“And probably ready to sacrifice all of us to appease her angry, war-loving gods.”

“I don’t want to hear it, Quinn. She’s as welcome as the dogs.”

“Wolves,” Caid corrected again.

Quinn, so big in his centaur form, leaned down and whispered to Gemma, “I haven’t seen War Monks in an age. Not since I killed three of them when they tried to burn a healer woman as a demon witch.”

“That is an unfortunate tale,” Gemma replied before rubbing her nose. Once. Twice. Then she sneezed, her head going forward hard so that her forehead collided with Quinn’s smug face.

Gemma heard his nose crack, but she didn’t think she’d broken it. And he didn’t cry out. He simply held his nose as he moved past her, ignoring the blood that poured from it . . . Okay, maybe she had broken it.

“Oh,” she said, “sorry about that. Maybe I’m allergic to horse hair.”

Caid snorted, quickly turned his head, but Laila laughed out loud, punching Quinn’s shoulder when he reached her.

“War Monk she may be,” Laila told her brother, “but she’s funny.”

He motioned toward the camp. “Take your queen to the healer. Tell the guards you have my permission.”

“Thank you, Brother.” She put her hand on his shoulder to lower him a bit and kiss his cheek.

As their little group moved on, Gemma glanced back at the massive and clearly insane Quinn. He was putting his own nose back into place, his light gold eyes watering as he did so. But his gaze was locked on her and did not waver.

“Your brother watches me,” Gemma said to Laila. “Is he a vengeful sort?”

“Very!” she tossed back with a smile. “But don’t worry. You’re with me.”

“What does that mean, exactly?”

“That he’ll give you ample warning before he has you killed.”

“Oh . . . that’s . . . lovely.”

* * *

Beatrix moved through the remnants of the witches’ fortress, annoyed but silent.

How did they manage it? All the books were gone. All of them. Not burned by the prince’s ridiculous use of fireballs flung at the mountain walls—she had recommended a raid instead, but Marius had refused to risk his substantial troops—they were simply gone.

That frustrated her. She wanted those books. Wanted to absorb their knowledge. But if that wasn’t possible, she definitely didn’t want the bloody witches to have them. Who knew what they could do with all that information at the ready?

Now she’d have to make a contingency plan.

“There are none here, my lord,” one of the officers told Marius.

“They’re all gone? There are no bodies at all?”

“We’ve only found a few.”

He shook his head. “How is that possible?”

Beatrix wondered the same thing. Those witches with their “math, science, and logic” horseshit. They must have some magick skills if they could move so many books and women away from the site of the onslaught so quickly.

Marius glared down at her. “This was a waste of my precious resources. Now we don’t even know where the bitches are!”

He stormed off as he liked to do. Like a petulant child. Already she bored of the petty tyrant.

“They’ll make themselves known in due course,” she said to Maila, who stood nearby. “No need to worry.”

Maila motioned to the soldiers lurking close, sending them after Marius.

When they were alone, the Dowager Queen grabbed her arm. Her nails bit through Beatrix’s dress and into her flesh. It took all of Beatrix’s will not to slash the old bitch’s throat.

“Yes, mistress?”

“We had an agreement,” she whispered.

“We still do, my lady.” Beatrix did not bother lowering her voice.

“What you did to the generals . . . that was not planned. And the situation could have easily turned very badly, very quickly. For both of us.”

It was the first time they’d been alone to have this conversation. Beatrix had known it was coming but she wasn’t too concerned.

“Not planned but necessary. They were a threat to you.” She pulled a folded parchment from a pocket in her dress and handed it to her.

“What is this?”

“Their plans for your death. For some reason, my lady, they felt you were a threat.” Beatrix forced a smile. She knew this one to be “sincere.”

“It was always about protecting you, Dowager Queen,” she lied. “Always about protecting you.”

She flashed a “friendly” smile and saw Maila’s entire body relax.

“So,” Maila said, “what is our next move?”

“To get me married to your son . . . and then to secure the lands around the Old King’s castle. That will be what Marius’s half brothers will attempt to capture once again and we’ll have to stop them.”

Maila linked her arm with Beatrix’s. “And how do you suggest we do that?”

