War Storm (Red Queen) - Victoria Aveyard Page 0,156

only scoffs. “Of course, nothing in this life is that easy. But a woman can dream, can’t she?”

I glance over her shoulder, at her various officers hanging back. None of their faces are familiar. “How’s Kilorn?” I ask, frowning as shame claws up my spine. I wring my hands together, trying to hide their twitching. At my side, Cal flinches, one hand hanging free. I wish I could take it, but we both refrain from such a naked display of affection.

She looks on me with pity. “Fully healed yesterday, but he’s taking some time,” she says. I try to picture him whole and healthy, not dancing at the brink of death as he was before I left. It doesn’t work. “We’ve commandeered the barracks at the Security Center, and he’s there with the rest of the wounded.”

“Good,” I push out, unable to say anything more. Farley doesn’t prod. Still, I feel the embarrassment of my choices as sharply as a knife wound. Kilorn almost died. Cal almost died. And you ran to Cal.

Next to me, the true king looks away, his own face flushed with implication. Even though we both decided not to make choices, we know that choices were made all the same.

“And Cameron?” I add, if only to stem the bleeding of such thoughts.

Farley scratches her chin. “Organizing in New Town. She’s a valuable asset there, as is her father. The tech towns have their own underground networks, and word is going out to the rest. Maven’s Silvers might be preparing for more attacks, but so are they.”

That swells me with pride, as well as trepidation. Certainly Maven will retaliate for what we did in New Town and try to prevent the same from happening again. But if the Red slums rise up, if the tech towns go dark, his war effort will all but grind to a halt. No more resources. No more fuel. We can effectively starve him into surrender.

“I notice we’re waiting for Princess Evangeline again,” Davidson says as he joins us. His own contingent of advisers hangs back, giving us space.

I tip my head back and sigh. “The only constant in this world.”

The premier crosses his arms. If he’s nervous, he certainly doesn’t show it. “A peacock needs time to groom its feathers, even steel ones.”

“We lost a lot of magnetrons yesterday,” Cal says, his voice low and stern. Almost reprimanding. “House Samos paid a high price for Harbor Bay.”

Farley stiffens, setting her jaw. “I doubt they’ll let us forget it. Or fail to make us repay their sacrifice.”

“That’s a bridge to be crossed,” Cal replies.

Despite our history, I feel the strange need to . . . defend Evangeline. “If it has to be crossed,” I say. “But we can discuss that later,” I add, nodding to the far archway, where Evangeline has just appeared with Ptolemus at her side.

The pair of them wear matching clothes of pearly white and bright silver. He has a jacket, tightly fitted and buttoned up to his throat, pants, and black boots similar to Cal’s, and a gray sash fastened across his chest from shoulder to hip. The pattern on it is strange, but as he approaches, I realize that the black diamond shapes dotting the sash aren’t a pattern at all, but knives fixed directly into the fabric. Weapons, should he need them.

His sister is equally outfitted, the folds of her long gown slashed to show fine white leather leggings beneath. Should this meeting end in blood, she won’t find herself restricted by a skirt. I wish I’d thought of that. Her hair is tightly braided back, the silver strands studded with starry glints of pearl metal. Razor-edged. Good for cutting flesh. Her arms are bare, no sleeves to impede her movement or catch on the jewelry on her hands. A ring winks on every finger, white stones and black, and fine strands of chain wrap around each wrist. Garrotes for strangling or slicing. Even her earrings look deadly, long and tapering to a wicked point.

I find myself glad Evangeline took so much time. She’s wearing an arsenal.

“Shall I have the clocks adjusted in your rooms, Your Highnesses?” Anabel crows from where she stands next to Julian.

Evangeline answers with a smile as sharp as her knives. “Our clocks are exactly on time, Your Majesty.” Her skirt billows around her legs as she passes the old queen, making for us. I shudder as she turns that smile on me. “Good morning, Mare. You seem well rested,” she says.