Frost to Dust by Myra Danvers

9

Quiet voices wafted up from the lower floor, and with one hand on my nape, the captain paused on the upper landing. Inspecting the bloody imprint of my teeth sunk deep into the flesh of his wrist. Above the ring of matte black that apparently controlled his weapon.

He flexed, scowling at the damage.

And with a tiny crease between his brows, his attention shifted… inside.

I felt it turn.

The crackle of searing elite energy grew soft, the edges smoothed. Tempered by something cool and soothing. A change of the tides that lapped at the damage I’d wrought and made it whole. Knitting broken flesh, mending a lacerated tendon.

“That’s not possible,” I breathed, head spinning with the implications of an elite wielding the gifts of a priestess. Healing himself with a talent he had no rights to possess.

The captain grinned, clenching his fist just to watch the smooth glide of his now-undamaged wrist work the way it should. “Sweet, innocent Mila,” he drawled, and rolled his sleeve into place. Fixing the buttons with a twist of nimble fingers that had my cheeks heating in sordid memory. “So ignorant. So blind.”

Head still spinning—thighs wet and legs wobbly—I couldn’t muster the will to argue.

Because there was no denying what I’d just seen him do.

I simply went where he guided, one hand firm on my nape. Careful on the stairs, my head in a fog of shocked numbness.

“Good morning, captain,” Alicia murmured, offering a demure dip of her chin. Eyes downcast.

A shiver ignited in my blood at the sight.

Something angry and tense that longed to lash out and inflict damage.

“Alicia,” the captain returned with a nod, his dark eyes flicking over her shoulder to land on the two soldiers at her back. Marco with his long legs crossed at the ankle, lounging in the kitchen picking at a platter of fruits and vegetables, and Gabe, standing rigid as the captain entered.

The captain jerked his chin, and without a word the soldiers followed. Moving to the opposite side of the kitchen to have a quiet conversation.

“Good morning, priestess,” Alicia said.

Jaw tight, I scowled at the floor. Ignoring the traitor standing before me. My fists clenched, knuckles white.

She cleared her throat. “You should have something to eat before we go. Beau said—”

I scoffed, marching toward the door to wait where I wouldn’t be plagued by the sight of her face. The sound of her voice laced with the tender lies of someone who’d learned to mimic true concern or affection.

“Mila”—she kept pace with me, daring to touch my shoulder—“wait. Please.”

“Get your hand off me,” I spat, forcing the words through the points of my modified canines. Trembling, my cheeks hot. Heart pounding away at the backside of my ribs.

She jerked her hand back, cheeks blanched a satisfying shade of waxy white. “Eat something,” she said, and showed me the apple clenched in her free hand.

For a moment, I merely continued to glare. Letting her see the truth, that her every breath was an insult I wished to extinguish, but couldn’t because she’d sold me to my enemy for nothing more than a pat on the head. A scratch behind the ears.

And then I turned. Giving up my back to an insignificant threat. An advantage I knew she’d never take, lest she disobey her precious master. The rumble of my stomach an easy thing to ignore for spite.

Her breath caught, and with no small amount of forged concern, she said, “Was he rough?”

My spine stiffened.

Delicate fingers found a sore spot on my shoulder, prodding a distinct ring of bruises I’d forgotten to hide.

I jerked as if scalded, my back thumping to hit the door as I spun. One hand pressed over the imprint of the captain’s teeth. His mark on my skin.

Alicia’s keen gaze flicked over my face. Taking note of high, flushed cheeks. Tangled hair. Swollen, puffy eyes rimmed in red. Every detail that screamed the truth of what had happened to one who knew just what to look for.

A whore.

Like recognizing like.

Breath coming in hard, short gasps, I collapsed in on myself. Shoulders curling, arms wrapped around the vulnerable spots—my chest and belly, anywhere that threatened to burst wide open in an explosion of panic and gore—trying to protect from further attack.

