Treacherous Witch

—Avon, lying in the leaf litter, surrounded by bodies. His eyes are closed. And he's covered in blood.

*

Maska's sword shone a brilliant white. Blinded, Valerie flung her arm up to cover her eyes. She heard a snort of annoyance from the Admiral.

"That blasted blade. Every time."

Valerie opened her eyes. Avon stood unhurt beside her, feet set apart in a battle-ready stance, sword raised.

"You'll get the Kestrel's Eye tomorrow," he repeated. "Get out now, Uncle, before I take that head off your shoulders."

The Admiral was smiling, almost a sheepish sort of look, as if he had been caught out. Then he licked his lips, gaze flicking to Valerie. His fingers tapped the Golden Sceptre. Calculating.

Valerie held her breath.

"Tomorrow, then. Ah, but won't you give your uncle a goodnight kiss?"

Despite the endearment, he was looking at her. Bile rose in her throat. "You're not my uncle."

"Aren't I? Silly me. I thought we were celebrating dear Ophelia's wedding. You had better look the part."

Was that a threat? It sounded like one. She didn't look the part right now, of course, having dropped the disguise when she'd entered Avon's quarters. Maybe that was the threat. Mithras could expose her, make the entire palace her enemy.

Avon stepped forward, bristling with barely suppressed rage, but Valerie laid a hand on his arm and he stilled. She approached the Admiral, taking off the Masked Crown as she did so, holding it tight behind her back. Mithras watched her through the Admiral's eyes, and she could find only one word to describe his gaze.

Hungry.

She closed the distance between them. Leaned up and planted a soft kiss on his cheek. His skin felt cold, but his presence far worse: sharp, cloying, like the overpowering smell of metal—or blood.

She thought he would say something. Whisper like he had done at the dock, make another veiled threat.

Instead, the Admiral leaned in, breathing in the scent of her hair, and licked her ear.

She reeled back in shock and disgust. Her heart rate, which had already been elevated, shot up like a pounding drum, the blood rushing through her veins. As she stumbled back, gripping the Masked Crown ever more tightly, the Admiral did not react. He simply bowed with a sweep of his arm and exited the chamber as if nothing had happened.

Valerie clapped her hand to her ear. She could still feel the Admiral's tongue on her skin like a fat wet slug, and she shuddered.

"Val." Avon's hand steadied the small of her back. "It's all right. I'm here. It's all right."

"He—he…" She was breathing too fast. She shook her head, trying to get control of herself. "He's vile. I had the Crown and he still…"

Avon watched the door. "What? Did he put a spell on you?"

"No." Her body slowly came back to itself. Everything normal. She sensed no spell, no lingering trace except the spit she'd wiped off with her hand. "No. Maska curse him! He thinks he can intimidate me. I'll cut his dick off. I'll make him suffer before he dies, I'll…"

"Valerie," said Avon gently. "The queen."

She blinked. Right. They'd been trying to contact Shikra—Maska—before the Admiral had so rudely interrupted them. She had to pace around the room and get her bearings before she felt right within herself to try again. Hatred of Mithras crowded out all her other thoughts. In the Patriarch's palace, when he'd choked her with his magic, she had felt small and terrified and helpless. But she had expected to feel those things then.

Tonight, back in her homeland and with the power of the Masked Crown, she had not expected to feel small. She hated him for that almost more than anything else, that he had shocked her enough to make her recoil instead of retaliate.

The queen, she reminded herself.

She and Avon sat down on the bed again. She held his hand. But when she reached for that golden thread, Maska didn't respond. Worse than that, the queen wasn't simply ignoring her. A door had been shut and locked, a clear sign that Maska did not wish to talk.

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"She's blocking me." Valerie frowned, squeezing Avon's hand tighter. "Maska, come on! We need you."

"She's refusing to meet?"

Frustration mounted up within her. "Ugh! Is that all she does, hide? She's fine to send me off to Drakon while she sits by the goldentree and twiddles her thumbs, but the second I need her, oh no, she's out for supper."

"Or she's afraid."

"She's a coward. What are we supposed to do now?"

"We continue. I sent Lord Rutherford to fetch the Kestrel's Eye. He'll have it at the wedding tomorrow."

"All the guests will be watching." She tried to focus. "If Mithras wants it, he'll have to snatch it in front of everyone. It could be a bloodbath."

"Not if we kill him first. Has Lady Melody told anyone your secret yet?"

"I'm not sure. She's mostly stuck by me, so she hasn't had much chance."

"Give her a chance tomorrow. We need our bird to sing."

Valerie nodded. She felt better hearing Avon so certain again, more like his old self. He always sounded like he was sure his plans would work, even if they didn't. Maybe that was the trick to all plans, or to getting other people to follow them.

