Brood of Vipers by Maggie Claire (good books for high schoolers .txt) 📕

Coyote, maybe a few others, I don’t know.” Wren offers the names with as little emotion as possible. “But maybe I’m wrong. An open planning session in full view would be a pretty stupid way to start a revolt,” Wren smirks, dropping to sit on the white-washed steps. “If I was involved in such a clandestine affair like that, I suspect they go into Jackal’s tent for privacy. They’d be far away from prying eyes that way. Of course, if they did, you’d have the perfect opportunity to sneak up on them and eavesdrop through the canvas. But you’d have to move quickly; if they are smart, they won’t meet for any length of time.”

Wolf stands, gulping down air as he struggles to stay on his feet. Nausea overwhelms his stomach, and his teeth begin to chatter. “I…I don’t think I can get there,” Wolf declares, his knees growing weak. Another piercing throb in his head brings stars to his eyes.

“Take a deep breath,” Wren suggests, pointing to a small knot in the porch railing. “Focus on this spot right here. Will the pain away from your mind’s consciousness.”

“Had a lot of experience with neglected naming bonds, have you?” Wolf snipes even as he follows Wren’s advice.

“Nope, but I’ve endured a few beatings in my day,” Wren whispers flatly, his eyes growing dark as the unwanted memories fill his mind’s eye. “Breathing through the pain and displacing my focus always helped me persevere.”

“Only for a short time, though,” Wolf wheezes, squeezing the arms of the rocking chair until his fingers turn white. “The agony rears its ugly head no matter what I try. I’ve got to find a way to break the naming bonds as soon as possible.” Despite Wolf’s reluctance, the method works well enough that he can stand and walk down the steps without getting sick. A hard, unreadable expression passes over Wolf’s features as he exclaims, “Now, if you are correct about Jackal, then he and the other traitors will die. But if I find you are mistaken or willfully trying to breed trouble, you, Lynx, and her baby will be the next ones on the burning pyre. So, are you absolutely certain that you want me to investigate Jackal?”

“I have nothing to hide,” Wren lies expertly, silently calculating how quickly he could jump down the steps, find Lynx and her son, and disappear if his plan were to fail. “It’s time to find out if your so called second in command can say the same.”

***

“I don’t need any more healers, and I don’t need any more food! I just want to a little peace and quiet,” Helena bellows while she agitatedly paces around the infirmary.

A sympathetic looking young woman shakes her head, a tremor in her voice as she protests, “But the king has ordered—”

“I don’t care what Alaric said.” Helena’s voice drops to a low, dangerous growl. “I will see no one else this evening. Do you understand me?” She clenches her eyes shut, shying away from the memories haunting her mind. She cannot unsee Evaine’s tearless eyes and serene expression right before the guard brutally decapitated her. Nor can she forget the enslaved guards who perished in the effort to save the other prisoners clawing through the tunnel. And the dull thuds of the prisoners’ bodies slamming into the rock in freefall still ring in her ears. “Leave me,” Helena begs, more to the memories than to the slave still standing in the infirmary.

“But—”

“I won’t ask you again.” Helena’s voice grows deadly calm, her hands reaching for a tiny scalpel laying on a tray near the next sick bed. “I’ve witnessed a great many innocent deaths this day, but don’t think for a second that I won’t add your name to the funeral list. What’s one more?”

The young woman gulps, backing away from Helena as if she was a wild beast with bared fangs and outstretched claws. Helena tosses the scalpel half-heartedly in her direction. It zips by the girl’s cheek, skewering the wooden frame surrounding the door. With a squeak of fear and surprise, the girl races out of the room, finally giving Helena the silence for which she’s been longing.

Helena paces over to the windowsill, staring out at the horizon. In the distance, she can see the faintest outline of the mountains. Tomorrow I’ll be traversing those peaks again, Helena sighs, the thought of leaving this place naturally reminding her of Ithel’s predicament. He should be the guard going with me. I should have been able to protect him. Soon the silence Helena so desperately desired grows unbearable. Opening the window, a soft breeze twirls wisps of her hair, begging her to dance and play in its wake. Allowing the wind to stir in her blood, she lets it carry her out into the sky, hovering over the palace. Were it not for Ithel’s captivity, she would disappear on this breeze and leave Déchets forever. Yet to keep Ithel safe, she must play the part of Alaric’s spy. Unless I can free him now, Helena realizes wickedly, drifting on the wind until she’s in the king’s private courtyard where Ithel was drug down into the prison cells.

A shiver ripples through Helena’s elemental form, the rank odor of the prison wafting up to her on the breeze. I have earned my freedom, she reminds herself even as her body freezes, refusing to enter the prison. I can go through this door and come back to see the sunlight. I am a prisoner no more. Yet Helena can barely hover above the doorway without gagging. Human waste and the sour stench of terror permeate the place. The scent of moldy food and filthy straw fill her nose, choking her, reminding her of the horrible days when she feared she was losing her sanity there in the darkness. Breaths come in short, ragged hitches while Helena tries to cajole herself into entering the prison. The guards who took Ithel into those cells probably didn’t venture