Queen of Shadows (Throne of Glass, #4)

by Sarah J. Maas

Aelin tugged at the emerald silk ribbon around the cream-colored box until it dropped away. Setting aside the lid, she stared at the folded cloth within for a long moment. The note placed atop it read, I took the liberty of having some improvements made since the last time. Go play. Her throat tightened, but she pulled out the full-body suit of black cloth—tight, thick, and flexible like leather, but without the sheen and suffocation. Beneath the folded suit lay a pair of boots. They’d been cleaned since the last time she’d worn them years ago, the black leather still supple and pliable, the special grooves and hidden blades as precise as ever. She lifted the heavy sleeve of the suit to reveal the built-in gauntlets that concealed thin, vicious swords as long as her forearm.

Two days—just two days—until she could see him again, until she could see with her own eyes that he’d made it, that he’d survived all these years they’d been apart. And even if Aedion hated her, spat on her as Chaol had practically done … it would be worth it. Naked, she stepped into the suit, the smooth, slick material whispering against her skin. Typical of Arobynn not to mention what modifications he’d made—to make it a lethal puzzle for her to sort out, if she was clever enough to survive. She shimmied into it, careful to avoid triggering the mechanism that brought forth those hidden blades, feeling for any other concealed weapons or tricks. It was the work of another moment before the suit enveloped her completely, and she buckled her feet into the boots. As she headed for the bedroom, she could already sense the reinforcement added to every weak spot she possessed. The specifications must have been sent months before the suit arrived, by the man who did indeed know about the knee that sometimes twanged, the body parts she favored in combat, the speed with which she moved. All of Arobynn’s knowledge of her, wrapped around her in cloth and steel and darkness. She paused before the standing mirror against the far wall of the bedroom. A second skin. Perhaps made less scandalous by the exquisite detailing, the extra padding, the pockets, the bits of armored decoration—but there was not one inch left to the imagination. She let out a low whistle. Very well, then. She could...

“I don’t make threats. Only promises.”

Aelin said hoarsely, “I’m in.” Lysandra heaved a sigh. “Oh, thank the gods. Now I can talk to someone about clothes without being asked how so-and-so would approve of it, or gobble down a box of chocolates without someone telling me I’d better watch my figure—tell me you like chocolates. You do, right? I remember stealing a box from your room once when you were out killing someone. They were delicious.” Aelin waved a hand toward the boxes of goodies on the table. “You brought chocolate—as far as I’m concerned, you’re my new favorite person.” Lysandra chuckled, a surprisingly deep, wicked sound—probably a laugh she never let Arobynn or her clients hear. “Some night soon, I’ll sneak back in here and we can eat chocolates until we vomit.” “We’re such refined, genteel ladies.” “Please,” Lysandra said, waving a manicured hand, “you and I are nothing but wild beasts wearing human skins. Don’t even try to deny it.”

Not flowers—never flowers in Terrasen. Instead, they carried small stones to graves to mark their visits, to tell the dead that they still remembered. Stones were eternal—flowers were not.

“You befriended one of the greatest warriors in history—perhaps the greatest warrior alive. Your father, and his men, all told me stories about Prince Rowan.” “What?” Oh, he’d been waiting to drop this particular gem of information. “Warriors in the North still talk about him.” “Rowan’s never been to this continent.” She said it with such casualness—Rowan. She really had no clue who she now considered a member of her court, who she’d freed from his oath to Maeve. Who she frequently referred to as a pain in her ass. Rowan was the most powerful full-blooded Fae male alive. And his scent was all over her. Yet she had no gods-damned idea.

Aedion was still brooding about it when they strode down a narrow, foggy alley, its dark stones silvered with the light of the moon peeking out above. He picked up the scrape of boots on stone before his companions did, his Fae ears catching the sound, and threw out an arm in front of Aelin and Nesryn, who froze with expert silence. He sniffed the air, but the stranger was downwind. So he listened. Just one person, judging from the near-silent footfalls that pierced through the wall of fog. Moving with a predator’s ease that made Aedion’s instincts rise to the forefront. Aedion palmed his fighting knives as the male’s scent hit him—unwashed, but with a hint of pine and snow. And then he smelled Aelin on the stranger, the scent complex and layered, woven into the male himself. The male emerged from the fog; tall—maybe taller than Aedion himself, if only by an inch—powerfully built, and heavily armed both above and beneath his pale gray surcoat and hood. Aelin took a step forward. One step, as if in a daze. She loosed a shuddering breath, and a small, whimpering noise came out of her—a sob. And then she was sprinting down the alley, flying as though the winds themselves pushed at her heels. She flung herself on the male, crashing into him hard enough that anyone else might have gone rocking back into the stone wall. But the male grabbed her to him, his massive arms wrapping around her tightly and lifting her up. Nesryn made to approach, but Aedion stopped her with a hand on ...

