Onyx Storm: Chapter 24

She won’t understand why you’ve kept her in the dark. You left too soon, left too many of your plans unfinished. Now we can only hope the bond between our daughters is strong enough to endure the paths they’ve chosen. They’ll need each other to survive.

—Recovered, Unsent Correspondence of General Lilith Sorrengail “

ooks?” I whisper, my fingers curling around the dagger I realize is still in my left hand.

Narelle tilts her head. “I did not stutter.” She looks pointedly at the armchair. “Put that back in its place.”

Xaden lifts a brow but does as she asks, then crosses the small section of the room and sheathes my dagger at my hip.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

He brushes a kiss over my temple, then takes the empty spot at my right side.

“Get off the floor, Urson—you’re bleeding everywhere. Take your sister to the back and wake her up. Did I not say you were ill-prepared to carry a weapon?” Narelle lectures as she avoids the spilled blood. “Please forgive my grandchildren. They took our task of protecting the books from any riders who aren’t…you a little too seriously.” She sinks into the chair. “Thank you, young man,” she says to Xaden, then gives him a second look before glancing at Dain. “My, the Continent does have some fine-looking men.”

A corner of Xaden’s mouth quirks upward, and I can’t help but silently agree with her.

“Mom.” The shopkeeper rushes to her side, no doubt still worried we’ll attack her mother. Urson hurries to do Narelle’s bidding, helping his sister off the floor as she reluctantly comes to from Mira’s last punch. They disappear into the back, and I almost feel bad for them until I remember that they attacked us.

“I’m ninety-three, Leona, I’m not dead.” She waves her daughter off. “Or what is it you Amaralis say? I have not yet met Malek. He’s your god of death, is he not?”

My brow furrows at the unknown term: Amaralis.

“Isn’t he everyone’s god of death?” Mira leans back against the nearest row of bookshelves.

I shake my head. “Deverelli don’t worship gods.”

“It’s why we’re considered the most neutral of the isles. Perfect for trade.” Narelle shrugs. “What you call gods, we call science. What you call fate, we call coincidence. What you call the divine intervention of love, we call…” She flourishes her hand. “Alchemy. Two substances combined to make something entirely new, not unlike what’s between the two of you.” She glances between Xaden and me and sets her hand on her chest.

My heart twists. If she only knew how close she was to my very thoughts earlier today.

She wiggles her finger at Xaden. “I heard you saying you’d kill my grandson if he took another step toward your beloved, young man. How illogically, toxically romantic of you. Have to admit, that kind of confident violence isn’t what I pictured when Asher talked about you, but the brown hair, those…I guess they’re brown eyes, and how utterly smitten he predicted you two would eventually be for each other? Well, he described you almost perfectly, Dain Aetos.”

Oh, fucking kill me now.

My mouth opens, then shuts.

Xaden raises both eyebrows and presses his lips between his teeth.

Dain rubs the back of his neck.

Mira snorts once, covers her mouth with her hand, then doubles over laughing. “I’m sorry,” she forces out and straightens, quickly masking her face and clearing her throat, but she slips again, her shoulders shaking. “I can’t. I just can’t. I need a second.” She walks behind the row of shelves, hopefully to compose herself.

My face feels like it’s been blasted by dragon fire.

“How would you like this to go?” Dain asks me as Narelle glances among the three of us, her silver brows knitting.

“Just like it’s gone for the last eighteen months,” Xaden answers, losing any and all trace of the niceties he showed Dain an hour ago. “Everyone assumes she’ll wind up with you, but it’s my last name she ends up wearing on her flight jacket in formation.”

“Seriously?” Words absolutely fail me that he would go there. It was one time. Fine, twice if I count the return trip from Samara after we got back together.

“Glad to see you’re feeling like yourself again.” Dain leans back against the counter. “But we don’t have last names on our flight jackets.”

“And yet you get the fucking point.” Xaden’s jaw ticks.

Narelle’s gaze narrows on Xaden through her thick lenses. “You aren’t Dain.”

Xaden shakes his head.

“I’m Dain.” Dain raises his hand briefly.

“And he is?” Narelle asks me.

“Xaden Riorson.” I lift my chin as if I’m answering to my father for my choice. “And he’s mine, even when he’s being a possessive ass.”

“Fen Riorson’s son.” Narelle drums her gnarled fingertips on the armrest. “Asher certainly didn’t predict that.”

“He would have if he’d ever met him.” I reach for Xaden’s hand and lace our fingers.

“Our mother knew,” Mira says, taking her place at the end of the bookshelf. “She wasn’t enthusiastic about it or anything, but she knew love when she saw it. But she certainly never told us about our father coming here.”

“She wouldn’t have, would she?” Narelle shifts in her seat. “When did he die?”

“A little less than three years ago,” I answer gently. “His heart failed.”

Narelle’s face crumples for a few sorrowful breaths, but she nods through it as if having a conversation with herself, then lifts her head again. “Your father risked all your lives to hide away his life’s work with the sole purpose that you find it, Violet. He left the last of it with me almost four years ago with explicit instructions that you only be given it if you had attained the intelligence and understanding you would need to comprehend it.”

