Page 399 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

“Promise me something, Blythe.”

“What?” It was a breath, a prayer, a wisp of hope layered in confusion.

“When the time comes—when August comes for what’s his—you run.”

EIGHTY

DRINK TO THAT

AUGUST

Five months, three weeks, one day, twenty minutes since they took my wife…

“How many fucking times do we have to stab this bitch before she dies?” I all but snarled, massaging my temples as Freya and Cyrus magicked bowls of breakfast around the table. Gloppy, flavorless slop—some kind of pureed wheat dish Cyrus seemed inexplicably keen on, but Freya and I had a habit of locking eyes as we forced it down our throats. Jo and Montague arriving with fresh butter was my saving grace. Maybe I could get this shit down a bit faster and move on to more pressing matters.

“Not that anyone wants to die, but she does seem rather averse to it,” Alec decided with a deep sigh as the wheat glop fell off his spoon with a sad little splash.

“She’s mine now,” Carr said over a shockingly enthusiastic mouthful.

Freya snorted, then she and Lana both bit out, “Get in line.” Right when she went to plop in her chair, shadows wrapped around her, her eyes widening as they snapped to Cyrus where he tugged her into his lap.

Well. There was that, at least. I smirked down at my bowl before remembering I had to eat its contents.

“The bitch dies,” Ciaran announced as he stepped into Paladin’s war room. He clasped Cyrus’ shoulder as he passed by, taking a seat to his right as Orion did the same to his left. Apparently, Freya would be spending the meeting very comfortably on her mate’s lap. “Or at least she does in the threads I’m trying to pull.”

“They all die,” I declared, shoving the bowl away from me and leaning back in my chair. “Every single one of them. We do this, we do this by their playbook.”

“Minus the slaves and torture,” Fae chirped where she rocked and swayed, soothing a half-asleep Winnie.

“No promises,” Lana muttered, stirring a heaping serving of sugar into her glop where she leaned against the wall. Cyrus bowed his head onto Freya’s shoulder, but his eyes dragged up to me, something unspoken within them—he had my back, and, like Lana, didn’t care what that entailed. My sister’s mate was a spooky motherfucker, and I was thankful as hell for it.

Nodding, I decided, “Okay, we have our numbers. Where the fuck is Vesper?”

“Checked in down the line at zero-seven thirty,” Cyrus said over a hearty mouthful. “She thinks she’s close—spotted Bellpost tattoos in an occupied city square, and is working on unraveling a massive glamour over a basalt cliffside, and reporting high activity levels in the shadows, challenging even her mastery to go unseen.”

“What’s her twenty?”

“Norway.”

“Tracks. We pull the trigger as soon as she confirms. Have the Wings ready.”

“Way ahead of you.”

I dipped my chin, turning toward Atreus, where he sat between Carrson and Viktor. “What’s the status of our alliance?”

“Leave my father to me.”

“I’d rather not. Can he be trusted for this? I don’t have room for mixed loyalties.”

“Speaking of…” Freya hedged, shifting in Cyrus’ lap, and wrinkling her nose when she couldn’t comfortably lean forward. “Where the fuck is Kade?”

“Present.” We all turned to see him striding down the hallway beside a Paladin escort, looking none too pleased.

“And late,” I pointed out, holding those aquas as one side of his mouth quirked. His eyes didn’t shift, and I straightened my spine.

“Fashionably so, Commander.”

“Where’ve you been, Beetlejuice?” Freya pressed, aiming for joviality but landing closer to my only slightly suppressed irritation.