Glacial rain and sleet poured, flowing between the exposed tips of wings like a gutter, freezing into icicles on the ends. Even Azriel's fleece hooded cloak couldn't protect him from the brutal winds whipping through the alley.
Unseasonable warmth brought rain to the already waterlogged city from quick snowmelt, nearly filling its sewers to the brink. Locks to the river would need to be opened. And soon to prevent flooding of the worst sort. Not that anything could worsen the stench of filth. The tang of sweat and gods knew what else from the slums. The people living on the streets or making a living from them.
Gods, Az hated this place. Everything about it reminded him too much of Illyria. The shitty weather. The ice that infiltrated your bones. The supposed proud people who still perpetuated the archaic caste system. Males of means abusing power to their own end. Making their gold marks on the backs of the lesser. Forcing females to make desperate decisions of working on their backs for a semblance of freedom.
The few working girls at home, whether due to how much money they made or for the fulfillment; the ones of Velaris wanted to do it. No one in Rhysand's city was ever forced—or they would certainly face the wrath of their High Lord.
And every single coin the Velaris girls gained through their effort in the pleasure houses went straight into their pockets. Not to a pimp or some other oppressor. And most of the females Azriel met, some who had attended his needs over the years, were refugees from other regions. They had the stories and scars to prove why they had made the treacherous journey to the mythical City of Starlight.
But, Vallahan? Particularly this town; the southwestern coastal city of Verre? What a fucking waste of space.
Azriel wished he were anywhere but here. But he was the Spymaster for the Night Court. And he had been tasked with a mission; track Beron Vanserra by any means necessary. The High Lord on his trip to the continent should have been the only thing on his mind. After all, he had planned for a month down to minute detail. Scouting locations. Slipping coin to merchants returning from the Autumn territory. And barkeeps who may have listened to the loose lips of drunken soldiers.
Those details were the only reason he was currently tucked in the shadows between two nondescript brick buildings with rodents scurrying around his ankles.
Despite that, he couldn't get his priestess off his mind. No, the priestess. Not his.
Az planned on leaving without saying a word. Make it easier. But, sneaky Gwyn tucked into the shadows behind the door to the training room roof, catching completely him by surprise.
"So you were leaving without saying goodbye," she said behind him as he was about the winnow away. Azriel closed his eyes, shifting to face her.
Her leathered arms were crossed, booted foot tapping, an eyebrow arched. A portrait of obstinance. From the tight braid in her hair, and the beads of sweat on her brow, she must have spent most of her time waiting by training. And his damn shadows didn't tell him she was up on the roof—again.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair, peering up at her from lowered lashes.
"How did you know I was leaving," he asked, taking a step towards her, hands in the pockets of his leathers. She met his sure steps until they were nearly toe to toe.
Gwyn smiled coyly. "I have my sources, Shadowsinger."
The corner of his mouth quirked up. "I'm sure you do, Berdara." He drew his lower lip between his teeth, noting how her eyes caught the motion. "You sure you're not the Spymaster here?" He tilted his chin towards her. "Because I would be all right with retirement."
She snorted. "You don't need me upstaging you. Besides, retirement for you would be what? Sharpening Truth-Teller until it's no more than a toothpick? A near eternity of everlasting brooding?"
A chuckle and smile escaped before he could hide them. But he rarely hid around Gwyn. Neither did his shadows, who were swirling around her, wrapping shoulders in a phantom hug. They did not want to leave her behind. But, like Azriel, they were part of the job. A package deal.
"Azriel…" Her forehead furrowed. "Please be careful," she said, pleading really, eyes glistening. And with those unshed tears glossing over teal, he slammed his mask back into place.
He couldn't get a word to come out. Throat bobbing on a hard swallow, he merely nodded before winnowing away. Taking the image of Gwyn standing on the roof in her training leathers, her tousled auburn braid, with him across the hazy landscape. Be careful; Azriel could offer that much. Thank the gods she asked for something he could promise her. If she'd said safety or remaining uninjured? Well, those aspects were part of the job.
It was a week ago that he'd left Velaris. Left Gwyn on the roof. He missed their now weekly outings. For the last month, he'd escorted her once a week around the city. Sometimes more. Sometimes, whenever Azriel was bored, or when his shadows got entirely too pushy, he'd wander down into the depths of the library. Clotho always nodded and escorted him to the stacks his priestess—the priestess—was working. And Gwyn never treated his visits as interruptions. No, she always had a wide smile, happy for the company. And the taller reach because she had him shelving anything on the top shelf. He was happy to assist. Plus, it allowed him to keep an eye on the place. Let me get a feel for the others. And so far, the only person there giving him any bad vibes was Merrill.
