“Did you want me to do it?” she asked softly.
His blue gaze burned into hers. “Be gentle with me.”
“I’ll do my best.” She sliced with the same delicacy she’d employed before, then she counted off, watching his forearm the whole time. It was slow enough that she couldn’t see the incremental improvements. When the wound closed, she shut her eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
“Not sure what it means,” she said, meeting his gaze, “but our healing rates are the same. I compared the seconds.”
He actually took a step back. “I thought the side effects would fade.”
“They don’t seem to be,” she said.
“You think by . . . saving you, I also gave away half of my ability?”
“Possibly. And I don’t think I can give it back.”
“I wouldn’t let you bleed out for me anyway, love. You probably wouldn’t fall into a coma. You’d just die.”
“That’s one exit strategy.” Her voice was low.
“I didn’t fight so hard for you to give up now. It’s better there are two of us anyway. We can do impossible things together.”
“Is that how you see this playing out?”
“I write my own ticket, always have. People don’t tell me how things end. I prefer to determine it for myself.” He shrugged back into his shirt. “And if it takes a day or two instead of hours to wipe this burn away, I can live with it.”
“I wish you didn’t have to.” She wanted to wrap her arms around him and dig her hands into his pale hair.
But she squelched those instincts even as his emotions seeped into her consciousness. Before her arrest, she’d only picked up darker impulses, nothing clean or bright, but incarceration had given her time to perfect and expand on what genetics had bestowed. Dred wasn’t trying to read him, but he was feeling something so strong, some memory, that it filled her head like a tsunami of blue. So much regret and sorrow, so much pain. It wasn’t like guilt, but lonelier. If she let herself, she could drown in it. Jael was like the dark water at the bottom of the deepest cave, where light had never shone. The other prisoners didn’t know she was Psi, and that was just as well. They’d riot in a heartbeat if they thought she was messing with their minds.
He said somberly, “Ah, but wishing’s for innocents, love. People like us, we don’t get the shiny.”
A thump on the door interrupted whatever she might’ve said. “The Speaker is here. He’s demanding an audience.”
“What the hell does Silence want?” Dred snapped.
But she strode out the door and stormed to the common room, where the revels had fallen silent. Damned Death’s Handmaiden, always thinking she could have whatever she demanded. After her failed power play, Dred hadn’t expected to hear anything from her for a while, but the Speaker stood waiting for his meeting with perfect composure. She wanted to stab him, but their problems were already big enough without going to open war with Silence.
Now’s not the time.
“What is it?” she demanded, omitting all courtesies.
“You’ve fortified Queensland. The Handmaiden will be reassured to hear that you fare well.”
“I’m not in the mood for games. Say what you came to say or I kill you, shove your body down the chute, and tell the next messenger you must’ve died on the way back.”
“She would never believe you.”
Dred smiled and took a step forward. “But you’ll still be dead. Talk.”
“Very well, if you must be so brutish. You’re turning into Artan.”
That was the last insult that should’ve passed his lips. The former leader of this territory made Grigor look refined. He’d raped for pleasure and murdered for sport, taken prisoners as slaves and pets, and his idea of entertainment always ended in blood sport and torture. I’m not like him. I protect my people as best I can. Dred slammed a fist into the Speaker’s stomach, then kicked his feet out from under him.
Once he was on the ground and understood just how precarious his existence was, she set her fingers gently on his throat. “You look better from this angle, Speaker.”
“And your head will roll for this offense,” he snarled. “To think I came to offer you the most sacred of honors.”
“What’s that?” She was smirking.
“The Handmaiden wishes to renew your alliance. In her infinite wisdom, she has foreseen that the only way we can withstand this invasion is to fight the interlopers together.”
“Why does she want to survive it?” Jael asked lazily. “Isn’t she all about death?”
The Speaker tried to roll out from beneath Dred, but she increased the pressure on his throat, digging in with her nails, sharp enough to bring up crimson crescents on his sour-smelling, pasty skin. “On her terms. In her time. She is Death’s mistress, not a victim to be murdered by a mob of ignorant brutes.”
Silence really is bugshit insane. After trying to kill me, after putting a mole in my inner circle, she thinks she can crook a finger, and I’ll come running?
“It’s a tempting offer,” she said. “Let me think about it.”
Jael made a noise, but she quieted him with a subtle gesture. She helped the Speaker to his feet, making sure her expression gave nothing away. Around her, other Queenslanders were watching, hardly seeming to breathe. Nobody shouted advice or warnings. She counted to ten, letting the tension build.
Eventually, Dred said, “I’ve come to a decision. Silence—and the rest of you—can fuck all the way off. I will not help you. In any fashion. If you show up near my territory again, I will kill you. Failing that, I hope the mercs burn everything down in that grisly slaughterhouse you call home.”
Whoops rang out from the rest of the men, and she beckoned to Cook, who was the closest thing she had to visually intimidating muscle since Einar died. “If you don’t mind, would you take out the trash?”
The chef grinned, threw his chopping knife at the opposite wall, and advanced on the Speaker, who backed up. He doubtless had a garrote on his person and maybe a poison knife, but Cook was too big to be taken like that, especially coming at a target head-on. The rest of Queensland stopped the Speaker’s retreat and Cook yanked him up bodily and dragged him like a haunch of meat, so the emissary’s head thumped against the floor. With a jerk of his head, the chef summoned more men, probably to help him toss the Speaker over the barricades. When he returned, someone scurried to retrieve his knife.
“That wasn’t politic,” Tam said from behind her. “But it was excellent theater.”
She turned with a frown to confront his sallow, sweaty countenance. “You should be in bed, resting.”
“He’s bored,” Martine said. Tam’s arm was around her shoulder, more for support than in affection, Dred suspected. “He’s not up to the sort of tricks he’d normally enjoy.”
Tam wore an inscrutable expression, but Dred picked up a flare of strong emotion. Quickly, she shut her gift down, not wanting to spy on him. Whether it was anger or desire, she had no reason to delve further. More to the point, she was concerned about his recovery.
“Any sign of infection?” she asked Martine.
The spymaster scowled, as if he knew Dred suspected he’d prevaricate if questioned about his condition. But the shorter woman had no such compunction. “Not so far. He’s going to have some impressive scars, provided he pulls through.”
“It’s not my time,” Tam said.
His tone sounded as if he actually knew when he’d die, but Dred had met sociopaths who enjoyed screwing with other people’s heads. Unsurprisingly, there were more than a few of that stripe in Perdition. Despite their relatively long acquaintance—in prison terms—she wasn’t sure if Tam fit that profile. Martine was another enigma. Maybe that was why they gravitated toward one another. Interesting, because the partner the other woman chose before Tam had been his complete antithesis.