“There was someone in my room,” Elide said, lowering her foot and standing. Asterin stiffened. “Who?” “I don’t know,” Elide said, keeping near the doorway, even if it would do her no good. “It didn’t seem wise to go inside.” Abraxos had tensed, his tail shifting over the stones. The useless beast was worried for the girl. Manon narrowed her eyes at him. “Isn’t your kind supposed to eat young women?” He glared at her.

Aedion, facing her in a fine tunic of deep green, was the first to notice. He let out a low whistle. “Well, if you didn’t already scare the living shit out of me, you’ve certainly done it now.” Rowan turned to her. He went completely and utterly still as he took in the dress. The black velvet hugged every curve and hollow before pooling at her feet, revealing each too-shallow breath as Rowan’s eyes grazed over her body. Down, then up—to the hair she’d swept back with golden bat-wing-shaped combs that rose above either side of her head like a primal headdress; to the face she’d kept mostly clean, save for a sweep of kohl along her upper eyelid and the deep red lips she’d painstakingly colored. With the burning weight of Rowan’s attention upon her, she turned to show them the back—the roaring golden dragon clawing up her body. She looked over her shoulder in time to see Rowan’s eyes again slide south, and linger. Slowly, his gaze lifted to hers. And she could have sworn that hunger—ravenous hunger—flickered there. “Demons and dining,” Aedion said, clapping Rowan on the shoulder. “We should go.” Her cousin passed her by with a wink. When she turned back to Rowan, still breathless, only cool observation remained on his face. “You said you wanted to see me in this dress,” she said a bit hoarsely. “I hadn’t realized the effect would be so …” He shook his head. He took in her face, her hair, the combs. “You look like—” “A queen?” “The fire-breathing bitch-queen those bastards cla...

Rowan was watching her, an asp ready to strike. But his brows bunched slightly, as if to say, You really threw a dagger at her head? Arobynn began talking about a time Aelin had brawled with Lysandra and they’d rolled down the stairs, scratching and yowling like cats, so Aelin looked at Rowan a moment longer. I was a tad hotheaded. I’m beginning to admire Lysandra more and more. Seventeen-year-old Aelin must have been a delight to deal with. She fought the twitching in her lips. I would pay good money to see seventeen-year-old Aelin meet seventeen-year-old Rowan. His green eyes glittered. Arobynn was still talking. Seventeen-year-old Rowan wouldn’t have known what to do with you. He could barely speak to females outside his family. Liar—I don’t believe that for a second. It’s true. You would have scandalized him with your nightclothes—even with that dress you have on. She sucked on her teeth. He would probably have been even more scandalized to learn I’m not wearing any undergarments beneath this dress. The table rattled as Rowan’s knee banged into it. Arobynn paused, but continued when Aedion asked about what the demon had told him. You can’t be serious, Rowan seemed to say. Did you see any place where this dress might hide them? Every line and wrinkle would show. Rowan shook his head subtly, his eyes dancing with a light that she’d only recently come to glimpse—and cherish. Do you delight in shocking me? She couldn’t stop her smile. How else am I supposed to keep a crank...

The Master flinched, but held up the parchment—signed by Arobynn and utterly legal. “We verified the copies in our vaults this morning. All identical, all dated from three months ago.” When she’d been in Wendlyn. She stepped forward. “So, aside from that teensy sum for Clarisse … all of this—this house, the Guild, the other properties, his fortune—it’s all mine?” The Master nodded again, already scrambling to pack up his case. “Congratulations, Miss Sardothien.” Slowly, she turned her head toward Clarisse and Lysandra. “Well, if that’s the case …” She bared her teeth in a vicious smile. “Get your whoring, blood-sucking carcasses the hell off my property.” The Master choked. Lysandra couldn’t move fast enough as she rushed for the door. Clarisse, however, remained seated. “How dare you—” the madam began. “Five,” Aelin said, holding up five fingers. She lowered one, and reached for her dagger with her other hand. “Four.” Another. “Three.” Clarisse hauled ass from the room, bustling after a sobbing Lysandra.

Then Aelin looked at the three assassins. Their hands hung limp at their sides, fury and shock and—wisely enough—something like fear on their faces. She said too quietly, “You held Sam back while Arobynn beat me into oblivion, and then didn’t raise a finger to stop it when Arobynn beat him, too. I don’t know what role you played in his death, but I will never forget the sounds of your voices outside my bedroom door as you fed me the details about Rourke Farran’s house. Was it easy for you three? To send me to that sadist’s house, knowing what he’d done to Sam and what he was aching to do to me? Were you just following orders, or were you more than happy to volunteer?” The Master had recoiled in his chair, trying to make himself as invisible as possible in a room full of professional killers. Tern’s lip curled. “We don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Pity. I might have been willing to listen to some paltry excuses.” She looked at the clock on the mantel. “Pack your clothes and get the hell out. Right now.” They blinked. “What?” Tern said. “Pack your clothes,” she said, enunciating each word. “Get the hell out. Right now.” “This is our home,” Harding said. “Not anymore.” She picked at her nails. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Master,” she purred, and the man cringed at the attention. “I own this house and everything in it. Tern, Harding, and Mullin haven’t yet paid back their debts to poor Arobynn, so I own everything they have here—even their clothes. I’m feeling generous, s...

