“Lady Jing sent a message,” Vizmodeus says, holding up a letter for Syrus. “She says she wants to make changes to the latest weapons delivery—more arrowheads, fewer blood shells. Given Malice is due to supply the blood for the projectiles this time?—”
“No,” Syrus says in a tone of instant finality. “She won’t be changing it.”
“Her letter says it’s more cost-effective?—”
“Arrows are cheap, but death isn’t, Viz,” he says, the red in his irises brightening. “Burning them from the inside out is the best way to kill a pale-blood. It’s quick and agonizing, and they can’t use lightning to stop it. She’ll make the shells we ordered, and Infernum’s soldiers will thank us for it when they’re littering the plains with feathered corpses.”
I try not to wince. Demon blood is like acid to the ephilium, and vice versa. Some of the most brutalized bodies I’ve seen on the plains were the ones hit with blood-loaded projectiles—for precisely the reasons Syrus describes with such relish.
The chamberlain nods. “I’ll compose a reply.”
Syrus casually leans across the table to serve himself eggs, as if breakfast always comes with a side of murderous strategizing. Which it probably does, for him.
“You will have a few days to rest,” he says.
It takes me a moment to realize he’s addressing me, considering he’s speaking aloud rather than invading my mind. How generous of him. “Then we shall proceed with our plans to visit Strata.”
“I don’t need to rest,” I say, dropping my piece of toast and sitting up straighter—and immediately feeling annoyed with myself for jumping to attention like an excited puppy. I don’t need more reasons for the Lord of Malice to think of me as a dog brought to heel. “Surely the sooner we get to work the better.”
“You might not need more time, but I have other matters to attend to,” Syrus says, casting a weary look at Vizmodeus like I’m just another thing on his long to-do list.
“I suppose you’ve forgotten that every day we remain linked, my body is being poisoned?” I push, hating the note of desperation creeping into my voice. It’s a shit negotiating tactic, and I’m usually better at playing it cool. I suppose being in hell is starting to thaw even my icy nerve.
His red-ringed eyes flare, revealing more of the brown in them than usual.
“And you’ve forgotten that we’re inmydomain and will followmyschedule,” he says haughtily.
“So I’m just expected to sit here, drawing closer to death, until it suits you?” My voice is rising now. I know it’s not productive to put my anger on display. If nothing else, living with Ada taught me that. But everything that’s happened since I left my father and stepmother’s house—the bruises on my wrists, the cut still healing on my arm, even the tightness of the gold band on my finger—has trampled my usual self-control to dust.
A line creases between his brows, and a rush of sensation pours across my skin, whispering in a ghostly touch down my arms. I gasp as my hands slam down onto the table surface and stay stuck there, palms flat and fingers splayed. I meet his gaze as he hisses into my mind.
“That was the deal you made with the cards you had, Rose Radley. Maybe the game was fixed. Maybe you’re a terrible player. Either way, I suggest you accept the hand you were dealt.”
As quickly as he possessed me, he withdraws, rushing out of me with such force that I jerk my head back, knocking it on my chair. My hands fly up from the table, released from his grasp.
His words remind me of what Oxel said the last time I went scavenging. The problem is, I was good atthatgame. I knew what I was doing. None of that helps me here, though.
I rub the back of my head, silently fuming as the Lord of Malice picks up a glass of water and sips from it. His eyes flick over me and the food I’m eating before looking at his chamberlain.
Vizmodeus seems to know what’s being asked of him, clearing his throat and pulling out a fresh sheet of parchment.
“Have you actually experienced any adverse effects from the possession yet?” he asks, pencil hovering over the paper.
Oh, I don’t know, maybe having a total fucking asshole in my head every five minutes?I think furiously.
When Syrus’s lips tighten into a thin line, I realize that thought was louder than I intended. I really don’t want another demonstration of his ability to control me, so I take a deep breath and try to calm myself.
“No,” I admit, though it still comes out sounding sour. “Not yet.” Even my allergies haven’t made an appearance yet, which is unexpected when every other thing in Strata set them off.
Vizmodeus nods, writing something down.
“Morning, girls and boys.” Asterim wanders into the room in a swirl of organza. Like Syrus, she’s barefoot, but her bejeweled shoes are slung over her shoulder with one hand. She drops them on the floor as she sits down, the sheer fabric settling around her in a glamorous cloud.
“Good night?” Vizmodeus asks without looking up from his parchment.
“Wonderful.” She sighs happily as she reaches for a stack of pancakes and, rather than move a few onto her waiting plate, proceeds to start tucking into the whole thing.
“Oh good, someone got you clothes that fit,” she says, eyeing the plain black pants and tunic I put on this morning. “They’re a bit boring, darling, but with your coloring I think you still pull them off.”
