Wicked Saints (Something Dark and Holy #1) - Emily A. Duncan Page 0,65

it out like tendrils of black smoke through the air.

“Our plan is as sound as it can be under the circumstances,” he said. “Rawalyki are underhanded affairs. They draw the brightest and best into the heart of the city and after a mess of dramatics and sometimes blood a new consort is chosen. It’s one of the only times the palace is accessible to nobility who are not in the upper reaches of the social spheres.”

He was right, there was nothing further they could do at this point. Malachiasz had drilled her on court niceties until she felt like her brain was melting. Parijahan had taught her all she knew from growing up in a Travasha.

“Nobles are nobles,” she had said, waving a hand. “Regardless of where they come from. The pettiness of court transcends all cultural boundaries.”

Nadya was, for all intents and purposes, ready. She wished she felt it.

“You have to trust me,” Malachiasz said. “Once we get inside, the moment where we can get close enough to strike will present itself. We’ve come this far, getting into Tranavia was half the battle.”

She didn’t want to trust him. Especially not after seeing him for what he was.

“Is … that something you can control?” she asked, knowing he would know what she was talking about. “It’s not sparked by a certain time or incident?”

“I’m not a wolivnak, Nadya.”

Wolf changers whose transformations were sparked by the cycles of the moon. She rolled her eyes. “Our word for those is zhir’oten.”

“Well, I’m not one of those,” he said primly.

“Oddly, I get the distinct impression you’re worse.”

He laughed. “You’re probably right.”

“There’s more to that form than what I saw, isn’t there?” She wasn’t sure how willing he would be to talk about this. His relaxed smiles did not mean he would answer her questions.

He nodded. “Not for every Vulture, but for me, yes.”

“It felt horribly wrong,” she said, feeling a shudder ripple through her.

He shrugged. “It really depends on what you mean by wrong.”

“Monstrous.”

“I am a monster,” he said gently.

Her brow furrowed and she leaned her elbows on the railing, putting her chin in her hands.

Malachiasz angled his head back against the wind. “Tranavians value power and status above everything. It doesn’t matter how that power is reached or what measures are taken to gain it. Monsters are seen as an ideal, because monsters are powerful, more than human.” He held his hand out and his nails lengthened to iron claws. “Your people strive for divinity?”

She nodded, though it was an oversimplification.

“That is not a great deal different. It’s striving for something that would be more than human.”

“But not at the expense of killing people.”

“Kalyazi kill Tranavians every day and do not see it as a problem. Kalyazi were killing Tranavians long before this war began, and it was not an issue then either.”

She whirled on him, anger flashing hot. His people were heretics and murderers and he would not twist her words on her. “It’s not the same as torturing prisoners of war,” she snapped.

He took her chin in his hand, his nails cold and sharp against her skin. He could press a little harder and rip open the flesh of her jaw. Her heart sped up, but she couldn’t tell if it was from fear or something else.

“Perhaps not,” he whispered, leaning down closer. She felt his warm breath feather her face. “Perhaps we should have this conversation again when you have tasted real power.”

His hair brushed against her cheek, his mouth hovering so near to hers that she could feel her lips trembling. Her knees felt weak. His gaze lingered on her lips. The corner of his mouth twitched up and he leaned back.

He nodded over her shoulder, turning her head so she could see the city glittering behind them. “Welcome to Grazyk, Józefina,” he said. “Now the real trial begins.”

* * *

Nadya couldn’t stop her hands from shaking.

Her prayer beads were safely in her pocket, so she clutched at the necklace Kostya had given her. What would Kostya say if he saw her now? Caught up in a plan forged by a group of potentially mad teenagers, a mask on her face made of leather painted white and stamped with impressions of thorns.

He would tease her, scold her, tell her she was getting in over her head. She missed him.

Marzenya had warned her the gods’ presence while in Tranavia would be limited, but Nadya felt their absence like a physical wound in her side. As though the gods were