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Guillaume squared off with Vivian after selecting two short blades similar to hers off the wall. I didn’t know anything about swordsmanship, though it was impossible to not recognize greatness in every move my knight made. Even standing still, his body loose and relaxed, the swords lowered at his sides, he radiated the extreme confidence of someone who knew he’d win any battle.
At first, he allowed Vivian to attack and strike as long and hard as she wanted. Then he began to test her. Pushing her to respond. Testing her reflexes and speed. Driving her backward with seemingly careless flicks of his wrist. He didn’t even need both swords to keep her from getting a single touch on him.
Breathing hard, she dropped to the floor and jabbed up at his groin with the pommel. Leaping backward as gracefully as a dancer, G avoided the blow meant to double him over in pain and left a bleeding cut on her shoulder.
“That’s a good move,” he said in the same easy, casual voice. “Though you lost time and momentum by rotating your wrist, while also telegraphing your intent well ahead of the strike.”
“I thought,” she panted, bent over. “Our queen might object. If I gelded. You.”
Lowering his blades, he laughed as if she’d told him the joke of the century. “You’re wicked fast and the blades suit you. Though you should focus more on street fighting rather than trying for anything more formal. Be brutal and unexpected. Fight dirty. Make every blow count.”
Straightening, she nodded. “That’s what the Impaler recommended too. That move is one he taught me, and he promised to show me more. But when I had the opportunity to leave Heliopolis, I got the fuck out and didn’t look back.”
“As well you should. Take a breather. Who’s next?”
The door opened, pulling my attention away from Itztli as he stepped out to meet my knight. Lew walked in with a Blood beside him.
Thierry. Though I wouldn’t have recognized him if I hadn’t known it had to be him. Lew had worked a miracle in cleaning him up, even trimming his shaggy hair and shaving off the raggedy beard. Thierry’s natural hair color was sandy blond, set off by his startling blue eyes. Dressed in a long-sleeved shirt and jeans with a clean shave, he looked almost normal.
As long as I didn’t linger on the darker patches on his throat. The purplish splotches on the backs of his hands. Or breathe too deeply and notice the ever-present reek of decay.
How long did he have before his insides started to rot again? Would he still turn into liquid mush if I’d gotten rid of all the leeches? If it took my wolf another few days to find the Dauphine, would I have to drain him again and bring him back with my blood? I’d do it. Though that was a fucking lot of blood.
:He has right now,: Lew whispered gently in our bond. :Which is all any of us has anyway.:
Thierry jerked to a halt and bent low, his voice still raspy like crumpling paper. “Your Majesty.”
Lew patted him on the back. “I know.”
I wasn’t sure what was going on just from their words. Muscles flexed across Lew’s jaws, his lips a grim slash.
“Hair.” Thierry straightened and smiled, though black fluid leaked from his eyes. “Beautiful.”
Oh. Of course. Lew had shown us the memory of all of them stroking and brushing Esetta’s hair. Gathered around her. One last time.
Sitting here supported completely by Rik, my head against his chest, I’d forgotten the immense weight of all my mother’s hair. The way it dragged and caught on everything, tangling beneath me and the Blood anytime they were close. It’d taken Nevarre, Vivian, and Daire to wrestle all this hair into submission enough for me get up and walk. Even though all I’d done was come upstairs to watch their practice, my neck still ached with strain. I’d only pulled a robe on for clothes, so I didn’t have to drag something over it. “I have no idea how she carried all of this hair without needing a neck splint.”
Both of my mother’s Blood smiled.
“She didn’t,” Lew admitted. “Not all the time, at least. In formal processions, of course. But when it was just us, she allowed us to take turns gathering up her hair and helping her carry the load. It was always an honor.” His face locked down even more, but he didn’t say anything else.
He didn’t have to. In his bond, I saw Esetta wrapping some of her shorn hair around his throat. Her final gift to him before she sent him to House Skye. One last piece of her.
If Thierry couldn’t touch me, the least I could do was give him something to carry—both from me and from her.
“G,” I called. “I need a knife.”
Immediately, the clashing sounds ended, and my knight jogged to my side. Sweat glistened on his arms, his shirt damp, clinging to his chest. His eyes bright, his smile eager. Smelling of his hell horse, warfare, and a good sweat that I’d love to make him earn in my bed.
My knight was in his perfect element, training and sparring with other warriors. I hadn’t realized how much he’d missed being a soldier. Which made me remember our first night together. How he’d laughed at Rik and Daire bickering over who’d have to pay for the pizza.
It’s good to be Blood again.
How much more had Thierry missed being a part of Esetta’s Blood? Especially knowing his fate?
As if sensing my intent, some of my hair had worked its way out of the thick, heavy mass my Blood had attempted to tame with smaller braids to bind it together. I lifted the tendrils up away from me and Guillaume solemnly sliced it free. The shorter pieces fell back against the rest, already blending in. For all I knew, they were already regenerating. I wasn’t sure what magic Esetta had worked into her hair like spelling the Blood. Hopefully it wouldn’t spell Thierry too just from touching it. Though maybe drifting forgotten in a dream would be a blessing.
Lew took the long hank and reverently lifted his hands to his face. Breathing deeply, eyes closed, his face relaxing as peace rolled down over his expression. “It still smells like her but better.”
