Page 99 of Reign

“The king should be here. As should the Viscount Marron,” another deep, masculine voice pipes in. “Why aren’t they here representing themselves?”

“Ask your queen,” Tempest answers. “She’s nothing if not sneaky. But let’s all consider how this is looking to that NYPD guy over there, and what he might do once he’s released.” Tempest’s forehead wrinkles. “Unless we’re supposed to dispose of him? I dunno, Queen, do you want to graduate to serial killer status so soon?”

Sabine drops my hand. “You little prick.”

She moves so fast, her billowing skirts are a blur until the slap rings out.

Tempest’s head jerks to the side, the tanned skin on his cheek blooming with red.

My jaw drops open. Violet whispers, “Oh my God.”

Both of us are so glued to the action in anticipation of Tempest’s response, I don’t see Falyn coming in time.

Until the flash of silver.

The glint of her teeth.

And the roughened edges of her scream.

35

Callie

Falyn’s scream echoes above the rafters, ricochets off the walls, and tunnels into my ears with such murderous accuracy that my body responds before my mind figures out I’m about to be disemboweled in an effort to save Tempest.

I duck, the blade whistling above my head, and tackle Falyn at the waist until we both tumble to the ground.

Shouts and hollers follow, the heavy clomps of footsteps and the high-pitched decibels of screams, but Falyn spins me to my back, covering my face with her robe and pressing down so hard, I don’t have to hear my nose crack under the pressure—I feel it.

The fabric quickly becomes soaked with my saliva and blood as my mouth gapes and I fight against her suffocation, the random acts and heightened ruckus becoming quieter as my sole focus turns to survival.

The knife—where’s the knife?

I have the keen sense she’ll be swinging it down at any moment, and I won’t be joining Chase in the hospital after. It’ll be the morgue.

Falyn straddles me, howling triumph over the outbreak in the temple. My arms start to tire. My vision dots with darker stars, but all I can think is: Fight.

I raise my knees. Blindly bring my legs forward in an attempt to cross them at the front of her chest and throw her down to the ground.

The pretzel idea works—as soon as Falyn feels my shins at her face, her arms lift and she pushes at them, but thigh muscles are so much stronger than arms. Bunching my abs and arching my back, I smack her onto the ground and rise to a seated position, scrambling to get the cloak off my face.

And open my eyes to a violent melee.

Cloaks stream down the back stairwells onto the main floor, some trying to stop the cluster of fights, but most starting them.

Tempest’s A-list actor father stands in front of his son, screaming obscenities at whoever tries to come near them and attempting to push Tempest to the exit.

Tempest cuts his eyes to me and smirks. As Willow beelines over to me and Falyn on the ground, he kicks out his foot and she belly-flops to the ground.

Sabine? Where’s Sabine?

Frantic, I search the room, but Falyn is fast recovering. I peel off her and stand, dodging her hands and running into the fray, but not before collecting the knife on the way.

It’s heavy with quality. Ornate with silver. Wet with invisible blood—Ivy’s blood. Chase’s blood. Mine and Tempest’s.

My grip tightens around the hilt. I wrestle my way into the middle of the temple, pausing. Then scream: “Sabine!”

As I do, my eyes travel up. I spot her on the balcony, alone, looking down. When she catches my eye, she curls a beckoning finger.