I stiffen.

“That’s…” Dain shakes his head.

“That’s Dad,” Mira says slowly.

“You’ve got this.” Xaden squeezes my hand.

I fight to swallow the sudden lump in my dry throat. “He told me to bring you the rarest item I possess.” An ironic laugh bubbles up. “And I thought…” I shake my head, realizing the work we’ve gone through to haul the satchel all this way has been for nothing.

“You thought it’s Deverelli, so naturally, we trade in goods, treasures.” Narelle folds her hands in her lap.

“He meant my mind.” I glance at Mira, but her gaze is locked on the floor. “That’s why he said not to send another in my stead.”

“The books are only for you,” Narelle confirms, and Leona perches on the arm of her mother’s chair. “I have three simple questions, and if you’re capable of answering them, the books are yours.”

“Arrogant to think you have any right to keep something our father wrote for Violet based on your judgment.” Mira’s tone could grate stone.

“It’s fine,” I assure her, refusing to waver, even in this heat. “Ask.”

Narelle shoots my sister a withering look and then turns her attention to me. “He left a manuscript for you. What is the title?”

“Subjugated: The Second Uprising of the Krovlan People by Lieutenant Colonel Asher Sorrengail,” I answer. “Which you already know that I know. How else would I be here?”

She taps her forefinger in obvious impatience. “In chapter fourteen, your father alludes to the Krovlan uprising falling apart because of Deverelli but does not go into specifics. Any”—her gaze skims over my black uniform—“scribe worth her wisdom wouldn’t have been satisfied with his speculation. So tell me, what’s your hypothesis?”

Out of everything in the book, that’s what she asks?

“Easy. Krovla didn’t keep their part of whatever deal they made with Deverelli. Rather than lose their reputation, Deverelli withdrew their brokerage, hence the removal of the other isle’s troops, and then told the Poromish king regent where to find the rebels. End of rebellion.” I shrug.

“Not good enough.” She shakes her head, and my stomach sinks. “Why did it fall apart? What was brokered?”

“That’s not fair—” Dain starts.

Narelle lifts a hand, demanding his silence. “She knows the answer.”

I sigh. “I…have an idea. I just don’t like being wrong.” Or, in this case, right.

“You’re among friends.” Her smile implies otherwise.

Fine. Sweat drips down the back of my neck, but I gather up the courage to look like a fool. “I think they promised dragons and couldn’t deliver.”

“They what?” Mira squawks.

Xaden tenses, and Dain pivots fully to face me, his eyes impossibly wide, but Narelle’s slow smile tells me I’m either horrifically wrong—or tragically right.

“Present your proof,” she says in a tone that reminds me eerily of Markham. “Convince that one.” She points to Dain.

I tighten my grip on Xaden’s hand, and his thumb strokes over mine. “Public Notice 433.323 acknowledges a failed border breach attempt by Krovlan forces near the outpost of Athebyne on December eleventh, 433 AU, two days before the Midnight Massacre. The only other record of that event exists in the journal of Colonel Hashbeigh, the commander of the outpost, who oversaw the interrogations.” I look over at Dain. “Dad drilled that into me while he was working on the manuscript, and I didn’t understand why then, but obviously I get it now. I think it was the year you were obsessed with the tactics of defeating Emerald Sea piracy or something.”

Dain stiffens. “It was a really big problem in the fifth century.”

I keep from rolling my eyes. “Stay with me here. We were on the couch. Dad was pacing in front of the fire, and you thought it was ludicrous that the soldiers had crossed into Navarre to acquire tailfeathers, remember?”

He winces. “Right. Yes. And your father told me I was a lost cause if I ever wanted to take the entrance exam for the Scribe Quadrant if I couldn’t remember to apply my superior linguistics skills to all areas of analyzing important historical data. Not that I ever wanted to be a scribe, but still. Good times. Thank you for the reminder.”

“Is this going somewhere, or are we just enjoying a moment of nostalgia?” Xaden asks.

“Apply your superior linguistics skills, Dain,” I prompt him. “The interrogation was recorded in the common tongue—”

Dain’s eyes widen. “But the raiders spoke Krovlish, and descriptors follow nouns in Krovlish. They were hunting feathertails. Dragons.”

I nod. “I think Deverelli brokered a deal with Krovla and an unnamed isle that the isle would provide the army and Krovla would provide dragons. When they were unable to do so, the deal fell apart, the Midnight Massacre happened, and Krovla remained a part of Poromiel.”

Dain folds his arms across his chest. “They were dealing in dragons.” He looks over to Narelle. “I believe her. It’s just going to take me a minute to absorb it. One does not just…deal in dragons, let alone take babies to isles that don’t have magic. Not when you risk the wrath of the Empyrean.”

“Oh, wait until you realize that your dad knows my dad’s book has something to do with feathertails, which means Dad knew to stop trusting him at some point,” I add.

Dain’s face swings my way, and his stricken expression makes me wish I could take the words back.

“Third question,” Narelle announces, and it feels particularly cruel, given what she’s just put me through.

“Ask it.” My tone leaves something to be desired.

