War Storm (Red Queen) - Victoria Aveyard Page 0,170

his shoulder, grinning proudly, one hand raised in triumph. She seizes him by the scruff of his collar.

“Rise, red as the dawn!” she shouts. With one foot, she kicks the back of Maven’s leg as Iris did. He falls to his knees, a king brought low. “Victory!”

The stunned quiet of the square quickly dissipates as the crowd realizes what this means. And the jeers rise, howling in a storm, until shrieks of joy and venom echo so loudly I think the entire city must know.

Cal’s warmth radiates at my side as he watches the display, his face empty of expression. He doesn’t enjoy this.

“Get him to the palace,” he murmurs to Anabel when she approaches. “As quickly as we can.”

She eyes him with an annoyed sigh. “The people must see, Cal. Let them enjoy your victory. Let them love you for it.”

He flinches. “This isn’t love,” he replies, gesturing at the crowd with his chin. Reds and newbloods greatly outnumber his own Silvers, but all look on Maven with snarls and raised fists. Fury rules the square. “This is hatred. Get him to the palace, and out of the crowd.”

It’s the right choice. And the easy one. I nod at him, touching his arm with a gentle squeeze. Offering whatever comfort I can, while I still can. Like the alliance, we are on borrowed time.

Anabel sharpens. “We could march him—”

“No,” Cal snaps, voice low and snarling. He glances between his grandmother and me. I tighten under his gaze. “I’m not making his mistakes.”

“Fine,” she spits through gritted teeth. At the edge of the square, transports roll into position, waiting to take us back up to the palace. Cal beelines for the closest one, and I follow, careful to keep a respectful distance.

“We still have to send out reports and broadcasts,” Anabel continues as we walk. “Let the people of Norta know their true king has returned. Assemble the High Houses, collect oaths of allegiance. Punish those who won’t swear to your crown—”

“I know,” he bites out.

Behind us, I hear scuffling and stumbling. Farley pushes Maven along, with Julian flanking them. A few soldiers throw red scarves at her feet, celebrating our triumph. They cheer and shriek in equal measure.

The sound is horrible, even from my own people. It brings me back to Archeon, when I was forced to walk the city in chains. A prisoner, a trophy. Maven made me kneel in front of the world. I wanted to vomit then and I want to vomit now. Shouldn’t we be better than they were?

Even so, I feel the same ugly hunger in me. The desire for revenge and justice. It begs to be fed. I push it away, trying to ignore the monster I carry with me, born of all my wrongs and all the wrongs done to me.

Anabel jabbers until we reach the transports, and Cal dismisses her with a glare. I don’t bother to look back before climbing into our own vehicle, unable to watch another person face one fraction of what I suffered in Archeon. Even Maven.

Cal closes the door behind him, slumping into the semidarkness. The divider is raised, separating us from our driver. Leaving us alone together, with no need to perform. It’s almost silent, the sound of jeering muffled to a low drone.

Cal bends forward, elbows braced on his knees, and buries his face in his hands. The emotions of this moment are simply too much to bear. Fear, regret, shame, and so much relief. All undercut by the churning sense of dread, knowing what is to come. I press back against the seat, putting my palms to my eyes.

“It’s over,” I hear myself say, tasting the lie. He breathes hard against his hands, as if he’s just returned from a Training session.

“It isn’t over,” he says. “Not by a long shot.”

My rooms in Ocean Hill are on the other side of the residence floors from Cal’s rooms, separate from his at my own request. They’re finely appointed, bright and airy, but the bathroom is far too small, and currently much too crowded. I shudder against the warm water, letting the soapy bubbles drift around my body. The temperature is soothing, working out the aches and tension in my muscles. Farley leans up against the tub, her back to me, while Davidson does the same at the door, looking shockingly informal for a national leader. His fine suit from the meeting is unbuttoned, open to show a white undershirt and a bobbing throat. He