“She turned to prayer to heal Cups,” the woman still clutching the meat hook adds.
The old woman scoffs. “Delphara’s answer was Droskyn. Her only tie to the land she left behind.”
A shudder moves through the gathered women. The daughters inch closer to their mothers, drawn toward the warmth of something protective, something that still stands between them and whatever is coming.
“She claimed her priest had communed with the gods. That they were angry. That the machines’ silence was a divine punishment. That they demanded renewed faith and allegiance—not just to them, but to her, to Droskyn, to Cups.”
A bitter sting of recognition lances through me. I know these words. I’ve heard them before, in a different place, in a different kind of sermon. But the message is the same: power belongs to those who take it, and suffering is the price everyone else must pay.
“He claimed that the gods demanded proof of our loyalty,” says a sharp-faced noblewoman near the wine racks.
“And when the first girl vanished, the machines roared back to life.” The older noblewoman’s voice turns flat, matter of fact, as if dulling the edges of a horror too unbearable to hold.
“Let me guess,” I say, my heart pounding so violently I can feel it in my teeth. “Delphara and Droskyn claimed it was a miracle. Proof of divine favor.”
The old woman lifts her chin. “But the machines did not require blood before. And what kind of gods reward the slaying of innocents?”
“More women went missing before we could stop him,” another noblewoman says tightly as she reaches out and grips the older woman’s hand. “But we did stop him.”
“We poisoned Droskyn Vayne.” The eldest woman’swords land with the weight of a gravestone. “We thought it was over. Without Droskyn, the Queen lost her grip on the magick he funneled into her. The machines fell silent again.”
“And we believed we had done enough,” the other noblewoman continues. “But we were wrong.”
“She suddenly found someone new,” Sylvie murmurs. “Not only loyal—powerful.”
The old woman nods, slowly. “And worse. More strategic, more careful. Even less concerned with who we are as people.”
A chill scrapes across my skin.
But even through the fear, something sharp and certain clicks into place.
“With your help,” I say slowly, “I think I can finish what you started.”
Bernice arches a brow. “And how do you propose to do that?”
“Delphara believes blood is the price of power,” I say. “That sacrifice fuels the machine. But she’s wrong. I’ve seen it. I’ve touched it. It doesn’t need blood to work.”
Sylvie crosses her arms. “Then what does it need?”
The answer rises unbidden, heavy, icy. I don’t want it to be true, but every instinct screams that it is.
I swallow hard. “It needs the Lovers.”
Twenty-Six
The next morning, I find Alderic where I always seemto—brooding on the deck of his sailboat like some exiled prince in a tragic love story. He’s staring out over the water, shirt slightly rumpled, hair still damp from a rinse in the sea. It’s obnoxiously poetic.
He looks up when he hears my footsteps, and that ruinously handsome face softens when he sees me, like I’m the very thing he’s been waiting for.
Something inside me tightens. I hate that look. Or I want to climb into it—maybe both. The sunlight gilds his damp hair, his half-unbuttoned shirt clinging in just the right places, and I have to force myself not to stare at the sharp V of exposed skin.
Don’t do it, Gemma. Don’t remember how his mouth felt. How his hands felt. You are here for a reason, and how good he looks has nothing to do with it.
“I have a plan,” I announce, climbing aboard without waiting for an invitation.
Alderic’s brows lift. “Hello to you too.”
“Don’t get excited,” I say, brushing past him and ignoring the way his presence makes my nerve endings buzz. “You’re still on my shit list.”
