Reign of Darkness (The Prince's Assassin #2) - Ariana Nash Page 0,117

where it wants you.”

Amir poured a second glass, spiked it with spice, just like his own, and, approaching Niko, he handed it out. “It’ll make what happens next a lot more enjoyable for you.”

A large part of him wanted to take the glass and throw it in Amir’s face, but Vasili had said not to provoke him. He’d said to take the spice. And Niko knew from experience the vile drug would take the edge off whatever was about to happen. Niko couldn’t fight, and he couldn’t leave. There really was only one way he got through this, and that was to accept it.

He took the glass and tasted the drink. Woody and potent, like some of the harder drinks served in the Stag and Horn. It wasn’t unpleasant. He gulped a few mouthfuls under Amir’s watchful gaze.

“Your colorful friend… What’s his name?” Amir gestured, reaching. “Captain Lajani—”

How did Amir know of Yasir? From Seran, perhaps? The carriage he’d had his beasts chase. He must have seen Yasir then. “Leave him out of this.”

“An interesting threesome. A blacksmith, a silk merchant, and a prince.”

“It’s not… We’re not involved… like that.” Why was he telling him anything? Oh, the spice. He’d have to watch for it loosening his tongue.

“His lover should probably be aware of his infidelity, no?”

Niko gritted his teeth. Amir couldn’t know about Liam. Yasir had kept him a secret from almost everyone. He was fishing, waiting for Niko to bite.

More of the drink went down smoothly, filling that empty spot inside from Vasili’s leaving. “It’s strange how the Caville smarts skipped you, huh? I mean, and what did you get Amir? It certainly wasn’t the personality. The art of looking pretty?”

Amir’s tongue darted across his lower lip.

He wasn’t supposed to provoke him. But that hadn’t been provocation, that was just… a fact. “I’m surprised Talos didn’t drown you at birth instead of your elder sist—”

The backhand landed with a loud thwack and enough force to throw Niko against the bedpost. He dropped the glass, spilling the rest of the drink across the bare floorboards. His face was ablaze, but it had been oh, so worth it.

Amir’s fingers locked around his throat and hauled him upright. “There’s the Yazdan fire.” He grinned. “This really would be very dull if you’d stayed obliging.”

He produced some kind of glass cylinder with a metal spike on the end. Niko shoved at his chest, but Amir drove in, edging his forearm under Niko’s chin.

Spice muddled Niko’s reflexes, making him slow. Amir’s palm slammed over his face, forcing his head back.

A sharp, jabbing sting burned at his neck. He got a knee between them and kicked Amir off, then clutched the strange cylindrical container and pulled its needle from his neck. “What the fuck?!” He threw it back at Amir but missed. It struck the wall and exploded, splashing red up the colorful wallpaper.

Gods, his neck burned. He dabbed at it and found more blood. Did Amir put something inside him?

“Gods, that look on your face… it’s too fuckin’ precious.” He laughed again. “You’re still catching up, aren’t you? Best hurry, you don’t have long.”

Niko shoved off the bedpost and made a lung for Amir, but his legs felt like lead. He stumbled, pitched over, and dropped onto his knees and a hand. His chest burned hotter with every breath, like his heart pushed broken glass through his veins and it had all gathered there. “What—”

“What, what, what,” Amir crooned.

Amir crouched, within reach, but Niko couldn’t organize his thoughts enough to reach for him. “What did you do?”

“What Vasili couldn’t.”

Every vein felt hot and heavy, weighed him down. Not spice. Something else ravaged him.

“Your captain friend, he’s not very good at binding the dark, is he?”

Niko crawled forward, desperate to keep from falling, but the room was spinning, and Amir was there, grinning down at him like he’d won.

“He’s never going to be a sorcerer, for a very simple reason. He’s not a Yazdan. He doesn’t have the key in his blood, like you do.”

“A… key?”

“Three keys. Three bloodlines. The Cavilles, we bear the flame, we’re the lamp from the tales, the one always tossed away after it’s been used. And the Yazdans—the sorcerers—they use the flame, shape it, destroy with it. And the Buclands, now they were supposed to stop it, kill it, snuff it out. There’s not many of them left. None… actually, except whatever dregs are in your blood.”

“Buclands…?” That name seemed relevant if he could just think around the fog