Daughter of Nox

Chapter Seven

Freya's heart beat a tattoo inside of her chest as she rushed toward the house.

Inside, she thought. Inside was safe. Away from her cousin. Away from the Esque.

She swiped her hand over the reader and practically fell through the door as soon as it opened, letting relief blow over her lips as she crossed the threshold. It wasn't until the door swooshed closed behind her that she felt the knotted tension ease from her body.

What in the flaming hell was that, she thought. She replayed the events in her head, barely believing that what had happened had actually happened.

But it had. It was real. Freya hadn't imagined it.

If she hadn't seen it, hadn't just fought off an Esque to save her own life, then she wouldn't have believed it. How could she? People didn't change like that. They didn't play the sweet innocent family member before locking you in a ship and trying to kill you.

Freya let out a shaky breath. Father needed to know. For flame's sake, her uncle needed to know. Hela was dangerous, and so long as she could play the innocent young Founder there was no telling what she would do.

Freya took the stairs two at a time to the second floor. Telling them both, that was the plan. She'd have to interrupt their meeting. Father would be livid, but if there was ever a good reason, then this was it.

The wet soles of her shoes squeaked on the polished wood as she reached the top stair. Freya turned down the hall, but paused mid-step. Someone was yelling–two someones–and the sound was coming from the direction of Father's study.

Freya crept forward, straining to hear. It was Father, and he was angry. Like, really angry. The sound of it brought her to a halt. Yelling wasn't his thing. Stern and disappointed lectures, maybe. But yelling wasn't something she ever remembered hearing from him.

Freya had just decided it was safe to move down the hall when the door to Father's study swooshed open.

Freya froze.

"You can play the honorable soldier, Rúnda," her uncle's voice boomed, "but the both me and the Inquisitors know what you're up to. I know you're working toward a truce with the rebels."

Inquisitors.

Freya felt cold leech into her marrow at the mention of the word. Formed in the wake of the Separatist uprising on the Rim, the Inquisitors were charged with rooting disloyalty from Ministry no matter where it was, and people tended to disappear whenever an Inquisitor arrived.

If her father felt any fear, his voice didn't show it. "You know, do you? Tell me then, Cruxious, why hasn't the Ministry stripped me of my Seat? Why am I here, instead of rotting in a detention cell?" her father paused, as though letting the question simmer in the air. "Perhaps it's because there are those in the Ministry who aren't as far under your thumb as you'd like to think?"

Freya heard her uncle let out a snarl.

"Keep up with your little games. Keep meddling in my family's affairs, speaking to my wife." Cruxious spat the word like a curse, "and you'll find out how far my reach extends."

The sound of the Caretakers coming to attention ricocheted down the hall, and Freya's feet came unglued from the floor. She backpedaled, staying on the balls of her feet to keep her shoes from squeaking.

The clunk of boots resounded through the house just as she ducked around a corner. Freya clung to the wall, squeezing her eyes shut until she heard the swoosh of the front door opening and closing.

Freya let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She sagged against the wall.

Close, she thought. Too close.