A Curse of Queens, page 1
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Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2022 by Amanda Bouchet
Cover and internal design © 2022 by Sourcebooks
Internal illustration © 2022 by Diana Dworak
Internal images © aninata/Getty Images, art-skvortsova/Getty Images, delcarmat/Shutterstock, Julia Dreams/Creative Market, kvasay/iStock, mspoint/Getty Images, Polar_lights/Getty Images
Cover illustration by Shane Rebenschied/Shannon Associates
Map by Jillian Rahn/Sourcebooks
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
sourcebooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Bouchet, Amanda, author.
Title: A curse of queens / Amanda Bouchet.
Description: Naperville, Illinois : Sourcebooks Casablanca, [2022] |
Series: The kingmaker chronicles ; book 4
Identifiers: LCCN 2022020743 (print) | LCCN 2022020744 (ebook) | (trade paperback) | (epub)
Subjects: LCGFT: Novels.
Classification: LCC PS3602.O8878 C87 2022 (print) | LCC PS3602.O8878
(ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23/eng/20220428
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022020743
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022020744
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Map of Thalyria
Prologue
Persephone
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Hera
Epilogue
The Key Players
Guide to Thalyria and the Gods
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
For Lynn L.
Thank you for your unwavering friendship and support since the day we met. I appreciate you so much!
And for Alexandra P.
Because I want the whole world to know how smart, kind, and amazing you are. Polla filia.
Prologue
It was not a day like any other. It was Jocasta’s eighteenth birthday, and if the man she’d loved since she was six years old didn’t already know he had her heart, he would know it in the next few minutes.
She took her brothers’ makeshift bridge over the river and cut through Flynn’s olive grove rather than use the dirt road between their two houses, avoiding gnarled old roots that had twisted her ankles on more than one occasion. She’d just washed from head to toe, and she had plans. Arriving at Flynn’s house with dusty toes poking out of her sandals wasn’t part of them.
Her stomach clenched, and Jocasta took a steadying breath. This was it, then—everything finally coming together.
Really, she shouldn’t be so nervous. Wasn’t Flynn practically a member of the family already? Her oldest brother’s best friend? Someone she’d known—quite literally—forever?
Besides, he was it for her—the one. She couldn’t even remember a time when that wasn’t her reality.
She stepped over a fallen branch and headed up the field, Flynn’s house a deceptively cheery whitewashed dot in the distance. He lived alone now. Old Hector was the last to go, leaving Flynn parentless, brotherless, and sisterless after a decade-long cycle of everything going wrong. Her heart had broken over and over along with Flynn’s, but now she could finally help him. Wouldn’t a family of his own be just the healing balm he needed after losing everyone?
Despite her positive—and logical—thoughts, panic still thrummed in Jocasta’s veins, descending like a swarm of locusts on her fast-beating heart. Fear of rejection grew with every step toward Flynn’s, but it wasn’t as though she were about to spring herself on him from out of nowhere. She wasn’t blind to signs or prone to inventing things out of sheer hopefulness. There was really only one way to interpret all the kind smiles and shared laughs, the near-daily inquiring after her health and projects, the long, private conversations down by the river between their two houses, and the frequent escorting her home, even when they both knew it wasn’t necessary.
Flynn’s attentiveness wasn’t new exactly, just different somehow. He’d always looked out for her. And as independent as Jocasta liked to think herself, she had needed help at times.
Ice slid down her spine, and she slammed the door on the memory she mostly managed to avoid. It surged up anyway, and she walked more slowly through the sudden spike in her pulse, repeating thoughts like done, over, and no! until a colorful word mosaic of her own design patterned over the ugly images in her head.
Squaring her shoulders, she picked up her pace. There hadn’t been a truly violent raid on their village in years, even if the last one still felt like yesterday at times. Sintan royal guards descending on their homes. Heartless soldiers demanding taxes far beyond what was due, thieving, destroying, and taking, especially from the women of the tribe. Seven babies were born roughly nine months after that last impromptu tax raid, and she’d had her first woman’s cycle only a few months before.
She could’ve been one of those new mothers five years ago if Flynn hadn’t pulled that rotten-toothed bastard off her in time. He’d practically ripped the man limb from limb before spiriting her away to the hidden tunnels below the temple district. He’d raced off again to try to protect others, leaving her with his hunting knife and cloak. She’d been so cold down there, shivering in fear and shock beneath that big statue of Zeus. Sometimes, she still heard the eerie silence and felt the flood of dread deep under her skin like a sickness oozing its way out from within.
