“Ha!” Maisie snorted. “You and I both know I’d already be as dead as poor Farhan and his son if that was the case. Your master clearly needs me for something.”
Maya is not my master, Adonis snapped back.
The human only stared at him, as though she had not caught the meaning of his words. It was a moment before Adonis realized the Anaheran woman had not relayed his words. Snarling, he swung on the creature.
Slave, why have you not translated?
The Anahera blinked, shaking her head as though coming out of some trance. “I…I…” she stuttered, seemingly unable to put together the words. Her face had grown paled, and he noticed now that her eyes were red, as though she had not slept in a long while. “I am sorry, Tangata, the human…she mentioned my partner…and my son.”
Her face twitched at the words—then to Adonis’s horror, tears spilt down the woman’s face. Images flickered in his mind, of Farhan’s death by Maya’s hand, crushed by her power. Then the youth in his grief, bowed over the fallen Anahera’s body. The son. Maya had sent him to kill his sister, the young Anahera that had escaped, but he had never returned. Adonis had no doubt that meant the son was as dead as the father. Such was the power of Maya’s Voice, the boy would not have stopped until the sister was slain, or he himself was dead.
“I am sorry,” the Anaheran woman said softly, struggling to straighten, to contain herself. “I…it is just…I do not know what became of Hugo. He so wanted to please his father…”
Your son is dead, Adonis said harshly. False hope would not help the woman now, as he knew was the human way. The woman’s son was dead—no amount of lying would change that truth. Likely his sister killed him. I suppose you can be pleased by that at least: your daughter lives.
The tears had returned to the Anaheran woman’s face, but she froze at his last words. Then she was shaking her head, fists clenched, her whole body trembling. “Cara…was not my daughter,” she mumbled. “She was…the daughter of Farhan’s first partner. She would not have…could not have…no, she was headstrong, but she would not have killed one of us, not Hugo, not her own brother—”
The Anahera broke off as Adonis struck her hard across the face, sending her crashing to the snow. Anger raged within him as he looked down at the creature’s shock. She would be far stronger than him, faster, more powerful, but the steel collar about her throat revealed the truth of her nature. She had bowed with the rest of her kind and now her strength meant nothing. They were his, all their kind. Their lives belonged to the Tangata. How dare she waste his time with her tears.
Yet, as he looked into her eyes and saw the grief there, Adonis felt the harsh words wither within him. Instead, he only shook his head and glanced at the human.
Pick up your burden, slave, he said, adding venom to his words despite his sudden regret. Perhaps hard labour will help you to forget the loss of your foolish child.
The human watched him as the Anaheran woman rose from the snow, her simple tunic now damp from melting ice. She had not heard his words, could not have understood half the conversation, but knowledge still shone from Maisie’s eyes as she watched him. A shiver passed through Adonis at that look, and he couldn’t help but wonder at Maya’s wisdom, keeping one of her kind alive. They were intelligent, scheming creatures. So long as this human lived, she was a danger to them all.
But he could not go against the wishes of his Matriarch. So instead he turned back to the Anaheran woman as she picked up her end of the stretcher. The second Anahera had remained silent throughout the exchange, and he couldn’t help but think he’d picked the wrong translator, being drawn into the creature’s loss. Even so…
You had best get used to the pain, Anahera, he said as she lifted the stretcher. This time his voice lacked anger, and his tone was soft, without antagonism. He spoke only truth. I fear the suffering of your people has only just begun.
2
The Prisoner
Erika’s world was pain. Agony, drilling into her skull, searing her flesh, twisting her very bones. Darkness engulfed her, the pitch-black offering no escape, no fleeting distraction from her suffering. Even when the convulsions began to subside, and her mind began to return, she would hear the footsteps on the stairs, the soft creaking of boards beneath booted feet, the rasping of the queen’s laughter.
And the sound would begin again. That terrible, soul-rending shriek that set her whole being aflame. No matter that Erika pressed her hands to her ears, that she screamed to drown it out—the sound found her anyway. Through cloth and flesh and bone, even in the depths of unconsciousness, it sought her out. There was no escaping the fiery lashes of the queen’s power, no relief. Time fled in that dark place and reality with it, until there was nothing for Erika but the ebb and flow of her pain.
The pain—and the whispers of the queen.
“Give up, Erika, surrender, and be free.”
Lost amidst the agony, Erika began to wonder why she still resisted. The insidious words crept their way into her soul, murmuring their promises of freedom. She wept at the thought of relief, of a world without the shrieking, without the agony.
But something within Erika would not allow it, a tiny fraction of her consciousness, one that remembered the queen’s lies, that recalled the woman’s treachery. And she knew the promises were ash, that the only relief the queen offered was the cold embrace of death.
So instead, all Erika offered her enemy were her screams.
Queen Amina didn’t seem to mind. Between flashes of red and white, in moments of brief clarity, Erika glimpsed the woman’s face, the cruel grin