Alicia’s eyes went wide. “It was your first time.”

It wasn’t a question.

And I had nothing to say. No voice to combat the disgusting edge of pity that crinkled her elegant edges. No pressing urge to deny her realization.

There was only the screaming silence echoing between my ears.

“Ready?” Marco asked, making us both jump.

One hand pressed to her heart, Alicia said, “Shit, Marco!” in a breathless whisper. “Give a girl some warning before you creep up on her.”

“I like that you don’t know when I’m coming, beautiful,” Marco said, and rubbed her shoulders.

She brushed him off with a glittering, good-natured smile. The mimic’s mask sliding back into place. “That’s what all the girls say about you.”

A choked, wounded sound came from Marco’s throat, and he said, “How ‘bout you, wildcat?” with a friendly bump of his hip. “Anything cruel to say to poor old Marco this morning?”

I dipped under his arm and padded into the street on bare feet without a word. Ignoring the sting of cold cobblestones against my skin, I dragged a breath through my lips. Forcing my lungs to expand no matter how inflexible they’d become.

“See, Alicia?” Marco hummed, closing the door with a deft click. “The wildcat knows how to show a little respect.”

“Nah, sorry, mate,” Gabe said. “She’s just learned to filter out your voice, that’s all.” Without tainting his stoic exterior, Gabe glanced down the busy street and unclipped his weapon as he scanned the area.

Alicia cleared her throat. “You know, I bet that’s it. But”—she licked her lips—“before we head over to the manse, we need to make a detour to the bathhouse first. Mila could use a nice soak—”

“Sorry, beautiful,” Marco said, and slung his arm about her shoulders. “Can’t. The lady wildcat is due for training. Not stops. We’re to go straight there, and come straight back. Captain’s orders.”

Swallowing the humiliated ache clawing at the back of my throat, I let my eyes fall before Alicia might see the truth. That the captain wanted me soiled and claimed. Reeking of his seed as a means of warding off any other interested males.

I tuned them all out. Reeling and untethered, my feet carrying me forward long after my mind had withdrawn. The walls of my reality crumbling all around me to reveal a place where an elite could heal himself. Where a man I hated could do exactly what he pleased with my body, and I was left to suffer the sticky, swollen consequences.

I caught a choked sob between my molars, grinding it into submission until I could taste bitter, crushed enamel.

And so it was that I was caught unaware, finding myself standing in the great, sweeping front hall of the general’s manse with no recollection as to how I’d come to be there.

The Head Priestess stood with hands folded before her, waiting. A serene smile gracing bruised lips.

My eyes flicked over her face and I saw that damage in a new light, the captain’s cruel words mocking as he drove me into the mattress.

Fucked like a sleeve. Used. Beaten down by horror. A ghost still clinging to a broken shell…

Inclining her head, she turned and gestured for us to follow as she navigated the grand halls, moving on the balls of her feet as if afraid to make a single sound. She didn’t stop to admire any of the stolen treasures. Didn’t seem to see the paintings or the sculptures.

She walked.

We followed.

Until a thick oak door drew her to a stop.

“Ladies,” Gabe said and pushed it open with a tight bow.

She motioned for me to proceed her into the tiny dark room, and said, “Thank you for the escort, gentlemen. Alicia.”

Marco caught the door before she could close it in his face. “We’ve been given direct orders not to leave Mila’s side.” Holstering his weapon, he moved to enter the tight room.

One elegant, silver-blonde brow raised, the Head Priestess glanced around. “And where, might I ask, do you intend to sit as you guard her safety from inside a windowless room, in the heart of General Tilcot’s estate?”

“I, uhh—” Marco blushed, pushing a fist through the mussy hair at the back of his head.

“You know that’s not what he meant, Sasha,” Gabe said, calm yet firm, maintaining eye contact as he hovered on the threshold.

