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I thought of the black seraphim mask Tani had worn the day she’d attacked me, the stupid mask the Imperator had been able to twist into a silly costume instead of the symbol for a terrorist group. My hands clenched involuntarily at my sides and sharp pain shot up my back.
As promised by Rhyan, my back had not scarred, and no mark had been left behind by the lashes or the Imperator’s cruel attempt to reopen and infect my wounds. But sometimes, when I thought about the trial in Aemon’s war room, my body remembered. It remembered the Imperator’s fingers, and I felt the pain course through me anew like I was being touched again.
“You need another drink,” Morgana said. “Thoughts are too dark.”
We were walking through the fortress’s double doors and waving bye to Euston and Rhodes as cold night air swept into a gale-force wind against us.
“When we get to the festival,” I said, pulling my soturion cloak closer to my body, “I’ll have another drink.”
“Or sooner,” she winked, lifting up her black gown. Underneath she wore black boots laced above her knee; I had on a matching pair. Above her boot, a black silk garter circled her thigh, a silver flask tucked within it.
I shook my head. My gown’s skirt had two slits than ran from hip to floor. I slid the material over to the side to reveal the expanse of my leg. A black leather holster was around my thigh just above my boot, but mine held my dagger.
Morgana burst out laughing as we righted our gowns and stepped onto the waterway, heading for our carriage. Walking in the shadows were nine personal escorts, three for each of us, including fucking Markan. Before I could give him the finger, Morgana grabbed my hand.
“You’re not being productive with that.” She squeezed my hand in hers.
“I’m expressing myself.”
Before she could retort, Meera tripped in front of us. Her escorts appeared by her side impossibly fast, each one catching her arm and helping her to stand upright.
My pulse spiked, eyes widening as I turned to Morgana.
She shook her head. The message in her eyes was clear:Not a vision. Calm down.
“Thank you,” Meera said softly to the soturion who’d flown across the waterway to catch her arm. “Started the party too early.”
It was a perfect answer to offer from an Heir Apparent, only she delivered it like a woman who’d never tasted alcohol or partied in her life.
Her escorts didn’t seem overly concerned and separated, returning to the edge of the waterway, their boots slapping against the glass. But they remained closer than protocol demanded for being inside the fortress walls, I assumed because of the Emartis. Still, it made me uneasy. I didn’t like anyone getting too close to her when a vision was imminent.
Inside our seraphim carriage, Morgana closed the partition between us and the escorts as we soared into the night. She reached into her skirts, pulled out a small silver flask, and shoved it in my hands. “Drink this,” she said.
“What? No. I’ll wait. This one’s for you,” I said. She was already wincing in pain from being around so many soturi. Once she found Terra, her date for the night, she’d feel better. Sex was one of the things that took away the pain of her vorakh. Between her flasks and the sex—most likely in the woods outside the festival—I hoped she was in for a pain-free night.
Morgana smirked. “Not just pain-free, but fucking fantastic. Are you sure you don’t want more?”
“Morgs, don’t encourage her to drink,” Meera said. She still sounded tired, as if even to speak was too much effort for her.
“That, there!” Morgana pointed at my face. “Serious face. Come on, Lyr. I want you to have a good time.”
“I need to be on guard,” I said. “Saying the wrong thing tonight….” I shook my head. “I can’t. I’ve had enough.”
I was meeting Tristan. It would be my first time seeing him since I’d spent the night in Rhyan’s bed, in his arms, underneath him…. The thought of facing Tristan and kissing Tristan and continuing to pretend everything was fine and nothing had happened made my stomach twist.
“Give me that,” I said, swiping Morgana’s flask and letting its contents slide down my throat. There was just enough of a burn for me to cough, but instantly my stomach warmed, and a light buzzing ran through my limbs.
Meera rolled her eyes, but Morgana opened the window and yelled out in celebration.
“You can enjoy yourself tonight, too.” Morgana winked at Meera before turning to me. “Now show me that smile! No, Lyr, the real one.” She laughed. “Okay, your drunk smile’s good, too.”
“I am not drunk,” I said.
“You were always a lightweight, little sister.”
We landed in the field beside the Temple of Dawn, amidst bonfires and water dancers sensually stomping and twisting their bodies through black ribbons. Drums played, their beats vibrating at volumes enhanced by magic. Nodding to our escorts, we donned our akadim masks, black and grotesque. Days of Shadows had once been a solemn holiday, a day of remembrance for the victims of akadim—those who’d lost their lives, or worse, their souls. Because there were so few attacks in the south, at some point a certain bravado had emerged in the ritual, a mocking of what we feared. Admittedly, now Days of Shadows was more of an excuse for a drunken costume party, though akadim costumes—despite what the Imperator claimed at Tani’s trial—were still the most common.
We stepped forward, and I could sense the escorts spreading, their soturion cloaks easily allowing them to vanish into the cover of night. Bodies clothed in black were undulating and gyrating to the music, moving themselves in a sensuous rhythm. On their faces were the monstrous masks, full of fangs, snarls, and vicious faces.
