“The three of us the Heir found and remade rose up against our makers,” said the assassin. “But there are others, all over the world. I want you to swear that you will free us all.”
Clytemnestra nodded eagerly, saliva beading at the edges of her lips. “If you help us tear down the Coven, I will help you track down every made-daughter in the world and liberate them.”
“Make an agreement with me, then,” challenged the assassin, staring down the tiny Warlord.
Clytemnestra tore a strip off her pinafore and offered it to the girl. The girl shook her head and stepped back. “I know how this works, witch. None of your tricks. I want a fingernail.”
Clytemnestra picked at her thumbnail and offered the calcium-studded flake to the girl. The assassin placed it in her mouth, chewed once, and swallowed. She gave Clytemnestra one of her nails in exchange and Clytemnestra sucked it up noisily.
“It is done,” said the assassin.
The tension in the room cracked like a crème brûlée, leaving only sugary sweetness and hunger in its place. Clytemnestra floated over to the assassin and started scratching behind her coyote ears.
“What should we call you?” asked Kite.
“We are the unnamed,” she said. She seemed to like the scratching. “We were not born, we will not die, and we will not answer to any name.”
Kite nodded. “Your maker is dead,” she said. “But the others still have mothers. Their witches will come for them.”
“Let them come,” she said. “Lead them here, and let your little witches eat them.”
“I like the way she thinks,” said Clytemnestra. “This will be so much fun!” She raised her arms to the sky and lightning flashed like a jagged scar.
“And they will fight for us?” Kite let her eyes linger on the sinew and tendons on the body of a girl made to kill.
She turned to face Kite. “We will fight to destroy the Coven. After that, we don’t promise our allegiance to you, Heir.”
The Beast nuzzled against Kite’s skirts, and she reached out to scratch his chin. It was hard sometimes for her to feel the intensity that these human and part-human creatures felt, the drive for freedom, for revenge, for love, as if these things were not always shifting and changing and breaking and rebuilding. Maybe it was their short lifespans.
A touch from the Beast always reminded her to live now, and not in a thousand years. It was so easy to lose track of time when you might live forever.
“That’s all right,” she said gently. “I don’t need your allegiance.”
The assassin nodded.
“She’ll stay here, with you.” Kite turned to the Warlord.
Clytemnestra clapped her hands together. “I can’t wait for the children to meet her! They will love to play with you!” She twisted her mouth into an approximation of a canine snarl and growled. Then she knocked politely on the closest wall, and it melted away. “Go get your friends and meet me for tea,” she told the unnamed girl with coyote ears and a thief ’s eye. “We will welcome you with a true party.”
The girl growled her assent and left.
Clytemnestra turned to Kite. “So, you found a way to put them back together. You are a naughty Heir! Mommy won’t like that.”
“I did as you asked,” said Kite. “Have you heard from Eli?”
Clytemnestra ignored her. She tapped her cheek thoughtfully. “If I’m too rough with my new playthings, you can just fix them again, won’t you?”
“The Coven was feeding on their lifeforce. If you break one, she’s broken.”
“It’s just a thing.” Her eyes glittered maliciously.
“Go meet your new allies.” The tips of Kite’s hair twisted. “I have reading to catch up on.”
“You always do that.” Clytemnestra pouted. “One day you’re going to miss something exciting. Or someone.”
Kite parted the hair falling over her eyes and let the strands float to either side of her body. “Remember, little one — you don’t touch her.”
“I remember our bargain. But what if she comes to me? She’s very special.” Awe and greed fought for mastery in her voice.
“She’s always been special.”
“And you were always sentimental.” Clytemnestra spun a pirouette.
“You’ve never been punished before for being naughty, have you?” Kite’s melodic voice drifted through the space like warm rain. She leaned forward and caught Clytemnestra by the hem of her pinafore, her sharp fingernails puncturing the fabric. Clytemnestra struggled like an insect caught in a web, but Kite held fast. “I don’t think you’d like it very much.”
She released the dress, the fabric crusted with salt. Clytemnestra floated up, like a balloon released by a child at a birthday party.
A single pink drop fell to the stone. Salt could burn through flesh.
Then Kite smiled brightly, inclined her head, and slipped out of the room and toward her own chamber, leaving the Warlord to greet the other made-daughters. With any luck, the tomes she had managed to smuggle out of the library would be in a generous mood.
As she walked under stone archways and climbed up marble steps, she thought about the gleam in Clytemnestra’s eyes and sighed. Kite hadn’t given up her birthright, denounced her kin, and fled her home just to lose her love to a spoiled witch babe.
She was sorry she had to hurt the little witch, but sometimes soldiers needed to be reminded that readers were dangerous.
Twenty-Five
THE HEALER
Tav was born angry. They had been born on stolen land in a nation that grew strong on blood and sap, devouring the bones of its elders. Their ancestors had been slaves. Anger and hurt were in their DNA.
Fury burned bright inside them, lit up their eyes like gold lanterns; it had made them bold, and sometimes reckless; it had made them an apprentice to a witch runaway and carried them across worlds.
Tav’s magic couldn’t be separated from their anger. Maybe they were one and the same. Maybe they could use it to save their planet. Eli believed they could. So did Cam, and Clytemnestra, and all those little witches. Tav was the Healer