Yet there he was, his hand a brand on her bare shoulder, his body nearly covering hers. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” she whispered. “I trust you, Rowan.” He gave her a barely perceptible nod. “I missed you,” he said quietly, his gaze darting between her mouth and eyes. “When I was in Wendlyn. I lied when I said I didn’t. From the moment you left, I missed you so much I went out of my mind. I was glad for the excuse to track Lorcan here, just to see you again. And tonight, when he had that knife at your throat …” The warmth of his callused finger bloomed through her as he traced a path over the cut on her neck. “I kept thinking about how you might never know that I missed you with only an ocean between us. But if it was death separating us … I would find you. I don’t care how many rules it would break. Even if I had to get all three keys myself and open a gate, I would find you again. Always.”

She kept her stare locked on his as she let go of his face and slowly, making sure he understood every step of the way, tilted her head back until her throat was arched and bared before him. “Aelin,” he breathed. Not in reprimand or warning, but … a plea. It sounded like a plea. He lowered his head to her exposed neck and hovered a hair’s breadth away. She arched her neck farther, a silent invitation. Rowan let out a soft groan and grazed his teeth against her skin. One bite, one movement, was all it would take for him to rip out her throat. His elongated canines slid along her flesh—gently, precisely. She clenched the sheets to keep from running her fingers down his bare back and drawing him closer. He braced one hand beside her head, his fingers twining in her hair. “No one else,” she whispered. “I would never allow anyone else at my throat.” Showing him was the only way he’d understand that trust, in a manner that only the predatory, Fae side of him would comprehend. “No one else,” she said again. He let out another low groan, answer and confirmation and request, and the rumble echoed inside her. Carefully, he closed his teeth over the spot where her lifeblood thrummed and pounded, his breath hot on her skin. She shut her eyes, every sense narrowing on that sensation, on the teeth and mouth at her throat, on the powerful body trembling with restraint above hers. His tongue flicked against her skin. She made a small noise that might have been a moan, or a word, or his na...

He lifted a hand—hesitated, and then brushed back a strand of hair that had fallen across her face. His callused fingers scraped against her cheekbone, then caressed the shell of her ear. It was foolish to even start down this road, when every other man she’d let in had left some wound, in one way or another, accidentally or not. There was nothing soft or tender on his face. Only a predator’s glittering gaze. “When we get back,” he said, “remind me to prove you wrong about every thought that just went through your head.” She lifted an eyebrow. “Oh?” He gave her a sly smile that made thinking impossible. Exactly what he wanted—to distract her from the horrors of tomorrow. “I’ll even let you decide how I tell you: with words”—his eyes flicked once to her mouth—“or with my teeth and tongue.” A thrill went through her blood, pooling in her core. Not fair—not fair at all to tease her like that. “This miserable inn is rather loud,” she said, daring to slide a hand over his bare pectoral, then up to his shoulder. She marveled at the strength beneath her palm. He shuddered, but his hands remained at his sides, clenched and white knuckled. “It’s too bad Aedion could still probably hear through the wall.” She gently scraped her nails across his collarbone, marking him, claiming him, before leaning in to press her mouth to the hollow of his throat. His skin was so smooth, so invitingly warm. “Aelin,” he groaned. Her toes curled at the roughness in his voice. “Too bad,” she murmured a...

Only thirteen wyverns were grounded in the meadow. The smallest of them was sprawled on his belly, face buried in a mound of wildflowers. Iron spikes gleamed on his tail in lieu of bone, scars covered his body like a cat’s stripes, and his wings … she knew the material grafted there. Spidersilk. That much of it must have cost a fortune.

Here it was again, that tug—toward Manon, whose arms buckled as she collapsed to the stone. Her enemy—her new enemy, who would have killed her and Rowan if given the chance. A monster incarnate. But perhaps the monsters needed to look out for each other every now and then.

Then Aelin was upon Manon Blackbeak, and the witch lifted hate-filled eyes to her. Aelin hauled off stone after stone from her body, the island beneath them buckling. “You’re too good a fighter to kill,” Aelin breathed, hooking an arm under Manon’s shoulders and hauling her up. The rock swayed to the left—but held. Oh, gods. “If I die because of you, I’ll beat the shit out of you in hell.” She could have sworn the witch let out a broken laugh as she got to her feet, nearly a dead weight in Aelin’s arms. “You—should let me die,” Manon rasped as they limped over the rubble. “I know, I know,” Aelin panted, her sliced arm aching with the weight of the witch it supported.