Igniting Darkness (Courting Darkness Duology #2) - Robin LaFevers Page 0,46

see her dodging the soul again. Wondering if she is incompetent or the soul is especially enraged, I let down my own shields and am immediately accosted by a sense of malevolence and a thirst for vengeance so profound it leaves my own throat dry. “We cannot leave this here,” I mutter.

“What?” Genevieve says.

“I said you are to hurry to answer the king’s summons. We can’t risk raising any extra questions tonight. Go back to the palace and continue your evening as if nothing has happened.”

“Of course,” she says, relishing, I think, this chance to be involved even in a small way.

I kneel beside Fremin’s body and take out my knife. “What are you doing?” she asks.

“I can’t leave a soul this angered to flit about, hoping to attach itself to any susceptible passersby. Especially with the queen being with child. It is far too risky.”

“The queen is with child?”

“Yes. One bit of good news.”

“What part of the not having time for stitching and chatting did you not understand?”

I glare at Lazare. “I thought you’d left. Surely you’d best be on your way.”

“Depends on what you’re going to do next.”

What I do next is swipe the edge of my dagger across the pad of my littlest finger. I close my eyes and try to remember exactly how I did it with the murdered sentry back in Rennes, which seems a lifetime ago. Then I reach out and smear the faintest bit of blood across Fremin’s brow. His face is bloody from the fall—cobblestones are not kind to soft human flesh—and one more smear will not draw undue attention. I hate to grant him anything remotely like grace, but it would be worse to leave his soul to turn into a vengeful ghost.

The moment my blood touches his skin, Fremin’s soul comes rushing back to his body, but is caught up, as if in some great, invisible bird’s beak. And then it is gone.

“What was that?” Gen asks.

“I don’t have time to explain,” I tell her, not certain that I can. “Now go. Hurry back to the king. See if you can keep him distracted for the entire evening.”

She shoots me a look filled with disappointment. “No! Not like that.” I wave my hand. “Some other way.”

Mollified, she picks up her skirts, casts one lingering glance at Fremin’s empty body, then hurries toward the stairs. Lazare stares at me with a bemused expression.

“What?”

He shakes his head. “You are just a never-ending source of tricks, aren’t you? You sure it’s Mortain you serve?” And with that, he saunters off to the stables.

No, I want to call after him. I am not sure at all any longer.

 Chapter 22

Genevieve

My heart races in my chest as I calmly stroll back through the halls. My head is full of all I have seen—not only the realities of dealing with a dead body and the wonder of its soul—but the skills Sybella commands. I had never imagined powers that great, and questions crowd my head like a hungry flock of doves.

But I have no time for them now. I have not delayed the king’s summons that long—surely no more than a quarter of an hour—but he will wonder why. Tonight more than ever, all must appear ordinary.

When I reach the king’s rooms, the guard bows, opens the door, and motions me in. I am relieved to find the king staring into the fire and not at the rutting painting his father gave him. That always portends an ill humor.

At my entrance he looks up. “Ah. There you are.” He swirls the wine in his goblet. “I thought I would have to send out a search party.”

“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty.” I sink into an extra-low curtsy. “Something came up on the way here.” I allow some of the breathlessness to escape.

His eyes widen, not in surprise so much as challenge. “I am all aflutter to hear what warranted you ignoring your king.”

I do not rise, but simply lift my head. “I wasn’t ignoring you, sire, but serving you.”

Some of the mocking gleam leaves his eyes. “Now I must know,” he murmurs into his cup before taking a drink. “Rise and tell me, dear Genevieve.”

I stand and hold myself as demurely as possible. “On my way here, I passed by one of the corridors and heard voices. Voices that made no sense to me.”

All the derision is gone from his face now. “Whose voices were they?”

“The regent’s and the Bishop of Albi’s.”

I need say nothing more, his