“What made you leave the prince?” She tilts her head to the side, and her eyes light up like we’ve gathered for tea and gossip.

“I’m sorry?” I lean forward, like it’s at all possible I could have misheard her.

“The prince?” She clasps her hands together. “Your father knew it wouldn’t last, but I’d like to know the final straw.”

“Any chance you want to swoop down and set this shop on fire?” I ask Tairn.

“As the Dark One said, it doesn’t bode well for international relations,” he answers.

“I would,” Andarna offers. “But then you wouldn’t get your books.”

“I…” The weight of every stare in the room flushes my skin so hot, I feel on the edge of burnout without even a hint of magic. “I left him because I found him in a delicate situation with one of his professors.”

Narelle leans forward and lifts her eyebrows. “He was having sex with a professor?”

“Mom!” Leona chides.

“What a fucking asshole,” Dain mutters. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What were you going to do? Punch out the crown prince of Navarre?” I counter.

Dain’s brow furrows.

“Yes,” Xaden answers. “Still might.”

“So you left him in a jealous rage even with the crown of Navarre in your hands?” Narelle prods. “Did he come begging your forgiveness? Did you take him back?”

I can definitely see why she owns a bookstore, and which genre might just be her favorite. “I’ve never sought a crown, and besides, it’s not in Halden’s nature to beg forgiveness of anyone. I closed the door and didn’t bother speaking to him until a few weeks ago. He didn’t love me, not in the way I deserve to be loved, and no amount of power is worth staying with someone who doesn’t love you.”

“You know your value,” Narelle says softly with a nod. “Your father would be proud. Get her the books.”

Leona stands, then leaves us waiting in the seating area while she disappears into the back, and I deflate with relief, sagging against Xaden’s side.

Mira slips her empty pack off her shoulders, then sets it on the unoccupied chair next to Narelle. “I’ll carry them for Violet, unless of course you think my father would have a problem with that. Promise not to read them or anything.” Her biting tone sends a shiver of guilt straight up my spine. Why was Dad so adamant only I collect them?

Narelle simply smiles and crosses her ankles in front of her. “And that right there is why he didn’t leave them for you, dear. We all have a part to play in what’s coming for us; this one is simply hers. While he was busy raising Violet for this particular mission, your mother was raising you. I wonder what legacy you’ve inherited.”

Mira’s eyes narrow.

We leave the bookstore ten minutes later with six tomes written by my father. And every single one of them is passcode-locked.

• • •

Later that afternoon, I lean my head back against the rim of the carved wooden bathtub in the chamber adjacent to the bedroom Xaden and I have been given and listen to birds I can’t identify chirp outside the window above my feet. I’m too short to see the spectacular view of the water, but the sky isn’t bad, either, softening with the colors of an approaching sunset.

What time is it? I wonder if Halden’s back. If he’s managed to secure permission for us to use Deverelli as a home post to visit the other isles or broached the subject of the seventh breed. I reach for the bond to ask Xaden, only to sigh with frustration at the instant reminder that we don’t work that way here.

The breeze picks up the white curtains and billows them toward me as the water chills to a temperature that might make me reach for hot water at Basgiath but is definitely welcome here in Deverelli.

Though my toes are pruning, telling me it’s time to get out.

“Vi?” Xaden knocks on the door.

“You can come in.” A slow smile spreads across my face.

It slips completely when he opens the door and leans in wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his hips. Gods, is he perfectly beautiful. Wet hair. Still a little scruffy. Water droplets clinging to the lines of his muscles. Abs for days and days and days.

“Just letting you know I’m back…” The words die as his gaze catches on my bare shoulders, which is all I’m pretty sure he can see given the height of this tub. Well, my shoulders and my very wet, very unbound hair. “Damn. Just…damn.”

“I said you should have stayed and had a bath in our room. Lots of space in here. You didn’t need to go borrow Ridoc’s.” I tap the copper pipe at the foot of the tub with my toe. “They really do have some pretty fabulous plumbing.”

“Yeah.” His eyes darken and his grip on the door handle whitens. “I figured it was polite to give you time to soak your muscles to help recover after all that riding.”

“Polite? How very kind of you.” I gather all my hair in my hand and pull it over my left shoulder so it’s ready to wring out, then hit the lever with my foot to start draining the tub, trying to focus anywhere but on him and that incredible body he insists on walking around in.

“And do you feel recovered?” His voice lowers.

“A little exposed after being interrogated about my intelligence and my love life, but otherwise fine.” Reaching to the right, I grab the soft white towel I left on the little bench as the water empties with a gurgle, then turn my back to Xaden and stand, quickly wrapping the towel around me.

“You’re fine,” he repeats. “Not dizzy. Not sore. Not tired? Because we just flew all last night.”

“I’m not sure I want to go climb the Gauntlet or anything”—I lean left, wringing my hair out over the tub—“but yes, I’m feeling as good as it gets.” Clean, fed, and ready to curl up with the man I love.

“Good,” he says against my ear, and I gasp with surprise as he grabs hold of my waist and turns me to face him. “Because I’m done being polite.”

His mouth crashes into mine.