Whispers Waltz Around Our Dreams . . .

Horror slammed into Losa’s ribcage, knocking her breathless. “Who is your guardian? Did you bring them with you?” Stupid, senseless creature! Why did I not think to grab Hurricane?! The twilight damsel’s Oferweder was Aindreas—and he was no doubt already on his way to confront the vampires. In her rush, her wretched terror, Losa had not stopped to see where Hurricane was within Dierne. She hadn’t even howled for the antler-wearing warrior. They’d been separated for so long, and Losa had grown so used to relying on no one but herself, that she’d thoughtlessly followed Vladimir alone. “It’s only me,” Losa whispered down at the pup, her intense glare never leaving the beast as he slavered toward them. He wanted to murder them both. His energy seethed with hatred and hunger—malicious intent strong enough to attack Losa’s mental barriers and make her sick to her stomach. Why does he not pause? Why didn’t he LISTEN to me?! She was an Arcus Irae princess! Her appearance alone should have had the cur baffled, fascinated, the magic of her presence washing over him like a symphony! What am I doing wrong?

She leaned forward, hovering over Qi, deciding that if the bastard would not stop then she’d at least slow him down by offering her own flesh—

Except in the next instant, as if he’d answered her unspoken plea for help, a Tempest with blazing eyes of sapphire plunged into the fray, throwing himself ferociously at the shade-painted assassin. Snarls shredded the atmosphere. Claws raked stone. The two draggas collided into a frenzied mass of aggression, the snap of their teeth audible, the impact of their bodies gut-churning thuds, and the rage that poured off the Ofer soaked into Losa’s senses until she felt afire with his righteous anger. This was their chance to escape. Now was the time to spirit Quiturah away to a different destination. Yet Losa discovered her beloved sibling racing up in the direction she herself had traveled from, and a new fear clashed with the relief of the Tempest’s arrival. “Zawyne, no! Turn back! It’s not safe, we must . . .”

The rainbow with the mark of the sun whimpered for an end to the fighting. A mere mutter, at first. And then stronger. Stronger. A goddess’s trumpet, ringing with peace and love. The effect was breathtaking in its swiftness. Losa could only quiver in place when the power of Zawyne’s lyrics touched the battling brutes, and just like that, it ceased. Panting, the monster who’d nearly maimed her riveted his attention on her sibling, bloodlust forgotten. The malign electricity rippling across his body transformed, muted and withdrawn. All because Zawyne had said “no more.”

“You . . . you did it . . .”

Losa saw all too clearly how deeply she’d failed—as a sister, a ruler, an Arcus Irae. The insidious rot that infected her, the disease that voraciously devoured her light and turned it into something hideous and wrong, seeped from every pore. Ruin and ugliness. Corruption and failure. Even the bloodthirsty ink-stained male could see it. His amethyst animal gaze swept coldly over Losa as if she were an irritating insect, insignificant and vaguely disgusting, her pretty colors garish and meaningless. Waiting for her to do something foolish. But when he looked upon her sister—bright, gentle Zawyne, painted of sunrise and crowned in mercy—his expression shifted to one of quiet wonder. Awe. Curiosity. As if Zawyne were a work of art that sang to his mind, resplendent in her perfection. The way an Arcus Irae was meant to be. She had called for violence to stop, and at the music of her euphonic voice, it had. Effortlessly. When Losa had desperately demanded that the black brute leave Quiturah alone—projecting her very heart into her cry—she’d only made things worse. The monster tamed so easily by Zawyne had turned his hateful glare on her, fangs glinting with savage intent, because Losa was powerless. She’d lost that which made her what she was, the very blessing woven into her soul by the gods.

All she had left was her pitiful weakness. Her brittle delicacy.

Duma’s hold on her constricted painfully, chains of decay bound to her worthless heart. All this time, Losa had wrongfully thought she’d escaped the fallen Tempest. Yet he was still crouched inside of her, forever, gnawing away at her guts and stealing everything that mattered—the same way he’d stolen her family and her throne and her innocence—and the realization that Losa possessed none of the purity she’d once held abruptly struck her with such visceral despair she swayed where she stood. Only the solid warmth of little Qi pressed softly against her foreleg and Zawyne leaning against her side kept the ex-princess from collapsing into a miserable heap right there on the mountain . . . because if she had her way, in this moment of pathetic self-pity, Losa would have gladly buried herself in stone and allowed the putrefaction melting pus-like in her veins to claim her at last. She wanted to sob. Until she drowned in her own tears, and the salt mummified her corpse. And because this thought was so comical in its childish selfishness and wretchedness Losa had to toss her cranium back and laugh.

The sound fluttered high and weightless and semi-hysterical into the clear air. Losa’s slender shoulders shook. In that instant, the rosette dancer effectively amputated her already choked connection to her sister and the Tempest who’d suddenly become her guard—shunting off all emotion so that it could safely roil in her chest. To them, her existence would be betrayed by a puzzling emptiness, a void where a soul should be. No sadness. No ridiculous, overblown sorrow. The sisters had been shutting themselves away from each other for months, trying to spare the other their grief . . . ha! Why not do this all the time? Indefinitely? This encounter proved Losa could no longer be considered an Arcus Irae, so why should she project the aura of one?

The champagne bubbles of her laughter quickly fizzled into soundless giggles that bounced in her breast, finally fading altogether. Momentarily ignoring the shadow-hued bastard, she dipped her muzzle down to treat Quiturah with deft strokes of her tongue, smoothing down rumpled russet fur and swiping away any beads of blood. “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you,” the dawn ballerina murmured. “I did my best. But now one of your kind is here, and my sister Zawyne.” Mismatched windows of heaven and night wandered from the unstable hessian to the rainbow that had soothed him. At least Losa had been able to buy the Tempest pup time until a fully fledged Ofer could defend them.

Shame that the obsidian stranger hadn’t killed Losa before then.

The stygian thought slithered through her mind like a venomous serpent. Such musings should have been rare, if not unheard of for an Arcus Irae to entertain. Another laugh threatened to jump from her lips. Of course! But she wasn’t really the rainbow she’d been, right?

“What now?” The question was carefully devoid of inflection, spoken loud enough for all in the clearing to hear. This was the tone Losa had been trained to use since she was old enough to speak—that of a royal taking charge. “It was my understanding that Quiturah was brought here to keep her out of harm’s way, and still harm found her. So what is to be done? Shall we find an alternate sanctuary until the battle is over? Will you guard us, Ofer? And you.” Addressing the fiendish onyx soldier who had cared nothing for her, except to eliminate her as an obstacle to eat Qi. An angelic smile broke like daylight across her elegant features. “That’s my sister you’re drooling over. Her name is Zawyne. If you ever try to approach her as you did me? Trust that my pelt will still look just as lovely with your dirty blood staining it.”

☽Arcus Irae Princess | Sister to Zawyne | Chained to Duma | Bound to Hurricane | xathira☾