That distant day was a tangle of fear and gratitude in her memory, and Jocasta mentally stomped on it as she approached Flynn’s house, each step driving the horror that could’ve been so much worse for her farther into the ground.
No one ever knew what happened that afternoon except for the two of them—how close her life came to being irrevocably changed. Not her parents. Not her brothers and sisters. No one. She should’ve been hiding in the secret room behind the kitchen pantry, but she’d been too far from home when the brutal, greed-driven soldiers arrived—and then not close enough when they truly closed in.
Flynn came for her when it was all over. Her family was intact but poorer, and he took her back to them. They never spoke of that day again.
Every now and then, when her mind hovered between asleep and awake, she saw Flynn’s face as he killed that soldier above her. Most of it was a blur. Her groping wildly for a weapon. Rough, hard hands pawing at her new breasts and yanking up her dress. Suddenly knowing she’d lost—that she’d never stood a chance.
Another few seconds, and that would’ve been true. Flynn had snapped her attacker’s neck so hard she sometimes still heard the crack. And then a huge auburn-haired beast had reached down for her, a roar in his chest and his features on fire with hate. All fear had vanished. As savage as he’d looked, he was her beast.
That day not only marked the moment her father became deadly serious about uniting the southern tribes into a coalition big and powerful enough to strike fear into the northern Sintan elite but also the day her love turned into passion. For as long as she could remember, she’d looked at Flynn with a child’s adulation. After that raid, she’d understood what it felt like to look at a fierce, capable man and nearly combust with a woman’s love.
Jocasta’s steps slowed as she started down the flat, sun-warmed path of stones leading to Flynn’s front doorway. Doubts rattled like swords, warning her away from the field of engagement. She knew how she felt, but what about Flynn? He’d never actually touched her or spoken to her in a way that indicated his feelings went deeper than friendship. It was just that lately, things hadn’t felt the same.
The prospect of being alone with Flynn usually sent dragonflies swooping through her belly. Right now, their frantically beating wings churned up a wash of acid in her stomach, and Jocasta fought a nervous grimace. The closer she got to Flynn’s door, the more her heart squeezed and burst and caught fire as though hit by a lightning bolt.
Finally on his doorstep, she shifted from foot to foot. Could this be a huge mistake? There was no backward from a confession of love.
But there was no forward without one—or at least not into a future she wanted.
Steeling herself, she lifted her hand and knocked. She’d always liked Flynn’s whitewashed house with its sky-blue shutters—probably more than he did at this point. He kept the old farmhouse in perfect condition. The only things missing were his mother’s big clay flowerpots with their bright-crimson hera’s hearts and jaunty flushing dryads. He had the pots somewhere; she had no doubt. And Jocasta would replace the dead roots of bygone blooms with her kitchen herbs and medicinal plants as soon as it was her right.
Flynn was home now. He couldn’t always be out honing his battle skills with her brothers and Kato. The five of them did little else these days, but homes and lands also needed tending. Even if Flynn hated every lonely second he spent in his empty house, a man like him would never let his family farm fall into ruin—or at least not the buildings. Harvests were a different story. Last season’s fat black olives now stained the grove, shriveled and bird-pecked where they’d fallen while a new crop grew, waiting for a farmer to tend to it, when the only person who lived here now had a new occupation: war.
Jocasta waited for Flynn to answer her knock, which she’d made sure was loud enough to resonate. At this time of day, he was often in the back courtyard building something to furnish his house. If the telltale thud, thud, thud she’d heard was any indication, he was at it again. The steady fall of his hammer seemed to echo the beat of her heart these days, although if he built one more unnecessary chair or table, he’d have no place left to walk.
Maybe he could fashion them a cradle soon, one that rocked, and she’d try not to be too terrified when he rode off with the others to defend their border, which was slowly extending toward the north.
She knocked again, even more firmly this time. The hammering in the courtyard abruptly stopped, and Jocasta’s heart tumbled, speeding up. She could make this empty house a home again. She would.
The door opened, jolting her pulse into a mad enough dash to make her hands shake. She hid them in the folds of her gown, all that floaty material draping down her hips and legs finally coming in handy. Flynn stood a head taller than her, his broad shoulders blocking out everything beyond. Limned in the golden glow of the sunset at Jocasta’s back, his auburn hair looked almost blond. He hadn’t cut a single lock since his father died, and the thick mass now brushed the strong curve of his jaw. She wished she could smooth it back with gentle, soothing strokes, the kind reserved for wounded animals. Or wounded souls.
