Page 84 of Nemesis Mine
But they had forced him. They dared to take Max’s image, to wear his face as their own. To puppeteer his body and wrangle his voice for themselves.
They had made Cyrus believe, even for a moment, that Max had—that Max would—that Max was not his.
That Max wouldeverdo that to him.
The sense of falling in on himself vanished, reversed. He was building back up, piece by piece, and he was angry.
“He brought it on himself,” Cyrus said, quietly. He had not taken his eyes away from the shapeshifter’s collapsed form.
The black-haired woman took a step forward. Her hands were curled into fists; Cyrus could see them in the periphery of his vision.
Avexa laid a warning hand on the woman’s arm. “Phelia,” she said, but the black-haired woman shook it off.
“He deserves to—”
“Maximillian,” Cyrus interrupted, and finally he looked up. His eyes burned hot again, and he knew they must be glowing purple, his magic must be straining at every pore to escape.
The champions did not respond. Cyrus let his eyes travel across their faces one by one until they settled on Avexa.
“Where is Maximillian?”
The group of young champions also looked to Avexa. Like Max before her, she did not need magic to be a leader. She met Cyrus’s gaze contemplatively, her mouth pursed. Then she nodded. “Let him see.” Her chin jerked towards two of the young champions, who peeled away from the group to walk quickly back to the castle.
“No!” Phelia was quick to object, rounding on Avexa. “We cannot allow—”
“He cannot do anything. He is outnumbered.” A smile twitched at Avexa’s mouth. “Let us see our fallen champion and his... lover? That’s right, isn’t it? That’s what you are?”
Cyrus said nothing. He kept his eyes on the detestable face until he became aware of movement beyond Avexa’s shoulder—the two champions returning, and this time not alone.
Max was on his feet, awake, but his movements were lurching and unsteady. There was blood on his shirt, hisown blue cloak, his hair. As they came to a stop before Avexa, he struggled to lift his head, blinking laboriously. There was more blood at his temple. His lip was split. His eyes, when they found Cyrus, were tight with pain.
Cyrus had known anger before. But this. This was new. It was all-consuming, white-hot, crackling in every atom of him. His chest ached with the force of it, acid burning through his veins.
“This wasn’t supposed to happen, you know,” said Avexa. Her eyes were on Max, but Cyrus knew she was speaking to him. Cyrus didn’t take his eyes off Max either, staring at him until his vision went blurry. “We all knew Maximillian was old news, but we thought he’d just fade into obscurity once he lost the election. He wasn’t supposed to stage a comeback. And that’s just what you did, isn’t it? Staged it all.”
There was a smirk in her voice. Cyrus’s pulse had forgotten how to keep time, hammering so fast in his veins it turned to a constant roar, like rushing water at the back of his mind.
“Quite the surprise for Forwick when—Balthazar, is it?—went to her and told her all about your scheme.”
Cyrus remembered Balthazar, motionless in the doorway.I need to talk to you.Had he wanted to make a last-ditch attempt to convince Max to end his partnership with a wrongdoer, once the election was called? But he’d seen the two of them together with his own eyes, and he’d been forced to accept the truth of it: Max would never be willingly parted from Cyrus.
Balthazar had always been so efficient. One needlingand calculated comment was all he’d needed to get Cyrus to Durov, knowing he wouldn’t be able to resist rising to the challenge.I wouldn’t have thought you’d let that stop you.Then Balthazar had told the Federation, setting the trap in motion.
Cyrus’s eyes closed. It was a sign of weakness he should never have allowed. But despair was huge and heavy, throttling out all else.
“Not much warning for Forwick to come up with something, but she managed,” Avexa continued, almost casual. “Intercept Maximillian on his way in, get the rest of the election out of the way, and then...”
And then. Then this. Max, bleeding.
“You hurt him,” Cyrus said, very quietly.
“That was because of you,” said Phelia. Unlike Avexa, her eyes were trained on Cyrus, sharp and burrowing. “He put up quite the fight when he heard what we planned for you.”
“He deserves it,” said one of the others. Cyrus recognised his weaselly face from the news. “Dirty traitor.” A glob of spit landed at the ground by Max’s boots.
Avexa reached out, touching Max’s face lightly. Max tried to yank his head back, though his face creased with pain at the motion. Cyrus imagined snapping each finger back, twisting them clean off. “Of course, he was no match for us. Forwick thought it would be an opportunity to show what we can do. Out with the old, in with the new, as it were.” She grasped Max’s chin, ignoring his weak attempt to evade her, and tilted his head from side to side with a curl of her lip as though inspecting damaged goods.
Then she looked away, her eyes finding Cyrus’s. Whatever pain Max felt, it was written all over his own features, plain for all to see. Avexa’s smile grew.
