“No.”

“Do you have friends?”

“No.” His cabal of warriors didn’t count. Gods-damned Whitethorn hadn’t seemed to care when he abandoned them to serve Aelin Galathynius; Fenrys made no secret he hated the bond; Vaughan was barely around; he couldn’t stand Gavriel’s unbreakable restraint; and Connall was too busy rutting Maeve like an animal most of the time.

Elide angled her head, her hair sliding across her face. He almost lifted a hand to brush it back and read her dark eyes. But his hands were covered in that filthy blood. And he had the feeling Elide Lochan did not wish to be touched unless she asked to be.

“Then,” she murmured, “you and I are the same in that regard, at least.”

No family, no friends. It hadn’t seemed quite so pathetic until she said it, until he suddenly saw himself through her eyes.

But Elide shrugged, rising to her feet as Molly’s voice barked from nearby. “You should clean up—you look like a warrior again.”

He wasn’t sure if she meant it as a compliment. “Nik and Ombriel, unfortunately, realized you and I are perhaps not what we seem.”

Alarm flashed in her eyes. “Should we leave—”

“No. They’ll keep our secrets.” If only because they’d seen Lorcan lay into those ilken, and knew precisely what he could do to them if they so much as breathed wrong in their direction. “We can stay awhile yet—until we get clear of this.”

Elide nodded, her limp deep as she headed for the back of the wagon. She sat on the edge before climbing off, her wrecked ankle too weak and painful to ever jump. Yet she moved with quiet dignity, hissing a little as her foot made contact with the ground.

Lorcan watched her limp into the night without so much as a backward glance at him.

And he wondered what the hell he was doing.

42

Death smelled like salt and blood and wood and rot.

And it hurt.

Darkness embrace her, it hurt like hell. The Ancient Ones had lied that it cured all ills, if the slice of pain across her abdomen was any indication. Not to mention the pounding headache, the sheer dryness of her mouth, the burning sting in the other cut on her arm.

Perhaps the Darkness was another world, another realm. Perhaps she’d gone to the hell-realm the humans so feared.

She hated Death.

And Death could go to hell, too—

Manon Blackbeak cracked open eyelids that were too heavy, too burning, and squinted against the flickering lantern light that swayed upon the wood panels of the room in which she lay.

Not a real bedroom, she realized by the reek of salt and rocking and creaking of the world around her. A cabin—on a ship.

A small, dingy one, with barely space for this bed, a porthole too small for her shoulders to even squeeze through—

She bolted upright. Abraxos. Where was Abraxos—

“Relax,” drawled a too-familiar female voice from the shadowed space near the foot of the bed.

Pain flared in Manon’s belly, a delayed response to her sudden movement, and she glanced between the white bandages that now scratched against her fingers and the young queen, lounging in the chair by the door. Glanced between the woman and the chains now around Manon’s wrists, around her ankles—anchored into the walls with what appeared to be freshly drilled holes.

“Looks like you owe me a life debt once more, Blackbeak,” Aelin Galathynius said, cold humor in her turquoise eyes. Elide. Had Elide made it here—

“Your fussy nursemaid of a wyvern is fine, by the way. I don’t know how you wound up with a sweet thing like that for a mount, but he’s content to sprawl in the sun on the foredeck. Can’t say it makes the sailors particularly happy—especially cleaning up after him.”

Find somewhere safe, she’d told Abraxos. Had he somehow found the queen? Somehow known this was the only place she might stand a chance of surviving?

Aelin braced her feet on the floor, boots thudding softly. There was a frank sort of impatience with any sort of bullshit that had not been there the last time Manon had seen the woman. As if the warrior who had laughed her way through their battle atop Temis’s temple had lost a bit of that wicked amusement but gained more of the cunning cruelty.

Manon’s belly gave a throb of pain that made her bite her lip to keep from hissing.

“Whoever gave you that wound wasn’t joking,” the queen said. “Trouble at home?”

It wasn’t the queen’s business, or anyone else’s. “Let me heal, and then I’ll be on my way,” Manon rasped, her tongue a dried, heavy husk.

“Oh, no,” Aelin purred. “You’re not going anywhere. Your mount may do whatever he pleases, but you are now officially our prisoner.”

Manon’s head started spinning, but she forced herself to say, “Our?”

A knowing little smile. Then the queen rose gracefully. Her hair was longer, face leaner, those turquoise eyes hard and haunted. The queen said simply, “Here are the rules, Blackbeak. You try to escape, you die. You hurt anyone, you die. You somehow bring any of us into trouble … I think you get where I’m going with this. You step one foot out of line, and I’ll finish what we started that day in the forest, life debt or no. This time I don’t need steel to do it.”

As she spoke, gold flames seemed to flicker in her eyes. And Manon realized with no small thrill, even with her pain, that the queen could indeed end her before she’d get close enough to kill.

Aelin turned for the door, her scarred hand on the knob. “I found iron splinters in your belly before I healed you. I suggest you don’t lie to whoever can tolerate being around you long enough to get the full story.” She jerked her chin toward the floor. A pitcher and cup lay there. “Water’s next to the bed. If you can reach it.”

Then she was gone.

Manon listened to her steady footsteps fade. No other voices or sounds beyond the lap of waves against the ship, the groan of the wood, and—gulls. They had to still be within range of the coast, then. Sailing to where … she’d have to figure that out.

Once she healed. Once she got out of these irons. Once she got onto Abraxos.

But to go where? To whom?

There was no aerie to receive her, no Clan who would shield her from her grandmother. And the Thirteen … Where were they now? Had they been hunted down?

Manon’s stomach burned, but she reached for the water. Pain lashed her hard enough that she gave up after a heartbeat.

They had heard, no doubt—what she was. The Thirteen had heard.

Not just a half-blooded Crochan … but the last Crochan Queen.

And her sister … her half sister…

Manon stared at the shadowed, wooden ceiling.

She could feel that Crochan’s blood on her hands. And her cape … that red cape was draped over the edge of the bed. Her sister’s cape. That her grandmother had made her wear, knowing who it belonged to, knowing whose throat Manon had slit.

No longer the Blackbeak heir, Crochan blood or no.

Despair curled like a cat around the pain in Manon’s belly. She was no one and nothing.

She did not remember falling asleep.

The witch slept for three days after Aelin reported that she had awakened. Dorian went into that cramped cabin with Rowan and the queen every time they healed a little bit more of her, observing the way their magic worked, but not daring to try it on the unconscious Blackbeak.