A flicker of something made of steel gleamed in icy blue eyes. “The training of a young priestess—let alone an empath—is a sacred thing requiring a peaceful environment free of distractions. I’m sorry, but it’s just not possible for any of you to be here for this.”

Marco shifted with an uneasy look. “We’ve got our orders, Sasha.”

“And I’ve got mine from General Harper Tilcot, whom I believe outranks a mere captain. But you’re more than welcome to interrupt his day to find out. Or go stand guard outside the door,” she said, “where you can easily do both. I can assure you, Mila will be perfectly safe behind this unlocked door.”

Casting a final, uneasy glance at each other, the soldiers shuffled back. And the last thing I saw before the Head Priestess closed a flimsy barrier between us and them, was the brilliant green of Alicia’s eyes. Intense, as if trying to convey some hidden message I had no intention of heeding.

For a moment, there was the blessed ring of silence. Uncomfortable, but edged with a soft hum I thought to be peace.

“Please,” she said, and spread her hands toward a plush, if worn white chair. “Take a seat.”

“How do I get these fucking manacles off?” I snarled, shivering despite the lack of airflow in the tiny, warm space.

With a sigh, she settled into the only other piece of furniture in the room—a hard-backed wooden chair. “You can’t. Believe me,” she whispered, and folded her hands, “I’ve tried.”

A tremor started deep inside my chest. “Can they take them off, then?”

She didn’t bother to reply. Simply watched me pace from behind her desk.

And then, “You look… thin, Mila. Ragged.”

I curtsied, and the action was more brittle than the snappy, “Thank you,” that spattered over my lips. Shoulders bunched, I did another lap, the ache of tension making my jaw throb, for with every step, I could feel the pulse of tacky brine still oozing from where I’d been filled. Violated and ruined. My every jagged thought tracking back to him as I fingered the crescent bruises beginning to purple on my shoulder. “If I can’t be free of the chains, then tell me how to kill him.”

The Head Priestess folded her hands. Lips thin and white before she said, “You can’t.”

“Then give me another solution, Head Priestess, because I can’t live with being his slave, and I won’t be a weapon for the empire. I won’t.” A tremor raced through my blood. Hot and ravenous, it twisted in my chest before I stilled, focused on her face with an unblinking stare. Lip curled. “Frankly, I don’t know how you’ve done it for so long.”

“Sasha,” she murmured, matching all that toxic fury with a placid stare that was serene. Utterly absent so much as a whisper of fear, she refused to rise to the challenge.

I blinked. “What?”

“Call me Sasha.” Her lips twitched around a fragile smirk. “I haven’t been the Head Priestess in five years. Sasha will suffice.”

Rolling my neck, I flexed my shoulder blades. “Fine, Sasha, how do I kill him?”

“You’re an empath,” she replied. “Bound to an elite.”

I resumed my pacing, hardly able to wait for her to finish evading the question.

“You’re tied to everything around you,” she went on, elaborating. Measuring her words at an agonizing pace. “To the captain now, too. Deeply.”

“Then it’ll be that much more satisfying to watch the life fade from his eyes,” I snarled, salivating at the thought of watching those inky, bottomless depths go flat and blank. Everything he was, extinguished.

She ignored me. “Every living thing has energy. A life force. Something only a priestess can touch,” she murmured, and stood. Taking a slow step, she mirrored my posture with one that was soothing. Muscles at ease. A leisurely stroll that opposed my erratic pacing. “It is our divine gift to touch the life around us and know what it is beneath. To redirect sickness and rot and give it new purpose.”

“I’m no healer,” I snapped. “By your account, I’m not even a priestess.”

She inclined her head, granting a point where it was due. “There was a reason for the temple, child. A good one. Priestesses feed on energy,” she said, and took a step around the edge of her desk. Breaking the pendulum pattern we’d fallen into. “It sustains us. Gives us great reserves with which we are tasked to offer aid. Comfort to the dying. Healing for those who might be saved. But we never,” she murmured, “take without restraint. Never too much from any one thing. There are rules that guide us. Protections set in place thousands of years before I was born—”

“To keep you from becoming me,” I guessed, breath coming hard as she moved to sit at the edge of her desk. Closer, but making no effort to touch.