'Someone's coming,' his shadows whispered, pulling him from his thoughts. His shadows did their job, covering him in a shroud of darkness. Making him undetectable to the senses.
The meeting was to take place above a pub in Verre. Not in the capital, not in the elegant home of a High Fae or a diplomat. Add on top of that the place had been warded in the front doors and windows? Suspicious as fuck.
But a single door, the one that was about five paces to his left, was left unwarded. The one to the kitchen. His mouth twisted as a burly male owner opened the door. Right on time. The owner's male companion pushed his partner up against the brick wall. And then sank to his knees. Completely oblivious, Azriel swept into the tavern before the door closed unseen.
The room was in absolute shambles. Confetti streamers strewed over lamps and furniture. Piles and piles of smutty books. A buffet table full of sweets, topped with a decadent chocolate fountain—that the miniature pegasus was currently drinking from. Another gluttonous girl's night in the private library courtesy of the House, Gwyn thought with a smirk as she shooed the pegasus from the treats. Snout covered in chocolate, Peggy clopped away, curling up in the corner.
Gwyn took a seat on the mountain of fluffy pillows in front of the warm hearth. A snore drowned out the roar of the crackling. Emerie was out cold on the gray velour settee. Drunk or passed out from exhaustion was the real question.
"Guess Mor is wearing her out," Nesta joked from Gwyn's left, reclining in her favorite indigo chair, a novel in hand. The impromptu lady's night had been for Nesta's sake. Rhysand called away Cassian to handle an emergency Illyrian issue. And while Nesta was too proud to admit it, having her mate elsewhere caused her anxiety. Gwyn could only imagine.
So they danced. Laughed and giggled. Discussed their favorite filthy book passages, a few so dirty, Gwyn hid her blushing face. And, though one would think Gwyn had learned her lesson from the pastry incident? They'd gorged themselves sick on dessert. Somehow, Gwyn had skirted every casually placed comment on her and Azriel. Which was a good thing; because she didn't understand it either.
Gwyn had no expectations when she'd asked the Shadowsinger to be her chaperone. But—the more time they spent with one another? She looked forward to each little adventure, finding it hard to do her job or think when all she did was daydream. And on those nights, she paced the rooftop like a caged animal waiting for him. The anticipation made her palms sweaty. Made her stomach flutter. Her heart pound. And when Azriel finally walked through those doors ready to whisk her away? He left her breathless.
Every outing into the city ended at their park to stargaze. Where she now listened to Azriel tell her all the Illyrian star legends. And she pretended that her pulse didn't race every time he struggled to hide his smiles. Or the small victory with any deep laugh she coaxed from him. As she broke through his shield, little by little.
Each night she'd ask, "So are you going to tell me about Gerona tonight, Shadowsinger?"
And every night Azriel would give her a shrug and a crooked grin. Silence. Insufferable male. It made Gwyn want to march right down to the library stacks to find any texts on Illyrian legends. The expression on his face when she'd surprise him and tell him what it meant—priceless.
The night Azriel sought to sneak off to gods knows where on the rooftop, Gwyn swore she heard a whisper on the wind; Gerona leads you home. Searching the sky above, she found the constellation over the training pitch right before Az appeared. And when he strode out, her chest tightened and she had the strange urge to run to him.
Gwyn had known Azriel for over a year as her trainer. She'd grown to cherish him as a friend. But, now? Now, there were other...instincts at play. Things she wasn't sure she was capable of handling.
"Care to share your thoughts, Gwyneth," Nesta spoke, flipping the page of the novel in her lap. "You're thinking so loud, you're distracting me."
Gwyn's fingers absently twisted the small charm on her bracelet.
"You're fidgeting and tapping your foot. So…," she slammed the cover of her book.
"No, it's my turn to ride the mini-pegasus," Emerie mumbled in her sleep, rolling over on the settee. Nesta and Gwyn choked down their laughter, shushing each other.
Nesta gave Gwyn a once over and scooted off the chair to sit beside her. She knocked her leg into the redhead. "Come on, priestess, what's troubling you?"
Gods, what was bothering her? Gwyn wasn't sure she could talk about it. But what were her options? Keeping this to herself was only slowly driving her to the brink of insanity. What she needed was perspective.
"When…," Gwyn bit her lip, her stomach twisted up nervous knots. "Do you ever..." Her throat clamped down on the truth trying to escape. She shook her head. "It's nothing, Nesta. Nevermind."
