She stopped and pressed trembling palms to her temples. She was going to be sick.
And then a knock sounded on the door.
Imari glanced over as the door opened, but it was not Ricón who stepped through.
It was her papa.
Not a mirage. Not a memory.
Not this time.
A chill swept over her, head to toe.
She’d wondered if she would know him. If he would look the same, or if the years would make him a stranger. And they had changed him—aged him like fine nazzat, amplifying all of his best seasonings. But he was still her papa. She would’ve known him in a Belfast crowd under the darkness of night. Wards, she even knew the shape of him as he stood there, filling the doorway and staring at her.
His beard was longer and threaded with silver, and the wrinkles at his eyes had deepened. They were more numerous too, and shadowed, weary. His fine white linens hugged his frame a little tighter, especially at his midsection, where a golden belt pulled everything close, but the added weight did not steal his bearing. Authority seeped from his pores as it had always done—this sole force that held a nation of volatile egos together.
Sar Branón Masai.
Her papa.
How her heart ached just then.
So many words crowded behind Imari’s lips, but emotion choked and strangled every one. Her eyes burned, and his figure blurred.
He took a distracted step forward, the motion unsteady. “Imari.” Her name fell out of his lips at a whisper.
For years, she had yearned to hear his voice, and the sound of it now nearly overwhelmed her.
“Papa.” Imari’s voice cracked, and she covered her mouth with her fingers.
Sar Branón reached her in three strides and wrapped her fiercely in his arms.
And Imari’s tears spilled over.
By. The. Wards.
She had not expected the flood of emotion. She had not expected it to hurt.
For so long Imari had believed that the life she had made was enough. That she had grown past the pain and loneliness, and finally tucked her family away in a box of discarded things—things she did not need.
Lies.
All of them, lies she had told herself so that she could endure each day. So that she could live with herself and the horrible thing she had done. But standing there, wrapped in his arms, it was as if he’d grabbed hold of that box, plucked it from beneath her strong facade, and ripped open the lid, dumping her horror and pain and regret all over the floor.
Imari sobbed, clutching her papa’s tunic for dear life. For all the tears she had not shed, for the guilt she always carried, for the grief she had been unable to share because she had been sent away and forced to hide the truth: that she had killed her little sister. That she had killed Sar Branón’s littlest daughter. He should hate her, but he only squeezed her tighter.
Somehow, his forgiveness was harder to accept than the hatred she deserved.
And then Ricón’s arms were encircling them both, his chest shuddering against her shoulder. The three of them stood there like that, wound together in regret, and time stood still. The moment expanded.
“Papa… I am so sorry…” Imari managed, but words weren’t enough. Words would never be enough for what she had done.
Sar Branón pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes wet with tears. Ricón took a small step back too, giving them space.
“No, Imari.” Sar Branón placed one palm to her cheek and wiped a tear. “I am sorry. I…” His gaze moved over her face. “I never blamed you. Not once.”
His words were a salve upon raw wounds. Imari pressed her trembling lips together, unable to stop her tears.
“I…” Her papa stiffened and glanced back.
Imari followed his gaze to where Sura Anja—his wife, and Ricón’s mama—stood like granite.
The sura’s thick braid draped over one shoulder, and her silk shawl fell at an angle as if she’d thrown it on in haste and sprinted here. Judging by her expression, Sar Branón had not told her the truth about Imari.
“Mama…” Ricón started placatingly, but Anja’s gaze cut like a knife.
Ricón closed his lips.
Anja turned a hostile gaze upon Sar Branón. “You lied to me.” Her words were fire. Torture.
Loathing.
“I did,” he said. There was no shame in his voice, no regret.
Anja’s lips twitched and she stepped into the room. Ricón took a small, protective step before Imari, but Imari wished he hadn’t because Anja’s expression only darkened.
Anja stopped before her husband. And slapped him across the face.
The sound cracked, splintering the silence, and Imari flinched.
“Mama!” Ricón hissed.
But Sar Branón snatched Anja’s retreating hand and held it firmly between them. Her slender wrist looked so tiny in his wide fist.
“How dare you…” Anja seethed.
Sar Branón leaned close, matching her fire with his own. “Never strike me again.”
“Sorai is dead because of her!” Anja screamed. “Does that mean nothing to you?”
“Our daughter is dead because of me,” Sar Branón said fiercely. “And I will not reject the one still living.”
Tense seconds labored as a decade of bitterness burned between them. Finally, Anja turned her gaze upon Imari. The sura might be furious with her husband, but for Imari, she held something much, much deeper.
Anja jerked free of the sar’s grasp. She glared at Ricón, who—to his credit—did not flinch, but stood protectively before Imari. Anja gave the slightest shake of her head and stormed out of the room. Right past another figure, who Imari hadn’t seen standing in the doorway, watching them.
Her other brother, Kai.
His dark eyes focused on Imari, and his entire being went suddenly and completely still. “Saints above…”
4
“Found him early this morning,” Klaus said, then added grimly, “This is the fourth attack this week.”
Jeric surveyed the carnage, the vicious mutilation. The scout’s blood soaked the soggy earth and painted the pines with death. Jeric knew what had done this. Truth be told, he’d suspected the moment Grag Beryn, the hunter, had found a wolf’s remains two weeks ago.
Which was Jeric’s first problem.
A shade in these parts shouldn’t have been possible. Shades were nightmares from The Wilds’ perilous woods, constrained by old powers and a violent gorge. His sister, Astrid, had managed to defy those constraints, manufacturing her own shades deep within the Gray’s Teeth Mountains, but those had leapt to their deaths the night she’d attempted—and failed—her coup.
Apparently, she’d made more, and Jeric could not locate them.
Which was Jeric’s second problem.
“You searched the area?” Jeric asked.
“Yes, Your Grace. Didn’t find a single print. It’s like…it knows how to hide its tracks.”
“Where did you find the other three victims?” Commander Anaton asked. He’d been roped into this too, since it was his scout who’d gone missing two nights ago.
“The first was along the Muir, the second due west of here, about two miles,” Grag said, nodding in that direction. “The third, we found in the Gray’s foothills.”