FIFTY-NINE
Sian quickly holstered his ax, raising his palms. That fuck was the fastest of his kind; Sian couldn’t even trace to intervene.
Saetth beheaded his victims with such speed they could still be talking after the deathblow.
Calliope held herself motionless, but she didn’t look afraid.
In a menacing tone, Sian said, “If you hurt her, I will snatch your godsdamned spine from your body. I’ll take your throat with my teeth!”
She blasted out a thought: —I have this under control.—
Sian drew his head back in confusion.
“You are the demon husband?” Saetth said with a sneer. “Not quite the ladies’ man I was expecting. Really, Calliope, there’s no accounting for taste.” His courtiers laughed. “I didn’t think I’d get to end the king of hell today as well.” Without lowering his blade, Saetth twirled a scepter. The one I gave Calliope? Voice dripping with arrogance, he said, “Tsk, cousin, was this the source of your power?”
“My source of power is my wits. Always has been.” What is her plan? “Do you remember what you told me the day you exiled me?”
“Ah, I remember that day vividly. I told you I wanted to see if my hothouse rose could survive.”
Did I actually believe she could still love this prick?
“And I said, ‘Careful, cousin, this hothouse rose intends to flourish and grow sharp thorns.’ Saetth, you’ve run afoul of them, and you don’t even realize it.”
From his experiences with her, Sian knew two things.
Calliope had laid a trap. She’d already struck.
How? He could only imagine. But he needed to trust that she knew what she was doing. Which meant . . . Do not take Saetth’s throat with your teeth.
“I admire your unfounded optimism,” Saetth said. “In reality, you’re about to share your parents’ fate. You’ll die like them, your body burned like a traitor’s. After I behead this Møriør.” To Sian, he said, “If you don’t kneel before me and surrender your life, I’ll take Calliope’s pretty . . .” He trailed off, clearing his throat.
Sian bit back a growl, claws sinking into his palms.
“With one flick of my wrist, I’ll cut off her . . .” Saetth coughed, his brows drawing together. His face began swelling, veins ticking in his forehead. “Calliope?” His skin was turning as purple as her dress. He released the scepter to clutch his throat.
She assumed a thoughtful mien. “Something more to say, cousin? Hmm?” More loudly, she called, “I told you I would smite you down with my powers! I wield the very fires of hell!”
The fey in attendance retreated even farther.
When Saetth dropped his sword and stumbled back, Sian traced to her. He murmured in Demonish, “The fires of hell? What did you do?”
“I’ve got this,” she replied in the same tongue, stepping away from Sian. “Obviously.”
Still, he used one bloody wing to ward off the king’s guard, telling them, “You do not want to anger her. Lay down your weapons and back away.”
When their king fell to his hands and knees, they did.
“No, no.” Saetth’s features bulged grotesquely, his face mottled. Reaching for Calliope, he collapsed to his front.
His crown tumbled from his head, rolling across the marble floor like a loosed coin.
In a lower voice, she told Saetth, “Oh, cousin, that Titanian steel was laced with lethal venom harvested from a Leviathan’s fang.”
Sian’s gaze snapped to her. The scepter. The Lôtān head.
Chin raised, Calliope lifted one pale shoulder at him.
Sian gazed at her in awe. Mine. “My clever queen.” With her hell crown.
If he had known all those years ago that his sacrifice wouldn’t be wasted . . .
She returned her attention to Saetth, watching his death with disdain. The Møriør had tried to kill him for ages. A twenty-four-year-old fey with no fighting skills had taken him out.
In seconds, the unending millennia of King Saetth’s life drew to a macabre close. He took a last gurgling breath. His body spasmed before going still.
The remaining attendees screamed and fled the room.
Only a few guards lingered, looking wary of Sian and Calliope.
In an authoritative tone, she commanded them, “Collect the body and that spent scepter—without touching either. Burn both, and secure the castle.”
“Yes, my queen,” a senior guard said.
As Sian tore free one of the dozens of arrows in his body, he probed the male’s mind. That guard and the others had hated Saetth, were relieved another ruler would take his place; not to mention that she was next in line of the succession. Good. They intended to do her bidding.
Unfortunately Sian wasn’t faring much better than the corpse they carried away. A snapped spear tip had lodged near his heart, and the mass quantities of poison were starting to hit—not lethally like Lôtān venom, but enough to affect even him. It prevented his wounds from mending, which meant blood continued to drain from him.
He held out till the guards had gone, then lurched on his feet. One of his legs, sliced from the back, buckled. “Calliope . . .” He dropped to his knees in a pool of blood.