War Storm (Red Queen) - Victoria Aveyard Page 0,215
an alpine lake. It doesn’t remind me of any city I’ve seen, not in Norta or even the Lakelands. This place is too new, but somehow old at the same time. Grown among the trees and the rocks, a part of this strange land as much as a human-built place. But the city doesn’t matter. I’ll never come back here. Not if I escape, nor if they execute me. There is simply no reality where I return to Montfort.
We’re standing near a runway, cut evenly between two mountains. The smell of jet fuel is sharp on the otherwise fresh air. Several airjets line up on the paved straightaway, ready to take flight. I squint over the heads of the guards around me, glimpsing a white palace in the distance, looking down at the capital. That must be where I was taken before, when I was dragged before that strange council of Reds, Silvers, and newbloods.
The faces hemming me in are unfamiliar, their uniforms equally split between Montfort green and the hellish red of the Scarlet Guard. They keep me locked in place, unable to do much more than stand on my toes for a craning look at the crowd.
For this is certainly a crowd. Dozens of soldiers and their commanders, organized into neat lines, wait patiently for the jets. But far fewer than I expected. Do they really think this is enough to assault Archeon? Even if they have newbloods of strange and terrible abilities, this is foolish. Suicide. How did I lose to such rampant idiots?
Someone chuckles nearby, and I’m seized by the familiar sense that they’re laughing at me. I turn sharply, only to see the premier of Montfort himself staring between the shoulders of my guards.
With a gesture of his hand, the two soldiers move, allowing him to approach. To my surprise, he’s dressed like a soldier, unremarkable in a dark green uniform. No medals or honors on his breast, nothing to mark him as the leader of an entire country. No wonder he and Cal got along so well. They’re both stupid enough to fight on the front lines.
“Something funny?” I sneer, looking up at him.
The premier merely shakes his head. As in the council, the man keeps his face still and almost empty, showing only enough emotion to allow an audience to project their own assumptions.
I would congratulate him on the talent if I felt so inclined.
Like me, Davidson is a skilled actor. But his performance is wasted. I see through him.
“What happens when this is over, and the time comes to divide the spoils?” I smile, the air freezing against my teeth. “Who picks up my brother’s crown, Davidson?”
The man doesn’t flinch, seemingly unaffected. But I catch the minuscule twitch as his eyes narrow. “Look around, Calore. No one wears crowns in my country.”
“So clever,” I muse. “Not all crowns are worn where people can see.”
He smirks, refusing to rise to the bait. Either his temper is extraordinary, or somehow this man is truly without a lust for power. It’s the former, of course. No person on earth can ignore the lure of a throne.
“Uphold your end of the bargain, and it will be quick,” the older man says, backing away. “Board him,” he adds, his voice harder in command.
The guards move as one, well trained, and if I shut my eyes, I could pretend they were Sentinels. My own Silver protectors, oathed to keep me safe, instead of these rats and blood traitors bent on keeping me chained.
At least they don’t bother with manacles. My wrists remain unbound, albeit bare.
No bracelets, no flame.
No sparks that I can make.
Lucky, then, that we’re traveling with a lightning girl.
I manage to catch a glimpse of her as I’m marched forward, over the runway to the airjet idling ahead. She clusters with her friend, the Farley woman who was so easily misled a year ago, as well as her fellow electricon, the white-haired man. Odd hair must be a style in Montfort, because there’s a woman with blue locks and a man with closely cut green hair as well.
Mare smiles at them, a true grin. When she moves, I realize her hair is different too. The gray ends are gone, replaced by a beautiful, familiar purple. I love it.
I feel a tug deep in my chest. She’s on my jet. Probably to keep an eye on me. To let her torturer friend stand over me for the entire flight. That’s fine. I’ll suffer it.