"Gwyneth Berdara, you realize you can tell me anything, right?" Gwyn returned a nod. So Nesta forged on, "What is it?"
Gwyn drew her legs up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, resting her cheek atop her knee. She distracted herself with the roaring fire ahead. The yellow tendrils of flames reminding her of warm summer nights and rich hazel eyes. The chills that raced over her body when his thumb swept over her palm as they'd held hands. His scent reminded her of crisp mountain air and bonfires.
"I've been getting these feelings—and I don't know how to handle them." Truthfully, Gwyn had no clue what to with the overwhelming rush of…desire. The building want. How it frightened her enough to smother that passionate blaze with the scraps of her frayed heart.
"Feelings such as," Nesta pushed her delicately to go on. As a mother bird would to her fledgling in a nest. A firm yet gentle coaxing.
Gwyn twisted the charm on her wrist over and over.
Nesta sat studying, dissecting Gwyn's reaction, clearly coming to her own conclusion. "Ah. Feelings for...anyone in particular?" Gwyn's head shot up, meeting Nesta's clever gaze. The curiosity turning her friend's eyes sharpened steel. "It's fine if you do."
Gwyn's blazed with embarrassment, the flush slowly coasting down her body.
"Just so you know, your face is as red as my mate's siphons," Nesta playfully teased. "And it's adorable."
Gwyn chuckled, unwinding the nerves a tad. "I—I really don't understand what I'm feeling, Nesta. I'm just…" Confounded. Embarrassed. Shocked. Amazed. But those words remained unsaid as the silence stretched between them. And Nesta waited for her to go ahead.
Gwyn sucked in a deep breath, releasing a long, cleansing exhale. Cleared her mind, slowing her racing thoughts from a gallop to a gait. "Sometimes, when I see…" Mother above, was she really going to admit this aloud? No, she couldn't say his name. Ridiculous.
"Are you attracted to him?"
Gwyn stiffened.
Nesta smiled comfortingly. Such a rarity for her harsh, firm features to soften. And yet it somehow made the eldest Archeron even more breathtaking. Nesta reached over, taking Gwyn's hand in her own.
"Gwyn, it's okay if you are."
"Even after…," Gwyn cringed, closing her eyes tight. Nesta's hand squeezed, tethering her in the darkness.
"Yes, even after," Nesta answered, her eyes focusing on the hearth. A quick pop of the embers shuddered through her friend. But unlike the year before, Nesta didn't twist and run. Now she faced the fire, embracing the orange flame as she did her silver.
Yes, if anyone knew trauma about moving on from it, it was her best friend. Gwyn rested her head upon Nesta's shoulder. Who, in turn, leaned her cheek against red hair.
"You have nothing to be ashamed of," Nesta stated. "It's healthy. And it's a natural reaction to someone you like—even Azriel."
"Is it that obvious," Gwyn sighed.
Nesta snorted. "Gwyn, you'd have to be dead to not be attracted to Azriel. Even Emerie and Mor, who prefer females, realize how pretty that male is." A giggle burst out of her. "Hell, even I can see he's attractive."
Her head shot off Nesta's shoulder. "You?!"
Nesta acknowledged, a sly smile spreading across her face. "This one time, Cassian and Azriel were sparring. Before everyone trained, up on the roof. In the Summer. Completely shirtless. Sweat dripping. Muscles flexing. Swords clanging. And, holy gods, I had this fantasy about the two of them. Cassian from behind and Az in—"
Gwyn covered her ears, shaking her head. "Thank you for that visual, but I don't need to hear anymore!"
Nesta clicked her tongue. "Oh, don't act like such a prude, Berdara. Nothing worse than what you've read in Belcorn's Promise. And I know you've read that one, so don't even try to deny it."
Well, shit. Gwyn couldn't refute that. She had read Belcorn's Promise—and, yes, Gwyn found the scene with three faes to be...exciting.
"The point is, it's normal to feel things like that," Nesta reassured, giving Gwyn's hand another encouraging squeeze. "There's nothing wrong with it. And if anybody says anything different, they can go fuck themselves."
Gwyn nibbled on her lower lip. "When I read books, sometimes I get those feelings too."
Nesta nodded. "Normal. Hell, occasionally I'll read those scenes before Cassian comes home just to be ready for him. Illyrians are...well...best to be prepared. Sometimes, that involves a little self-care."
"Self-care," Gwyn tilted her head.
"What do you think Yari was doing in Parmin's Quest? When Erul is away and she's in the tent alone thinking about him?"
Oh.
Nesta glanced at her sidelong. "You've never tried that?"
