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Back The Starving Saints Save as PDF
Chapters (57)
  1. Cover
  2. 1
  3. 2
  4. 3
  5. 4
  6. 5
  7. 6
  8. 7
  9. 8
  10. 9
  11. 10
  12. 11
  13. 12
  14. 13
  15. 14
  16. 15
  17. 16
  18. 17
  19. 18
  20. 19
  21. 20
  22. 21
  23. 22
  24. 23
  25. 24
  26. 25
  27. 26
  28. 27
  29. 28
  30. 29
  31. 30
  32. 31
  33. 32
  34. 33
  35. 34
  36. 35
  37. 36
  38. 37
  39. 38
  40. 39
  41. 40
  42. 41
  43. 42
  44. 43
  45. 44
  46. 45
  47. 46
  48. 47
  49. 48
  50. 49
  51. 50
  52. 51
  53. Acknowledgments
  54. About the Author
  55. Also by Caitlin Starling
  56. Copyright
  57. About the Publisher

She’s halfway back into her room now. Her head and shoulders extend into her cell, and if she can just summon a little more strength, she can drag herself to safety. She grasps at the scraps of knowledge her vision gave her. These creatures, they obey certain things: territory, ownership, hierarchy. They twist those things to suit their purposes, but they can’t ignore them. Phosyne’s room is just that—Phosyne’s. And if she had let them in, she knows now, all would have been lost.

But she didn’t.

“Stay, sweetling,” the Absolving Saint says, taking a step forward to stand over her, just at the border of her territory. “You know how we did it, but not how you will. Don’t you want us to teach you?”

She rolls onto her back, heaving for breath, staring up. Just behind the Absolving Saint is the Lady, but the Loving Saint is close, too, crouching at her feet.

“I am not like you,” Phosyne says, jerking one leg away as the Loving Saint reaches out to grasp her ankle. “I can’t—infiltrate. I can’t bewitch.”

“No?”

“No.” She scrabbles another inch away. Another. Now her waist has passed through the invisible barrier between them.

“Then let us teach you something else.”

But they have taught her enough, more than enough to satisfy their end of the agreement, and if she lingers—

The Loving Saint catches her other leg. Tugs. She feels herself slip against the stone.

She hears claws clicking on the steps.

The smell of sulfur wraps around her, and Phosyne jerks in reflex, reaches out a hand. Her fingers skim the black, scaled muscle of Pneio’s—Ornuo’s?—leg as he leaps over her, and behind her he skids, hissing, to a halt.

The saints are staring.

“Something summoned,” the Lady says, with deep distaste. Then She hisses and jerks back as Phosyne’s other brimstone creature streaks past Her and runs straight over Phosyne’s belly, clawed feet digging in. It spurs her to action, and she kicks the Loving Saint in his perfect jaw and throws herself back into her room.

It is blazing hot inside. Phosyne clambers upright. At her feet, Pneio and Ornuo bristle, hissing and slithering about her ankles.

“Lesson over,” Phosyne gasps.

The Lady’s lip curls, and then She smiles, inclines Her head. Bows at the waist. Her saints follow suit, conceding defeat—for the moment.

They turn to leave, and that is when Phosyne, at last, registers the impossible:

More eyes peer out of the shadows behind them.

The saints are no longer alone.

31

31

For every body she moves, Ser Voyne checks every entrance to the yard. Each time, she expects to see the Lady standing there, or one of the other saints. Her arms burn and her skin beads with perspiration. Dust rises up and forms a slurry with her sweat, and by the end, she is filthy, sore, exhausted.

And alone.