Shattered Spirits by C. I. Black Read Free Book Online Page B

sat on the cushioned throne in the center of the box. His entourage crowded behind him on cushioned benches, leaving the uncushioned bench in front of him free for his guests .
    “Have a seat, Barna. I think you’ll find this entertaining.” Regis leaned back. “You, too, Capri.”
    Fantastic. There was no getting out of this, and certainly no hanging out at the back of the box and sneaking away once whatever Regis had planned began.
    She followed Barna and his Second and sat.
    Regis leaned forward. “Now, watch carefully. This is important.”
    A nervous energy filled the arena. It was too quiet with so many drakes in attendance. More drakes were here than had been at the pahar two weeks ago—but then the pahar was really for the doyens, their Seconds and Thirds, to play Regis’s political games, and not much more.
    This, however, was for every drake. Regis had summoned them all, and any who hadn’t shown had been noticed and not in a way anyone wanted. Regis was pissed and no one knew if it was safer to avoid him or play his games. Even Grey was here. He sat on a bench a quarter of the way around the arena from her, near the back. In the bright light filling the stadium, Grey still didn’t look well. He was even more grey in complexion than before.
    Movement in the main arch, across from her on the arena floor, caught her attention. Regis giggled and Barna stiffened. The doyen of the Major Brown Coterie knew whatever was going to happen was a not-so-veiled threat. Would it be effective?
    Half a dozen guards, dressed in all black with a gold rampant dragon embroidered over their hearts, stepped out of the shadows. Behind them, collared and on a chain leash like a dog, followed Zenobia. She stood straight and proud, a testament to the Syrian queen she’d once been, but her posture was also tight with agony. Her black hair hung wild about her head, accentuating the silver half-mask covering the left side of her face, the reason for her pain. Regis had dressed her in a low-cut green gown. Runnels of blood seeped down her neck, parting at her shoulder to ooze down her back and over her chest between her breasts.
    The guard holding her leash jerked it, and Zenobia stumbled but didn’t fall.
    “Kneel,” Regis roared, his voice booming through the arena.
    The muscle in Barna’s jaw twitched.
    Zenobia eased to her knees, her head held up defiantly. The guard grabbed her mask and pulled it off.
    A gasp raced through the crowd. The skin on Zenobia’s face scabbed over a raw wound but then burst apart before fully healing. Blood seeped down her jaw and over her neck. The wound scabbed and burst again and again in a constant state of healing and disintegration.
    She should have been dead. Disintegrating touch was one of the few things that could kill a drake. But her soul magic healing was so strong and so fast she had somehow survived—if in an agonizing state of constant disintegration was actually surviving.
    Someone else moved just inside the arch. More whispers hissed through the arena. Then a hint of something pale shifted and caught light, forming a silver halo.
    Capri’s mind stuttered.
    It couldn’t be.
    She blinked, but only one drake had a halo like that. Odyne.
    The silver drake eased from the shadows and stepped into the arena. She was a study in opposites to Zenobia, with skin so white she looked bloodless. Her silver hair hung to her waist, a match to her silver eyes. She wore all black: boots, pants, long-sleeved shirt, and calf-length, high-collared coat. She clasped black-gloved hands before her and turned an impassive expression toward Regis as if she were above all this.
    Maybe she was. She’d been a recluse, hiding in an obscure wing of the Dragon Court for centuries, longer than Capri could remember. Rumor had it she’d been Constantine’s Torturer, using her earth magic gift of searing touch to cause excruciating pain to anyone Constantine condemned. Rumor had it she couldn’t control her