Jocasta exhaled a slow, deceptively steady breath, her eyes fixed on Flynn’s. Surprise flitted across his expression, quickly replaced by concern.
“Is everything all right, Jo?” He looked past her, around, and then at her again. He frowned. “It’s getting late for you to be out alone.”
His concern plucked at her heartstrings, sending a warm vibration through her chest. “Everything’s fine,” she answered. Except for her voice. It was already low and gravelly enough without creaking from nerves. She cleared her throat, wishing she didn’t perpetually sound as if she just woke up. “As you know, the southern lands have never been safer.”
Had wooden conversation ever led to seduction? Probably not. She fought a wince.
Flynn nodded, smiling despite how stiff and stilted she sounded. “Griffin’s talking about going on the offensive soon. Next thing those murdering royals up in Sinta City know, he’ll be king.”
The idea made Jocasta shudder in fear for everyone she loved. It was entirely possible her brother would eventually make a bid for the throne. But a Hoi Polloi warlord ruling the realm? It had never happened. Magic always won.
“Happy birthday.” Flynn stepped aside, leaving her room to enter. “I was going to stop by your house later, but since you’re here, I have something for you.”
Her heart leaped at his words. Jocasta followed him inside, her unruly pulse robbing her of breath and those dragonflies now carousing wildly in her stomach.
Inside, the house was dark except for the natural light slanting in through the deep-set windows. Flynn skirted an upturned stool with one leg still waiting to be attached and strode toward a side table. It was one of three lined up along the far wall.
“Is the upstairs this full?” Glancing around, she spotted several new pieces of furniture in varying stages of completion. There were far too many chairs for a one-man home. One was child-sized, and her heart gave a little thump. She could already see a red-haired imp in it. Their imp.
Flynn just shrugged, his silence seeming to invite her to ignore the fact that he was populating his house with inanimate objects because all the animate ones were gone.
Jocasta let it go, knowing she couldn’t truly understand Flynn’s suffering. Her family remained intact. Parents and siblings, all able-bodied and well.
Flynn picked up a small box tied with a thick hellipses-grass bow and held it out to her. His eyes gleamed the same warm brown as the olive-wood container he’d likely carved himself as he placed the gift in her hands, a smile tugging at his mouth.
Jocasta bit her lip. Flynn had given her many things over the last eighteen years, but never something wrapped in a bow.
She tried to hide how her fingers shook as she opened the box. Her breath caught. It was a bracelet. A beautiful bronze bracelet with fluted engravings on either side of a row of polished blue stones.
Her eyes jumped to his face, her heart pounding in her throat. Surely, giving her jewelry was a strong sign of his regard?
Flynn plucked the bracelet from the box and slipped it onto her wrist, squeezing to adjust the size. He set the box aside. “The stones match your eyes. They were the brightest and bluest I could find.”
Elation made her dizzy. That was the most romantic thing he’d ever said. To her—and probably ever. Jocasta moved without thinking. Happiness propelled her forward, and she threw her arms around Flynn’s neck, stretched up, and crushed her lips to his. Finally! She closed her eyes, held on, and soared.
Flynn froze, his lips warm but unyielding, his arms at his sides, and his big, hard body not melding to hers. Jagged worry spiked her pulse. This might be her first kiss, but she still knew what was supposed to happen, and Flynn not kissing her back—at all—definitely wasn’t it.
She stayed where she was, her lips pressed firmly to Flynn’s and her breasts lightly brushing his clothes. She angled her head, the new, more intense pressure a silent plea for him to reciprocate. He was twenty-eight years old, a man who’d been on military campaigns, and she had no illusions about the women he must have kissed—and certainly more. Jocasta couldn’t possibly be that bad at this.
Still, he didn’t move. Just as hope started to crumble and die in her chest, Flynn kissed her back. His mouth suddenly surged against hers. He wrapped his arms around her and hauled her in close, a sound of pure hunger rising in his throat. Jocasta echoed it—a deep, primal moan of excitement and relief. Spearing her fingers into his hair, she arched into him with an instinctive roll of her hips.
Flynn’s gasp punched her lips. He hesitated. Their mouths barely touched, their breathing ragged and loud. Then his grip tightened, and he brought her to her toes as he slanted his mouth over hers, softly at first, and then harder, parting her lips. Jocasta’s legs grew heavy and weak. His tongue brushed her lower lip, feather soft and questioning. The thump of sensation low in her abdomen said yes, and she opened for him, catching fire from the heat of their kiss.
