Page 12 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

“Humor me. When I am queen, you will still be my advisor. You’re already my second. So advise me, Cyrus. From a tactical standpoint, as our head of security, what would you have me do?”

Huffing my irritation that our own mother couldn’t trust me to do my damn job, I made my way down the stairs, heading for the edge of the wards, even as she groaned her frustration behind me.

“Send shadows across the river,” I said matter-of-factly. Calypso’s rushed steps before grabbing my elbow told me she didn’t approve of that answer—or my walking away—very much.

“Fuck, Cyrus. The last thing we need is Bellaton breathing down our necks again.”

“Hence, shadows.”

“Like the wicked witch doesn’t have an abundance of walkers on her side of the divide.”

“Ours are better.”

“I also don’t think she’s dumb enough to start something right now.”

“I never said she was.”

“So what are you saying?” Calypso snapped, glowering as she sucked down a deep drag, the cherry glowing red.

“That our only lead is a star on the damn floor and the precision of Uptown’s swift dismantling. Reyna might not be preparing to revive the feud, but after the battle out west and the timing of your research, she might be harboring a new recruit or an ally’s assets. That’s what I’m saying.”

She hesitated to respond, taking another pull before holding it for a long beat. Slowly, she released a cloud of smoke, the motion rounding her words as she asked, “Who?”

“Would I send?” I filled in the end of her question, rocking on my heels and rolling the cigarette between my fingers. I took a long breath of fresh air, allowing my head to settle as I thought it over. “Vesper and Portia.”

Vesper was the most skilled at vanishing within our realm between realms, and Portia had held my eyes in that meeting like she was chewing over what I’d said. Their rank would be of concern, but when it came down to who would get the damn job done without raising too much suspicion around their absence, those were my picks.

“What about Nix?”

I shook my head. “Talented? Yes. But his tactics are too volatile. Keep your friends close⁠—”

“And enemies closer,” she finished. I nodded, and she did the same.

“I’ll see what I can do through unofficial channels.”

Without another word, we split ways into mist and shadow.

FOUR

PETULANT, PATRONIZING LITTLE SHIT

FREYA

Five Years Ago…

“Freya, come on!” Shay called over her shoulder, impatience thick in her voice. Her silky blonde hair was swept into a high ponytail, tan legs—two miles long—tucked into black-and-pink Vans. We weren’t besties by any means, but she was the cool girl who tolerated me every summer at camp. “We’re going to be late.”

“Chill, Shay. It’s the last night—what are they going to do? Send us home?”

“I want to see the show.”

Show. Shay had never been to a "show" in her life.

I lived for music—not in the way August did, with his piano, guitar, and whatever other instrument he deigned to pick up—but in the way a designer loves paint chips. I wanted to sample and review, feel the bass in my chest, hear the shift of rubber soles on a sticky floor my parents would say I was too young to be dancing on.

By show, Shay meant the end-of-summer talent show, a long processional of nearly-always-talentless misfits in color-coded camp T-shirts, doing their best to belt out lyrics to trending songs and tap-dance their way across the stage like gangly leprechauns. I rolled my eyes, dropping the charcoal into my tin with a little clink before dusting my hands on my denim shorts.

“Very nice,” Shay scolded, glaring at the black streaks.