At least it seemed that the Admiral had left them alone. She no longer sensed Mithras' presence close by. There was only Avon and the quiet of the calm before the storm. He sighed and lay down, tucking his hands behind his head to gaze up at the ceiling.

"I hope we're right." She watched the shadows over his cheekbones, under his eyes. "We were going to kill him on sight, but…"

But he was occupying the body of Avon's uncle. And they didn't know who he might jump into next if they did kill him.

"Better the devil you know," said Avon.

"What do you think he meant, about the sword? He said every time."

"Perhaps he's been defeated before. Perhaps that's how Maska always defeats him."

"But he should know. He should learn from his mistakes—"

She stopped, a thought striking her. Did Mithras know about the queen's ability to reverse time? Had he been redoing this scenario over and over again without realising? But then why would he have said every time?

Avon passed his hand over his eyes. "I would speculate, but I fear I don't have the energy."

He looked worn down, she thought. As well he might. She had nothing to say that might cheer him up. She could only lean over, set her hand on his arm, offer scant comfort.

"Shall I say good night?"

She was about to pull away when Avon caught her wrist. The look on his face betrayed a raw vulnerability.

"Stay with me?"

"Yeah." She didn't want to be anywhere else. "Yeah, of course."

*

The wedding day dawned, and Lady Melody turned into an absolute tyrant. She would allow no one into Valerie's bedchamber, not even the maids who were all dying to get a look at her, insisting that she required perfection and therefore only she could get the bride-to-be ready. This, of course, was all an excuse so that Valerie could apply her glamour and rework the wedding gown to fit this new, strangely tall Ophelia.

She had decided to stop worrying about the height problem. If the guests noticed something off about the bride-to-be, well, that played into their hands.

Mostly she was glad that Mithras hadn't returned and murdered them during the night. She'd slept curled in Avon's arms, while nestled inside her heart lodged her one fear: that Avon might die. Everything she'd worked towards depended on him. Everyone else could perish. The wedding guests, Melody and the palace ladies, her fake groom-to-be, Mithras and whichever poor soul he chose to puppeteer next—they could all die and she still had a path to victory.

She didn't have a path without Avon. But she hadn't told him that, and she wasn't going to. No one could know.

Melody removed the last pin from her gown and ordered her to stand in front of the full-length mirror.

Valerie did so, staring once again at the face of Ophelia, an ever-present reminder of everything that she had lost. She seemed radiant in the morning light, her golden curls shining, her cheeks rosy, her eyes the blue of the sky. If Valerie had exaggerated these traits to make her friend appear more beautiful—well, she thought Ophelia deserved it.

"Hmm." Melody pursed her lips, circling her with a critical eye. "The fit is adequate, I suppose. Are you sure you don't want to wear shoes? No one wants to see flat feet."

"They'll be covered by the dress. Really, why do you care?"

"This may be a fake wedding and you may be a fake bride, but I still have a reputation to uphold."

Valerie rolled her eyes, but secretly she quite liked Melody's fussing. It almost felt like they were friends again.

Finally, Melody declared that she was satisfied with Valerie's attire. The veil covered her face and swept out in a trail down her back. The Masked Crown lay hidden beneath it, a golden circlet that matched the gold of her hair. The white silk whispered snug against her skin, tight at the bodice with an elegant flair at the hips. And she carried a bouquet of red roses, her only nod to her true identity. If a Drakonian artist painted a portrait of innocent beauty, she thought, it might look something like this. Delicate, sweet, almost ethereal.

How ironic.

"Do you remember what to do during the ceremony?" Melody asked.

"Erm…"

"We did go over it several times during the wedding planning. Oh, but you weren't paying attention, were you?"

"Well…"

No, of course she hadn't paid attention. She had not expected to be walking down the aisle herself. So Melody put her through her paces, making her walk the length of the queen's quarters in imitation of the ceremony. Three times they rehearsed it, and three times she performed badly. She had so many other things on her mind. Had Lord Rutherford found the Kestrel's Eye? Would he make it back before Mithras intercepted him? What would happen if Mithras tired of this facade?

In the middle of the fourth rehearsal, when she stumbled over the words I do, Avon knocked at the door to the chamber. As Ophelia's closest male kin, he would walk her down the aisle to meet the groom. The way Melody described it, she couldn't help feeling like a package being delivered.

But she was glad that it was him. Even if it hurt him, even if he couldn't stand to look at her in the guise of his sister, she needed him by her side.

As before, he wore the silver-winged coat that she had spelled, an added layer of protection, and Maska's sword at his hip. They had no better armour, as they had proven in last night's encounter. She hoped that no one would be hurt at this wedding, and if they were, she hoped Avon would escape unscathed.

She straightened up, the gown rustling at her feet. Her insides fluttered.

Avon held out his arm. "It's time."