Red Ruse

Silence

Elara

My cousins always asked how I did it. How I managed to slip past the prickling neck, the goosebumps, the body's natural defenses that alert of intrusion. Try as they might, they could never avoid panic forcing them to take control.

I'd laugh. Brutes, all of them. Take Samson. He never made use of himself outside the arena. Never knew how to be anything more than a club, breaking his toys long before they could be useful.

True whispering requires patience. Dedication. You must learn their fears, their hopes, their dreams, become the voice that always watches and corrects. You can never allow yourself to be an outsider: You must convince your target you are them.

I sigh. Maven has long surrendered to sleep, as has the girl. I've half a mind to strangle her before he wakes, let a servant take the blame as he wails over her body. As tears pour from his Merandus eyes, a scream to shatter even my frozen heart.

I never liked to see him cry.

You're weak for him, Aunt Marjorie hisses in my ear. An accusation I can't help but counter. I've sculpted Maven's mind since he could walk, ensured he'd never stray far from my grasp. I've held his hand through countless nightmares, soothed his ego after defeat, promised him vengeance for all his humiliations, should he only wait a few years. He was mine, then and always, mine to love and raise as no other could.

As his weak excuse of a father couldn't. Didn't even try. Spent all his time grieving for his miserable Coriane, loving her son as though Maven were a mirage.

So I saved him. Carved the love from his brain before it could twist to daggers. If only I could've done the same with Cal.

I warned him. I whispered all the slights so he'd never forget, never turn his back long enough for a blade to nestle within it. But there was always doubt. Always enough good memories for him to cling to, to insist on a love I couldn't understand. It took a girl to finish the job.

If only that was all she did.

My fists clench. I won't let her ruin him. Not anymore.

You couldn't bear to see him hurt. Aunt Marjorie leers back to life, clawed fingers jabbing my spine. Not by your own hand.

Coward. I was a coward, chasing phantom seers so I wouldn't have to face his heartbreak. Not anymore. If he hates me, so be it.

It's for his own good.

I exhale. When Maven was five, I took away his nightmares. Told his mind not to dream anymore, and let the neurons grow dull with disuse. It was the toughest call I had to make.

Perhaps it is time I give them back.

His mind is as easy to slip into as my own, worn in from decades of gentle prodding. I lean back and close my eyes.

It begins at twilight, in the hazy hour between wake and sleep. Somehow he goes from staring at the ceiling to rolling waves, wood swaying beneath him, the gentle wind blowing hair in her face. Maybe this is what it is to dream.

If so, he doesn't want to wake up.

Mare brushes a hand along his arm, goosebumps trailing in her wake. She wears a gown of purple silk, a soft thing which doesn't suit her, but stuns him nonetheless. "What a shame," she murmurs. "I was hoping to die closer to home."

No.

This can't be.

His arms move of their own volition, sweeping her from the deck to his lips. Her hair twines between his fingers, slipping free no matter how he weaves. "I won't let them hurt you." She tastes like desperation and stolen dreams. "You have my word."

She draws him closer, close enough to murmur against his ear. "Your word isn't worth much."

Thunder cracks in the distance, and she grins. Pain splits his head in two as her hands crawl across his skin, tearing, pulling, pinching, a monster seeking flesh. She'll rip him apart.

Let go.

Wood splinters beneath them, winds howling in opposite directions. She pulls him closer, begs him to hold on as she's pulled beneath the waves.

She's drowning me.

It burns, but he holds on, hugging her close to his chest as they plunge into the darkness. Ice water fills his lungs, salt stinging his throat. This is her fault. Her fault, yet he doesn't let go. He kisses her as if he could crawl inside her skin.

Son.

I won't let go.

This is madness!

You don't understand.

I love her.

She'll rip you apart!

Then let her.

I lurch out of his mind with a jolt. Sweat coats my palm, and I clench them until my nails threaten to draw blood. He threw me out. I let my guard down, and he threw me out.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

You are in control.

When Coriane died, I tried to erase her from Tibe. Whispered how weak she was, how easily she was led to bleed herself out in the bathtub. Yet he never gave her up for me. Never stopped wailing for her ghost, wasting away for a woman long gone.

Worse, I failed to erase the other Red. The one whose body I had to pry from his arms, a limp doll flaking to ash. It was too late to undo the marks upon his mind. Too late for anything but more pain, haphazard needles I could not tug free.

Perhaps it is time I stopped fighting it. Perhaps it is time I indulged him, smoothed her mind so her resistance faded to dust. I will not break him. I will not leave him to Tibe's fate. Her, on the other hand . . .

She would make a perfect Coriane.

And so begins Part IV: The Queen . . .