“Empaths are dangerous,” Sasha agreed, folding her hands before her once more. “They’ve no training to protect them. Nothing but a legendary hunger to feed on energy. Forgoing food, they take sustenance from the energy around them. Unable to stop, they become slaves to that thirst. Killing at will, utterly absent discretion. That you’re alive at all is an incredible stroke of good fortune, for while the legends differ on how, they all have the exact same roots. An empath escapes training in the temple, matures without guidance, and kills hundreds before she is put down by those who might have been sisters.”

I shivered, but it wasn’t the freezing burn of hatred pumping through my veins—it was fear. A whisper of something other lingering just out of reach. But I forced it back, and said, “So priestesses can use their gifts for war.”

“Priestesses can do a lot of things,” she hedged. “None of them available to you.”

“So, what?” I laughed, clipped low and bitter. “You mean for me to accept my fate as a slave. Let him use me to kill?” Head shaking, I set my feet, sweating and trembling. Reeking of spent seed and stolen innocence. “I won’t do it. If you won’t help me, I’ll find a way to kill him myself.”

At this, Sasha stood. Touching my wrist with fingers that were cool and soothing. “I can only presume your time spent in the forest—alone—is what kept you from succumbing to the curse of an empath. And now?” she said, and I blinked. Slow and drowsy. “In the middle of a war, surrounded by power and death? It can only be your bond with the young captain.”

I took a breath, matching her steady inhale. “Why?”

“You’re an empath, Mila,” she said again, thumb stroking over my heated flesh. “You need a counterbalance. A shield between you and the world you’ll be driven to consume. Asher is that correction. The elite to your priestess.” A serene smile spread across her lips. One I couldn’t help but match. “Where we feed, they purge. Expending more energy than they possess, it was rare for them to live beyond their twenties before the advances in technology.”

“Before they conquered Tritan inside of a week,” I said, but the sentiment lacked the cutting edge of bitter resentment.

She shrugged. “You cannot kill him without also killing yourself. Not now, and probably not before.”

Searing hurt saw me lurch away from the sedative in her touch. “My death means nothing if he dies with me,” I snapped. “The captain will pay for what he did to me. What he’s done.”

For a moment, Sasha simply watched me tremble. And then, “What did he do?”

I sneered, turning so she couldn’t see. Couldn’t feel the writhing hurt.

The skin of my inner thighs pulled where they rubbed. Chafing where they’d grown tacky with drying sperm.

“I won’t do anything that helps him kill,” I said instead. Fists clenched at my sides, bruised shoulder throbbing in time with my temper. “I absolutely refuse.”

“You’re no good to anyone dead.”

“And the alternative is what? Offer comfort to those he kills as they lay dying when I could slaughter elites without discretion but you won’t tell me how?” Darkness swirled at my peripherals, my stomach snarling a deep, primal hunger that needed to be fed. I scoffed, spittle misting the air between us. “You’ve never even seen an empath before. You’ve no idea if these so-called legends hold a whisper of truth, and no notion of what training me might look like. If it’s even possible.”

A smirk creased her lips, then. “And who,” she asked, “do you think might tell him it’s safe to use your power, should we be successful here? Who’s the closest thing anyone has to an authority on priestesses or empaths, if not me?”

I sucked a breath between my teeth, every drop of my attention shifting to her face.

“Empaths are dangerous. Volatile,” she murmured, a low, wicked timber entering her voice. “A perfect weapon for an elite—especially one like Captain Rawlings who likes to push boundaries. But without absolute confirmation that it’s safe to do so, neither he nor the general will be willing to risk such an asset. Of which there is only one. And who knows?” she drawled. “It might take years to complete your training.”