Crowned by Fire (8 page)

She could be tortured. Experimented on. Dissected, or vivisected. Autopsied.

There was also the possibility that she'd fall into the hands of a witch for whom the idea of a powerful army was enough to overcome the taboo. He or she might force her to breed for the rest of her life, which would be cut painfully short by captivity.  

Silence again, only this time her breathing was considerably faster.

Finn stared at her breasts, thinking. Then he said, evenly, “You have ten seconds to take that dagger from my throat and decide whether you want to stay or go. If you want to stay, you'll give me the blade and beg me very, very hard, not to kick you out. On your knees. If you want to go, you may do so freely—but I won't be taking you back.”

She leaned in, lips slightly parted, and he stopped breathing. Something hot and wet hit him in the face. Spit. The bitch had spat in his face. “Fuck you, Your
Highness
.”

She plunged the knife between his legs, pinning him to the bed by the seat of his pants. Then she slid off him and headed for the door that separated their rooms.

It slammed shut behind her.

Fool.

She should have left the moment the witch had made his intentions plain.

Fucking fool.

He wanted to rob her of the wildness that was as much a part of her as her beating heart—and from the sheer callousness of his words, the witch might well decide to divest her of that, too, and simply rip it out, bloodied and still beating. Bastard would probably even convince himself that he was doing her a favor by it.

Because he didn't want a lover. He didn't even want a consort. No, the witch wanted a beautiful, exotic
creature
. Something domestic and tamed. A puppet. A servant. A
slave
.

It shouldn't have come as such a shock. She knew what he was capable of, because he had not attempted to hide his cruelty from her in the past. It shouldn't have hurt as much as it did. So why did she feel so sick in the heart?

Catherine collapsed on her bed. And then she was crying, with her face buried in her arms. Crying because that was such a terrible choice he'd offered, with so little thought. Nobody should have to choose between a cold heart and a dead heart.

What he was offering, a life of servitude, would kill her—slowly, it would kill her.

One way or another, he was going to be her death. He was an arbiter of Council law, and he had said so himself that, if pushed, he would not hesitate to betray her for crimes of the blood committed decades before she had ever been born.

Who was the witch in her family tree? Who signed her death warrant with her birth?

Why
had her mother never warned her—her,
or
Lucas, who seemed to have the same affliction, considering his prophetic dreams. If they both had witch blood, why weren't they told? Was it just assumed that the problem would fade with age?

Catherine wanted to scream with frustration.

She didn't even have the pleasure of hearing the truth from her family. No, she'd had to hear it all from the Crown Prince, the king's own personal fucking bounty hunter.

It was starting to make sense—the high price the Slayers had out on his head, his sense of entitlement, the obsequious respect Others were quick to show him.

How had she not managed to assemble the facts until now? She wanted to kick herself for her stupidity. Because she had heard the stories about the Crown Prince, oh, yes; he wasn't just ruthless. As far as shape-shifters were concerned, he was evil, too. He had murdered hundreds of her kind as if they were livestock in an abattoir.

And she had
kissed
him.

The door creaked open and Catherine tensed, digging her fingers into the sheets hard enough to leave holes, but it was only Cassandra.

“Is everything all right?”

“
Yes,” she snapped, wanting the seer to go away.

“
I thought I heard shouting. I know how nasty Phineas can be. He—”

Catherine hastily swiped away her tears and turned her face away. “It's nothing.” The nightstand was growing blurry again. “Give me five minutes,” she muttered.

Cassandra was at her side in an instant. “What did he do to you?”

“
I said it was
nothing
,” she snarled.

Cassandra stared at her, not frightened, exactly, but wary. It was an odd way to react to an angry shape-shifter, making Catherine wonder fleetingly whether she had ever encountered one before. Then the witch's half-sister was patting her back.

The iron in her spine melted and she want limp, as though against her will. It just felt so good to be touched—firmly, but not so firmly that she couldn't shove the other girl away if she chose. Because that was what it all came down to in the end:
choice
.

Freedom.

Catherine drew in a deep breath, and then paused, confused. The male musk she had detected earlier was coming from Cassandra. She didn't just
smell
male, she
was
male.

Catherine blinked dazedly, thrown. Could Cassandra be biologically male? She didn't look masculine at all, but it explained the scent around the house, and also Cassandra's confusion when Catherine had thoughtlessly asked whether she had a brother.

And then Cassandra took hold of Catherine's hand and she tensed, remembering what had happened earlier. She had seen
death
. “Don't,” she pleaded, but all that happened was a brief, uncomfortable buzz of sensation, like a static shock.

“
I look into your future,” said Cassandra, “and all I can see is pain.”

Catherine closed her eyes.
Great
, she thought.
Real fucking reassuring.

“
Don't let it turn you cruel—or worse, let it turn you numb.” Cassandra pulled away. “Apathy is worse than cruelty. One person may perform an unforgivable act, but the five hundred silent spectators who watch him commit it are no less to blame. It's a poison, and it's seeping into the world, infecting one heart at a time. Don't ever grow immune to another's suffering.”

“
I won't,” said Catherine, not sure if she meant it. Sometimes it was easier not to know, not to ask. But Cassandra's words had had their effect, she was starting to feel calmer—until something hit her in the back. It was her shirt.