Gwyn stared in shock and shook her head.
"If you want my advice," Nesta said. "Whenever you're ready. You should," She paused, barking a laugh. "Learning what you prefer is important. Trust me, I've been with plenty of males who had no clue what in the hell they were doing. They needed directions. Knowing what you prefer, what makes you feel good? It's important. It puts you in control of your body. Your pleasure. You are in charge, Gwyn."
In charge. In control of her body. Honestly, the thought of...touching herself there... But, Nesta had a point. It was her body. It belonged to her.
"Thank you," Gwyn said, encircling her friend in a hug. "Thank you for the advice. Truly, I've been driving myself crazy trying to analyze everything."
"I've noticed. You're my very best friend, Gwyn. And my sister." Sister. Gwyn's throat constricted as Nesta continued. "That's what sisters are for. You can talk to me about anything. Always. And you know that I'm only going to give you the truth."
The blunt truth, Gwyn knew that for a fact.
"And as for our resident broody bat," Nesta said, pulling back to look at her friend. "I'll tell you this. I felt like the world was against me until I met you and Emerie. Only Cassian and Azriel had my back. I'm sure Azriel had his opinions, but he kept them to himself. In his aloof way, he was supportive. He helped me train. Helped the priestesses. Hell, before that he helped Feyre learn to fly...even though he had pushed her ass off a cliff to do it."
Gwyn's eyes went wide. Wait, Azriel pushed the High Lady off a cliff?
"My point is, Azriel is a wonderful male, Gwyn. Blessed with an absurd level of patience he had to develop growing up with Cassian and Rhysand. So, even if nothing happens between you two beyond the friendship you have right now, enjoy it. He's a good friend—and I trust him." Nesta pulled Gwyn in for an embrace, kissing her temple. "But…," she whispered against Gwyn's hair. "If he ever does anything to hurt you, you know I'll kill him, right?"
They had to come downstairs sometime soon. His shadows had already returned to him with their report. Beron wasn't meeting with officials. Oh no, it was much worse. The High Lord of Autumn was meeting with fucking mercenaries. Three to be exact. Most of the information had, unfortunately, been relayed by written and coded instructions.
So he patiently waited, tucked into a dark corner table of the tavern, his back well-protected. A view of the entire noisy tavern. Closest to the stairs, pretending to nurse a tincture of ale. The warmth and crackle of the hearth, although unnecessary, was more than welcome to push back the chill every time a patron opened the door.
Tonight would have been his evening escorting Gwyn around town. Maybe he would take her someplace new when he returned home. Soon. He hoped
The most mind-boggling thing? Not that he wanted to spend time with the precocious female. No, it was that he was making time to spend with her. Adjusting his schedule whenever he could, when things weren't urgent, so he wouldn't miss their scheduled evenings together. Or secret extra bouts of training on the roof. Or her lunch shift. And he'd never done that for...well, anyone. Well, except for his brothers and their annual Solstice snowball fight.
'No doubt she misses you too,' his shadows assured as if trying to comfort him.
Boots thumped down the stairs. Az kept his head lowered, his face shielded by the hood of his cloak.
'It's one of them,' his shadows confirmed.
And Azriel's target was sneaking out the backdoor. Perfect.
Keeping a safe distance, Az dropped more coins than needed on the table and weaved through the tables until he reached the kitchen. His shadows concealed him as he caught up to the male, who was several inches taller than himself. Similar build to Cassian. And of course, his mark decided it was the perfect time to take a piss on the alley wall. Too fucking easy.
The mercenary didn't know what hit him as Azriel pushed him facefirst against the hard brick, Truth-Teller pressed to the male's throat. It happened so fast, the male didn't even have time to button his pants. On command, his shadows swarmed, masking both of them from sight and sound.
"What the fuck," the male tried to yell as Az pushed the blade to his throat just enough to draw a slight trickle of blood.
"Shhh…," Az crooned. "Why were you meeting with Beron Van—"
"I wasn't meeting—," his words cut off by the press of the dagger.
"I'm asking the questions," the spymaster hissed. "Now, why were you meeting?"
'There are no papers on him,' his shadows confirmed after shifting around the male. Of course not. He probably memorized the information. The letters burned. That's what he would have done if Az was in Beron's precarious position.
The male fae didn't answer, merely tried to shake loose. Azriel pressed the target's face into the brick enough to leave indentations.
"Well," Azriel started, a wicked twist of a smile on his lips. "Looks like we're going to have to do this the hard way."
He let the darkness close in, covering him like a burial pall, as he winnowed them away, to carve out the answers.