their own language.

One I wasn't privy to.

I suppressed the jealousy that twisted in my gut at seeing the two of them together, wishing Angelina would look at me like that. Wishing she would look at me at all. For now, I supposed it was enough that Eden had settled down.

I watched Eden then, studying her hair, which had once been spiky and blue but was now glossy and black. It had grown just long enough so that it skimmed the sharp bone of her chin when she marched—which was what she did rather than walk, wherever she went.

Now that same hair was plastered, like an oily second skin, to her scalp, still damp with sweat. Her skin, normally pale—not luminous like mine but opaque like polished ivory, chiseled and unbreakable—appeared ashen. Bloodless.

Her awareness became tangible. I could sense her reluctant acknowledgment that what she'd seen was real, and that she couldn't remain in that state of anguish indefinitely.

Angelina had told her so. With her eyes . . . and her touch.

There's nothing more for me to do here
, I told myself, and Sabara concurred silently. The fact that I understood her wordless support worried me. We were too close, too enmeshed with each other.

We were two queens trapped in the same body, a complicated situation. One I wished I could remedy.

And I heard her response.
Me too
, she thought.
More than you can possibly know
.

I went back to the main hall, relieved that it was deserted now. Zafir had gone with Max and Claude to round up the
two messengers from Astonia who had run off when Eden had executed their companion.

“Stay here,” I told the young guard who'd been charged with shadowing me in Zafir's absence.

He frowned at being left near the door, but since the room was empty, and easily discernible from where he stood, he allowed me go inside. I knew exactly what I was after, the box from Queen Elena.

It was still there, right where I'd dropped it.

Xander's hand had been removed, but the flower petals were still strewn like purple confections all around the marble floor. Their fragrance masked their bitter purpose—to conceal their gruesome offering.

I approached the box warily, apprehension turning my blood to ice. I couldn't imagine the kind of woman, queen or no, who could do something so reprehensible. When I knelt down, I let my fingers trace the outside edge of the cardboard, assuring myself it was only paper. Merely the means for delivery.

Convinced the box was harmless, I set it on my lap and peered inside, still considering Elena's motivations.

Why Xander? Why now?

To what end had she sent his hand?

Did she expect me to retaliate? Was I to declare war and risk the lives of millions over the loss of one?

I couldn't say I wouldn't. Xander meant enough to me that I might. But I couldn't make the decision that easily.

I blew away several of the withered flowers that were still inside the box, spilling them onto the floor, where the rest were spread. Only then did I see that one was lodged in the
bottom edge. Lodged between one wall and the floor of the container.

A floor that looked to be . . . detachable.

I plucked the blossom free, examining the box. I ran my finger along the inside of it, slipping my fingernail barely into the bottom edge.

It moved. Shifted just enough that I was able to get the rest of my finger beneath it.

I glanced around, searching to see if anyone else had seen what I'd done. It was only me and the guard watching from the door, and he was oblivious to my discovery.

Turning back to my task, I shimmied and wiggled the false bottom until I'd managed to free it from the box. Beneath it a flash of red caught my eye.

Red, the color of Queen Elena's flag.

I knew exactly what I was looking at.

A message, sealed with red wax.

My throat tightened as I reached for it. Like the box, the letter was made only from paper, but my reaction was visceral.

Even Queen Elena knows you don't need great technology to deliver a powerful message
, Sabara jeered.

I ignored her barbs, concentrating on the letter instead. Its red wax seal, stamped with the unmistakable crest of Astonia, was unbroken. I thought about reading the message later in the privacy of my own bedchamber, but curiosity got the best of me.

Sliding my finger beneath the edge of the envelope, I felt the seal break, and my pulse quickened.

I scanned the missive, and then closed it again.

“Is she okay?” Max's voice found me, and my hand shot down to my side. I tucked the letter into my hip pocket before he could see it.

“What? Wh-who?” I stammered, jumping to my feet as the box tumbled to the floor. My pulse felt thick in my throat.

Max frowned at me. “Eden? Didn't you just come from her room?”

I sagged beneath the weight of his words. “She will be. Angelina's with her now.” I searched his flint-colored eyes. I'd been so consumed with Eden, and now the discovery of this message, that I hadn't taken the time to consider Max, and the fact that Xander was his brother. “Max. I'm so sorry.”

He winced at my words, and his jaw flexed ever so slightly when my hand reached across the distance to his. I knew what he was going to say even before he said it. “I'm fine,” he answered in a voice that was too brusque and dismissive to ring true.

I tried not to be offended when he pulled his hand away from my touch. It was a lot for him to take in, the fact that his brother's severed hand had just been delivered to us. “What do you think it means, the . . .” I almost said “the message” but I stopped myself, thinking of the letter buried in my pocket, and instead said, “The box?” I hated asking the question, but Max wasn't just the man I loved. He was my adviser, and I counted on him.

Still, I couldn't bring myself to ask the other question that lodged in my throat. About what he thought it might mean for Xander.

He shook his head, and I could see him trying to wall off his emotions behind duty. “I don't know, but we'll figure it out. We
rounded up the two messengers who ran off, and the three of them are being questioned now. If they know anything at all about Xander, we'll find out. Until then . . .”