Chapter Eight #2
“I cannot think of why you’d volunteer to bring it upon yourself,” I snapped back. “Let me handle this matter. Once I’ve found Bastian’s culprit, his focus will return to wedding planning, and we can resume progress toward our…goal.”
Even in the private confines of the chamber, I didn’t dare get any more specific than that.
The Weaver King’s abilities meant his son and I talked frequently around our schemes for bringing him down, but we hardly discussed the matter directly.
The way Noé described it, the more defined an idea was in a person’s mind, the easier it was for his father to latch on to it.
Like digging a stone out of the earth, as opposed to groundwater.
Regardless…whether or not I voiced it aloud, in my heart I knew the truth of the bargain my fiancé and I had struck.
Noé had wished to kill his father since the end of his first Vainglory, after Ophelia Lear, his beloved, had died following her discovery of the secret behind Weavers’ power.
That was the motivation at the root of the deal he’d offered me months ago, at the conclusion of his second search for a bride: his protection, and eventual support in exposing his fellow sorcerers’ lies, in exchange for revenge.
Death. With my hand at the center of it.
In my head, Eliot’s disapproving voice rang out. It is Noé’s plan…And it is murder.
“And if you fail to complete his task, or die in the process—as you nearly did the other night when he dangled that ring in front of you? Am I to, what—simply throw you off and find a new bride?” Noé’s speech jolted me back into myself.
I flushed at his mention of the ring, a misstep I’d hoped to bury.
“Sometimes, Tamerlane, I worry you don’t realize how terribly serious I am about you. ”
I tensed as he drew closer.
“Can you imagine my astonishment when Lear delivered you to me at the start of the Vainglory?” Noé went on.
“A witch who could break through locks—who could follow my father through any door he attempted to hide behind and strike him down. Who, already, was an accomplished liar and thief.” His voice lowered; he clicked his tongue.
“A girl like you,” Noé whispered, “I would get my hands bloody to keep.”
I could smell the rain on him. It dampened the acrid char of his cigarette; a loamy scent, like soil freshly turned over. “Then let’s do it now,” I replied stubbornly. “Tonight, and be finished with this whole charade.”
Noé smiled thinly. “You are not ready tonight. Father has had decades to hone his magic—to guard against attempts of the exact nature which you propose. Do you think he would not sense your intent, if you resolved to move against him this evening? Do you think he would not strike first?” Noé shook his head.
“No, we will wait until your Wit is as strong as his. Until I feel certain you can best him.”
His wording uneased me. “And if that takes decades of my own?”
“Then we will wait for decades.” Noé’s shrug made my stomach turn over.
“I am playing a long game, Tamerlane, one which you are a vital part of—and which I am determined to win.” Advancing another pace forward, he laid a finger on my jaw—just barely.
“I will do anything to keep you alive until the end of it,” he murmured, looking me in the eyes. “Anything.”
I shuddered as he dropped back. “Careful the way you describe our alliance. It sounds more like a prison sentence.”
His responding grin unnerved me more than any reply could—wolfish, like I’d proven his point. He tossed it at me, then faced forward again.
“You know that hunting Sybil’s murderer on your own, in so short a time frame, will be difficult,” he said, starting back toward the windowsill.
“What are you really scared of? Worried Lear will balk at the two of us spending time together?” Swiping up his cigarettes from the armchair, he fished another one from the pack. “How was your meeting at the opera?”
I froze. Around me, the buzz of the rain grew louder. Had Noé seen Eliot and me speaking together after our meeting with Lucie—or was he merely guessing at the reason for my prolonged absence at the opera, hoping to startle me into an admission? How much did he know?
Taming my anxiety, I responded to him. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
He chuckled. “Really, Tamerlane,” Noé chided. “I assumed we respected one another enough to not bother with denials. You think I cannot recognize my closest friend of nearly two decades simply because he is dressed as a cat?”
This time, there was no masking my reaction to his words. I recalled the brush of Noé’s thumb over my lips after I’d returned from my rendezvous with Eliot at the opera house, his figure brooding above my own. Smudged.
This whole time…The realization made me shiver. All along, he’d known.
My secrets had never been my own. I’d kept them only because he’d allowed me to.
I gathered myself. “You must know I will not stop seeing him.”
Sighing, Noé slouched against the window.
“I don’t care whether you see him,” he rebutted evenly, to my surprise.
“Lucie Dabos, on the other hand…Now, her presence at the theater, I found more concerning.” Tilting his head, he inquired, “What is Eliot’s strategy—for the two of you to ally with her and together expose the Weavers’ crimes? ”