“And then do exactly as I say.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
All the blood had surely drained from Ronin’s body, his head woolly and his vision blurred, as he watched Mireille—fuckingMireille Valettein the flesh—lead Cassandra back to the dais.
The she-wolf didn’t spare him a single glance, and he was grateful for her inattention.
It allowed him the privacy to study her.
The stunning face that had haunted so many of his dreams—and nightmares—looked mostly unchanged since he’d last seen her. The icy indifference remained, though it held an even sharper edge.
A long, leather cloak hid her body from view—a blessing, he supposed—and as she brushed past, her scent washed over him. That unmistakable musk sweetened by ripe flowers. The same scent he’d caught on the vial of veiling potion in the intake yard. His wolf released a mournful howl before Ronin snarled back, silencing the beast.
Cassandra and Mireille paused before the Koenig, and Mireille whispered something into Cassandra’s ear. Cassandra pushed her shoulders back, flaring her glimmering wings, and declared, “I request an executioner’s appeal.”
Wormwood grimaced, looking toward the throne for affirmation. The Koenig gave him another nod, stroking the handle of his warhammer.
“Very well,” Wormwood said, narrowing his eyes at Mireille. “Such is your right. Step up here so we can seal it with a blood vow.”
Cassandra darted a nervous glance to Mireille. Did Cassandra not know what a blood vow was? Mireille whispered into Cassandra’s ear again, and Cass’s steps faltered as she climbed the dais.
Wormwood snatched Cassandra’s hand, then lifted it toward the Koenig. She hissed between clenched teeth as the Koenig dragged the edge of a knife over her palm. He sliced across his own, then clasped their hands together.
“You may select the weapons you’ll be fighting with,orthe date of your appeal,” Wormwood said.
Come on, Cass, Ronin thought.Choose wisely.
“The date,” she answered.
Good.
“As you wish,” Wormwood said. “The latest you may choose is twenty-eight days from now, on the night of Vestan’s crescent moon.”
“Why?”
“Because that is as long as his mercy extends.”
The Koenig’s hand tightened on Cassandra’s, spilling a fresh wave of blood from the wound. She didn’t even wince.
Verygood.
“Fine,” she said. “Twenty-eight days.”
Wormwood looked to the Koenig, who gave a dark smile. “Then you’ll be fighting with broadswords. It’s what he always chooses. He’s nothing if not a traditionalist.”
Now it was Ronin’s turn to fight off a wince.
Broadswords, Creator help them.
Unless Cass had already been trained to use one—and he thought that extremely unlikely—twenty-eight days was not nearly enough time to gain the necessary skill to defeat a male who, by the looks of him, had been honing his craft for centuries. Even Ronin himself, a battle-tested warrior of five plus centuries, wasn’t confident he could defeat the Koenig.
Cassandra had a virtually impossible task ahead of her.
Wormwood grabbed the hammer and thrust it between Cassandra and the Koenig, directly beneath their clasped hands. “Do you promise not to harm one another, nor to solicit any harm against one another, until the day of your appeal? At which time, one of you must die for the other to be declared victor?” Both Cassandra and the Koenig nodded. “Then feed the blood of your pact to the hammer, and the vow will be complete.”
Four drops plinked onto the stone, the hall so silent that Ronin heard each one.
Once the fourth had fallen, tendrils of red light burst from the polemite heart and seeped into Cassandra and the Koenig.
