Page 38 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

Everything okay? Why have you been crying? How’s Fae? Is the baby safe? How’d Alec handle it? Where the fuck is August, and why isn’t he with the Carters? Has the Grayshell party already left? How’d Fae react to the plan to keep her and the baby safe and out of the conflict?

A million questions buzzed through my head, but not a damned one made it to Freya. Mercifully, Gio—the brownnosing motherfucker—asked what I couldn’t.

“You okay, Commander?”

“I’m fine. They’re—miraculously—fine. Something went wrong at the end, and the witches were on top of that bed so fast my head spun, but they got her out, and Fae is okay, and…”

She released a long breath, her eyes pinching with emotion she refused to let show.

“Good, strong lungs.”

“You said her?” Carr asked softly.

“Yeah, Mags was right.” Freya smiled at him in that forced way I hated. But at least she smiled at him. That was more than I could say for the two of us these days.

“Winnifred Marie…” Her voice broke, and she scowled at Nathara’s terracotta floor as though it were to blame. “Carter. Winnie for short. She’s a redhead,” she added with a genuine hint of a smile.

“Oh good, another little Butcher Queen,” Carr teased with a grin.

Freya had earned the moniker after publicly executing three politicians—two demon-entangled braids and one human—who’d hoarded an egregious warehouse of food. They’d captured one of Freya’s messengers, a thirteen-year-old girl named Isabella, in what proved to be the last of presumably many poor life choices.

“Just what we need.” Carr grabbed her shoulder and pulled her into a hug.

A hug she clearly needed as she buried her face against his chest and my body went molten.

Butcher Queen, my ass.

I shot my cousin a glare, earning a middle finger in return as I stalked from the room.

Just as I crossed the threshold, Gio asked, “Did the Grayshell party leave?”

A muffled sniffle preceded a soft, “As soon as Mags promised Fae was safe.”

Good. Maybe we could finally make some fucking progress.

That was the final thought I internalized as I strode down the long hallway and into the main living area, where Freya’s loyalists had gathered.

For all her faults, the gathering of Wings for this optional mission was a testament to her strength as a leader. She didn’t order sieges; she led them. She didn’t punish her people with gauntlets and spectacles—hell, she’d torn out Reagan’s whipping post the moment we got home—she trained with them.

First into every goddamned building and the last out. Freya’s reserves never had time to dip before one of her souls offered their magic.

Hell, even Portia’s unshakable faith had changed allegiance.

Portia… who lifted her head from her hands and fixed her gaze on me as I crossed the threshold.

All is well? she asked mind-to-mind, more statement than question.

The Carters are healthy, and the Queen has returned.

A sly smirk slanted her full lips. You know she despises that title.

It’s the title she stole, so I’ll continue to use it.

The Commander won her place in line under the Accords, you petulant heretic. You’d better act like it.

Beyond that, Orion added as he handed Portia a mug of steaming tea, she came for you, Cyrus. You act like she spat upon your honor when she was the only soul with enough faith to defend you after Reagan spun her web.

I wouldn’t have needed defending if she hadn’t been using me to plot her coup.