Abolisher [Drothiker #2]

26.

Syrene hadn't slept.

Dawn's light bathed the bedroom golden. She watched the ceiling, twisted and turned, and recalled the dungeons. The Vegreka in the cells. The cylinders filled with olive liquid.

And then came her questions about this wretched place called the making place.

Deisn might have bought this planet centuries with her sacrifice, might have given them a chance at survival. But that chance was being pressed by the still lingering doom named Felset.

The queen was close—so close—to whatever she was devising. Syrene didn't even have any knowledge about the Kaerions' whereabouts. Worse part was, they hadn't even come hunting her—made her wonder whether their power had even bestirred itself.

With Vendrik Evenflame around, Drothiker's constant whispers in her skull never ceased. She couldn't think, let alone concentrate. Sleep was impossible. Every time she began falling into the haze, the whispers turned into loud hisses, as if a snake sat atop her ear, wrenching her out from the trance.

"Stop moving," Navy grumbled at one point, before pulling the blanket over her head, and continued to snore.

Syrene gritted her teeth hard enough for them to crack. She sat up, ran a hand through her hair. She needed quiet—needed to get away, get out of this cursed building!

She slid of the bed, and headed to her own room. Azryle was in a deep slumber. She didn't linger, grabbed her gloves and scarf, and a few weapons, and set out.

At first, she didn't know where she was headed, her mind only commanded away, away, away.

But soon enough, she found her feet heading towards Kefaas Petsov's home. He might be sleeping, but Syrene needed to speak with him, see if he'd even survived that arena, or had she killed him. She barely knew the man, but found herself deeply hoping he was alive.

Kefaas was insane, wild—ancient, educated. Useful. Despite Eliver, she might be doomed without Kefaas. But—

Maybe she'd taken the silent alley for granted, or maybe Drothiker's noise had driven her enough that she didn't heed her senses, but one moment Syrene was walking down the street, and the next, her head was pinned against the wall.

There was a hand at the back of her skull, pressing her face-first against the wall with an immortal strength; the iciness of the stone bit into her cheek. Her hands were held behind her back in a throttlehold.

Syrene didn't fight against the hold—which would only have the man compressing her head harder until it burst. She kept her calm.

"Admirers aren't supposed to be so violent, Maycusen," she breathed.

The Jaguar leaned closer, his body's warmth wrapped her, his back touched hers as he brought his lips to her ear. "Not all can be compared with me, Syrene."

Had his hands not been over the rim of her sleeve, she might have slid out a dagger and chopped off the parts too near her hands. She couldn't use lightning either—he needed to be in touch with her skin for it to electrocute, and Maycusen seemed too conscious of that. What other weapons did she have in her attire—

"Oh, buckle up, now, Czar." He straightened. Cold wind grazed her nape. "I'm only here to speak."

"With my back?" she muttered.

His chuckle was cold. "Joke all you want, but Felset is two steps from destroying Lavestia."

Shock and confusion spurted in Syrene. "Why do you think I give a shit about whoever in Saqa is Lavestia?"