Crier's War (Crier's War, #1)

by Nina Varela

It had not occurred to her that she might be gaining an advocate, as well as a husband.

Where love existed, death would follow, a wolf trailing after a wounded deer. Scenting blood in the air. Ayla

Justice was a god, and Ayla didn’t believe in such childish things. She believed in blood.

It was always better to do what you knew was right than what was kind.

I was talking about how you never, ever stop fighting, no matter how much it hurts.

Like she was more than a human girl. Like she was a summer storm made flesh.

Ayla’s face was fascinating. Crier had seen her barely twice and she already knew this like she knew the constellations.

Once, he had said: “If there exists a type of human capable of dismantling our world, it is the dancer.”

For some reason, Ayla’s outrage—over a story, over her words, over, maybe her—made Crier smile. A thought came to her: a story of its own, one that had only just begun writing itself in her mind: a story of two women, one human, one Made, who told ancient faerie stories to each other. Who splashed each other at the edge of the water. Who whispered the beauty of snow and the fear of death into the darkness of a late autumn evening.

A drop of water gleamed on Ayla’s lower lip. Strangely, it made Crier want to—drink.

“So Kinok is the fox,” Crier said. “Clever and deceiving.” The queen smiled. “No, my dear. Kinok is the wolf.” She paused and stared at Crier for a moment. Then she said, “I want you to be the fox.”

There are some who call her a monster. Some who call her mad. If longing is madness, then none of us are sane.

“It means I saw the way your Lady Crier looks at you,” said Storme. “It means I saw the way you look at her. The way you spoke to her. The way you almost touch her, sometimes.”

“I know you’re looking at me,” Crier said, and Ayla looked away so quickly that she nearly knocked her head against the carriage window. “I can tell. I can always tell.” “No you can’t,” Ayla muttered, cheeks hot. Crier raised an eyebrow. “Was I wrong?”

Ayla was pretending to be annoyed about the whole pretending-to-be-ill act, but Crier suspected she was secretly enjoying it. Her pained groaning was quite loud, and she was limping very dramatically. “Which illness gives you stomach pains and a limp,” Crier muttered, helping Ayla through the

“You’re an Automa. It’s your nature to overpower.” Crier looked as if she’d been slapped.

Crier moved at the exact same time, hands flying up to frame Ayla’s face, and they were kissing.

Ayla hated her. She hated her so goddamn much. It wasn’t a lie. It just wasn’t the whole truth.

Her body was a curve above the blankets, an open parenthesis, the beginning of a sentence.

Crier had been Designed. Crier was Made. But in the moment Ayla first touched her, Crier had learned what it felt like to be born.

Crier wasn’t Flawed. She’d never been Flawed. She was perfect; she was fully Automa. There was nothing wrong with her, no Passion consuming her from the inside out. No love.

“Humanity is how you act, my lady,” said Jezen. “Not how you were Made.”