I think on it for a moment. The lives we’ve led and how we died and were remolded by the gods to serve the world in another way. How that time of service is now upon us. It’s with that in mind that I say, “Maybe we owe them an opportunity to redeem themselves. We were given a second chance.”
Dylan sighs and paces the length of the library. Being away from Morgan for this long is taking a toll on all of us. The worry. The fear. Our bond is tight. The healing between us bolstered us all in a way we’d never experienced before but even so—we are made to be a team. A unit.
All of us with our mate, and leaving her behind doesn’t feel right.
Finally he stops and runs his hand over his hair, leaving it in small, messy spikes. “Even if we agree to this, we have to actually procure the contract. The Shaman’s fee will certainly be heavy. And costly. We already are tied to him with one debt.”
The monthly fights. Adding to that debt would be a burden none of us want to bear. But even so, this is greater than the four of us.
“We’re talking about the apocalypse, Dylan,” Sam says. “We’ve spent our lives carrying the weight of the damned. One more isn’t going to destroy us.”
If we had to vote right now I suspect at least three of us would agree. We’re desperate and most certainly running out of time. But I’m known for my impulsiveness. My willingness to take a risk. Without hesitation I say, “I’m in. Let’s try to win the contract for the Legion of Immortals.”
As expected, Sam and Clinton nod their approval. Dylan stares at the floor, knowing he’s lost this argument. “Fine,” he says. “But don’t come to me to fix this when it all implodes, got it?”
We share a moment of understanding, because even though we promise we won’t, we all know he’s got our back—for better or worse—because that’s how the Raven Guard operates.
9
Morgan
After a bath to soothe my aching ribs, and a generous plate of eggs, bacon, and biscuits, Nevis helps me dress. My closet is filled with dresses and gowns. It feels weird wearing the Morrigan’s clothing, like a lamb being dressed for slaughter, so I reach for the suit I wore from The Nead.
Nevis shakes her head. “Dress the part. Today, you’re not a warrior. You’re a guest of the Queen.”
“A guest?” I snort. “I may not be in the dungeons, but I wouldn’t call myself free.”
I feel like a dick the instant I say it. Nevis is a slave and has been since birth. The Morrigan controls every aspect of her life, and the small part she doesn’t is in the hidden underground community she’s desperately trying to free. I reach for the nearest dress, a pale blue that has the shimmer of silver, and hold it up. “How does this look?”
“Lovely.”
Nevis insists on taming my hair, using a hot iron to straighten my normally curly locks. She braids the top part so that it pulls away from my face. I’m marveling at her skills when there’s a knock on the door.
Apprehension tickles my spine. I’m still reeling from the attack by Casteel. His behavior was vicious, and there’s no doubt he’ll be back for more once he recovers from the wound Dylan gave him.
Nevis steps forward and opens the door. Her shoulders visibly relax when she sees the courier in the hallway. He passes me an envelope stamped on the back with a wax seal. I fight the urge to laugh at the formality but it also only confirms I’m a stranger in a strange land.
I scan the card. After the courier leaves I say, “I’ve been summoned to the Morrigan’s chambers. What do you think she wants?”
“Gods only know,” she replies, bringing me a pair of soft slip-on shoes. “Just try to behave yourself, okay?”
I make a face. “I’ll do my best not to get killed before my army arrives, if that’s what you’re saying.”
Nevis smiles. “Precisely.”
The queen’s chambers are a level above mine and we pass through six different guards before we’re allowed to enter. The first two take their time searching me for weapons. I don’t blame them. Nevis had to convince me to leave the fork from breakfast on the table and not slipped into the stocking band around my thigh.
“Take your time,” I hiss at one of the soldiers as his fingers linger over my waist. “Ask Casteel what happened when he took advantage.”
The soldier freezes, turns pale, and abruptly steps away.
I’m not particularly surprised to find Anita on the other side of the double doors sitting on a plush, dark purple chair.
“Good morning, Morgan,” she says, taking a sip of steaming tea. Her own servant stands against the wall and I recognize her from underground, although her expression is blank as stone.
“Anita.” I take the seat next to her and ignore the tea.
“How did you sleep?” she asks, looking like a princess that grew up in this world. “I love these feather beds. I wish we could get something like that back home, you know?”