“Don’t worry. We won’t let those pretenders to the throne even get near your son. He will be the next Old King.”

They started back toward the soldiers outside, walking over the smoldering rubble.

“And us?” Maila asked.

“Together we will rule beside him,” Beatrix lied.

CHAPTER 16

Gemma waited outside the healer’s tent, pacing back and forth for what felt like hours.

As she paced, she knew she was being watched by the centaurs of various clans walking past her, their gazes locked on the blood-red rune on her hauberk. She knew what they feared and she couldn’t say that she blamed them. War Monks had a fearsome reputation—and with good reason. But Gemma refused to look down in shame. Refused to pretend she was anything other than what she was. Not when all she really cared about was her sister.

She had attempted to stay in the tent with Keeley but the healer wouldn’t allow it. She’d pushed Gemma out with Caid and Laila, Samuel, Keran, and the gray mare. The demon wolves, though, would not be pushed anywhere and they stayed, moving into a silent pile in the corner of the tent, their burning eyes locked on everything the healer did.

Gemma stopped worrying about her sister’s safety after that. No one was getting near Keeley while those wolves were near.

Eventually, the healer leaned out of the tent flap and waved at them.

Gemma rushed in but when she stopped, she had a small battle unit of beings crashing into her back, including the gods-damn horse!

The healer turned around and blinked wide when she saw the small crowd.

“I see. She has many friends.” The healer’s accent was thick, Gemma realized, because she was not originally from the Amichai Mountains. Seeing the white blond hair that she wore in a long braid down her back and hearing that accent, Gemma would guess she was from the Steppes of the Outerplains. How the centaur had made it this far . . . Gemma had no idea.

“Well?” Gemma pushed. “How is she?”

The healer shrugged. “Could be much worse.”

“What does that mean?” Caid asked.

“Amhuinn Witches did good job. She should be wake. She should be up, moving.”

“But she’s not,” Laila noted. “Why?”

There went that shrug again. “If I guessed . . .”

“Don’t guess, Petra. We don’t want guesses.”

She took a breath. “She is not in there.”

Gemma glanced at Laila, and together they asked, “What the fuck does that mean?”

* * *

Caid had no idea what Petra Azhischenkov of the True Horse Blood of the Black Sea of Pain and Longing in the Far Reaches of the Steppes of the Outerplains—and yes, dear gods, that was her entire fucking name—was talking about. And not because of her annoying Outerplains accent either. For once, she was making no sense.

“I mean what I say,” Petra insisted. “She is not in there. Her body heals, but her soul”—she flittered her fingers into the air—“it is somewhere else.”

“Did someone do that to her?” Caid asked.

“No. She did to self.”

“So she’s in so much pain,” Laila reasoned, “that she’s taken herself out of her body?”

“No. Amhuinns had many herbs inside her to make pain go ’way. Her problem, less physical, more . . .” She tapped her forefinger against her temple. “My guess, something truly bothers her. But she cannot face it.”

Caid could guess what was bothering Keeley, what she couldn’t face. Her family meant everything to her.

Gemma walked over to her sister’s side, ignoring the warning growls of the wolves, and picked up her sister’s hand, held it between both of hers. She leaned down, gazing thoughtfully at Keeley before she screamed, “Wake up, you ridiculous cow, and face this shit!”

Keran, scratching her forehead and grimacing, said, “Uhhh . . . Gemma?”

* * *

Keeley waved away the loud gnat flying around her and went back to petting her friend.

She loved it here. All green and lush with a lovely stream and big boulders for her to sit on. Why would she ever leave?

“Oy! You! Woman!”

Keeley continued to pet her friend and ignored the male voice barking at her. He’d been barking at her for a while and she kept trying to ignore him, but he was starting to get on her nerves.

A big hand waved in front of her face. Long fingers snapped a few times.

“I know you can hear me!”

Her friend growled and the male voice said, “That’s not even supposed to be here.”

Finally, grudgingly, Keeley looked up—and up—at the being in front of her.

“What do you want?” she asked, not even attempting to be polite. She was in no mood to be polite.

“Why are you still here?” he asked.

“Why do you have eight legs?”

“What?” He looked down at himself. The horse part. “What are you babbling about?”