“
You left that on my floor,” said the witch—the prince—from his post in the bathroom doorway. He was still shirtless, and his coppery hair was mussed. Catherine's breath hitched. Her fingers dug into her palms, leaving tender crescents.

What is he doing?

He glanced at Cassandra, as if only just realizing she was there. As if he weren't putting on this show for her benefit with the intention to humiliate.

“
I'll be taking dinner in my room tonight,” he said. “Leave the tray outside the door.”

“
What did you do?” Cassandra snapped, looking furious—furious, and a little afraid.

“
Ask her.” He glanced at the two of them a final time, shook his head, and left.

Catherine wrung her shirt in her hands. It was good the witch had said those things; he had saved her from making a terrible mistake.

“Do you want a different room?” Cassandra asked. “We have lots of rooms.”

“
No.” Catherine punched her arms through the plaid shirtsleeves. That would be weak. Letting him win. She would not let him know that he'd gotten to her. She would not let him know just how much he frightened her.

“
Do you want to talk about it?”

“
No.” Catherine closed her eyes. “Thank you.” The effort of being polite rendered her lips stiff and immobile. “Right now, I just need to be alone.”

“
All right. There's about twenty minutes until dinner,” said Cassandra. “I'll come back in nineteen.” She offered a tentative smile before letting the door click shut behind her.

Catherine leaned back against the bed, touching her lower lip with two fingers. She half-expected to see fine crystals of frost melting on her fingertips. Never in her life had she felt so impossibly cold.

 
Cassandra followed through on her promise and came to collect her nineteen minutes later. They walked past the impressive chandelier, down the stairs, through the living room, into an elaborately decorated dining room. The table was set for four, which made Catherine flick an eye towards the main hall. Was the witch joining them after all?

The door on the other side of the room opened, and a man entered the room, pushing in a wheelchair-bound older woman. Catherine let out her breath. So this was the fourth guest. “This is my grandmother,” said Cassandra, as if reading her mind—and given her abilities, that was not an entirely outlandish possibility. “Minerva Tyler.”

Minerva was rail-thin, with skin as withered as a peach-pit. Even her wrinkles had wrinkles. Apricot tufts of hair sprouted on her head, framing gray eyes that sharpened a little when they landed on Catherine.

“
Who is this?” Her entire face strained with the effort of speaking. “Friend of yours?”

The man pushing her—presumably Cassandra's father—gave Catherine a sharp, appraising glance. “I'd be interested in knowing that myself, Cassandra.”

Catherine hesitated, glancing at Cassandra. Mistaking her look for helplessness, the seer said, “Catherine's another victim of Council whim, Dad.”

“
I see.”

He did? That was a clear infraction of the First and the Third rules, then.

When he looked at his daughter, Mr. Tyler's face softened as much as granite could soften. “Call me in advance next time so I can make proper arrangements.”

Cassandra inclined her head. “Yes, Dad.”

He made a vague gesture. “Where is…?”

“
In his room.”

“
Good,” he said flatly.

Minerva kept staring at Catherine. It was disconcerting; Catherine wasn't used to such extended eye-contact, and while she didn't want to look away, the implicit challenge of her gaze was making her extremely uncomfortable.

As Catherine moved to take her place at the table, one claw-like hand gripped her arm.
She's spry for an old lady
, she thought with surprise.

“
I know what you are.”

“
You do?” Impossible. She was from the human side of the family.

“
No good will come of it,” Minerva assured her, chilling the slithery stuff inside Catherine's body. “None.” She glanced around the room. In that prophetic croak, she continued, “You will be ruined, you foolish girl. You can't continue along this path and expect to escape unscathed. You should be more like my—” pause “—granddaughter.”

Catherine glanced at Cassandra. “I should go into palmistry?”

That earned her a hesitant smile from the seer that disappeared quickly with her grandmother's next words. “Try parochial school.”

What the fuck?
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Catherine snapped.

“
You jade.” Minerva delivered this judgment with the wave of a ringed finger. “You harlot. You slut.”

All the anger she had felt towards the witch redirected itself towards this woman. “I really have no idea what you're talking about,” she said. “You had better explain.”

“You heard me,” said the smug old crone. “I saw that man leaving out your balcony window.
My
balcony window. Thought I wouldn't notice, eh? My eyes aren't as bad as everyone thinks they are. I see everything that goes on in this house. Everything.”

“
There was no man on my balcony!”

“
Of course there was,” said Minerva. “He left shortly after the other one did.”

“
Other one?” This was starting to get creepy.

“
The
ginger
,” the woman said, so loudly that Catherine jumped.

The witch had been on her balcony? Doing
what
?

“
He's the spitting image of that woman. She was a lot like you. A coquette. I told my son, 'She's married. Don't you go about getting into that jade's business. She's none of your affair.' But he did. He did and look at him now. A ruined man. God's punished him for his sins. And now Cassandra's paying the price for it. A freak and a queer, prancing around in women's clothes. Well, those visions of his were sent straight from the devil.”

“
Grandma!” Cassandra had gone pale. So it was true then, she was transgender.

Catherine had had quite enough of this bullshit. She could smell the salt of the tears that the other girl was trying not to cry, and that made her even more furious.

“Look, you old bat—” Minerva whooped in outrage “—you have a lot of fucking nerve talking like that about your own granddaughter. And you know absolutely
nothing
about me. Because if you did, if you knew what I am, what I could do to you, you wouldn't talk to me like that.”