Chapter 9
It was all Bellanca could do not to shake as she stood next to Carver in her ravaged bedroom. The near-tremble didn’t sit well with her. She didn’t shake. She didn’t cry, and yet her eyes burned. She’d thought the different, softer Bellanca was limited to Spiro’s and the character she’d made up for herself in her new role—one out of a comedy instead of a tragedy. Prophecies were one thing. She’d heard some and even seen some come true, but self-fulfilling prophecies weren’t supposed to sneak up on a woman from out of the blue.
Fresh panic hit. What if her made-up persona had somehow become real ?
In shock, she didn’t move. No. She could never change that much, but parts of it were starting to feel like the truth.
“It’s a miracle no one from downstairs woke up.” Carver laid a hand on the small of her back and propelled her toward the living room.
She let out a low grunt of agreement and shuffled forward. She hadn’t heard a peep from Dione’s, even after the racket they’d made fighting the automatons.
Carver’s hand stayed on her back all the way to the table, warm without being hot and big without being a monster’s paw. He barely exerted any pressure, but Carver touching her like this was new, too. Since when did he simply reach out so naturally? And since when did the warmth of his hand feel so steadying and good?
She glanced at her blistering wrists, seeing them as though from afar. The pain was harder to keep at a distance. Too present. Too strong. Carver pulled out a chair for her, his bare torso brushing her arm. She felt the stupidest urge to turn into him but didn’t. She was all thorns and flames. Closeness and comfort-seeking weren’t in her nature even if the tiniest bit of temptation stirred inside her and almost made her want to try.
She took a steadying breath. The fight was still too fresh. So was the fear. Both would pass and so would impulses she’d never had before.
She sat as Carver lit an oil lamp and then went to find another. She turned her wrists over and back, the glaring red handprints making her think about all the enemies she’d thrown fire at without a second thought. Until tonight, she’d barely remembered what a good, deep scorch-to-the-skin felt like, but now, Mommy Dearest’s lessons came back with a hot ache that traveled up her arms. Daddy Dearest hadn’t been much better, though he’d preferred emotional torture to the physical kind.
Thankfully, they were both dead. But so were two older sisters, one good and one bad. And Bellanca had killed her own brother, who’d been even worse than their parents. Now, there was just her. And Lystra. But her younger sister was a world away and— gods! Were those actual tears?
Inhaling raggedly, she burned the wet sting away from the inside, her blood always halfway to being on fire. As Carver adjusted the wick on the second lamp, offering them more light, she turned her focus to giving the throbbing burn in her wrists a brutal mental kick. The pain seemed to diminish, reinforcing her firm belief in mind over matter. The strongest survived because they believed they could .
Carver stood across from her looking more composed than she felt despite her little victory over the worst of the pain. Then again, he was good at hiding his feelings—a lot better than she was.
“Arms out and up.” He nodded at the space between them. “Elbows on the table.”
Bellanca narrowed her eyes. Ordering her around was new, too. And had better not last.
Nevertheless, she put her elbows on the table, leaving her damaged wrists hovering in the air between them. The burns seemed to mock her. What had the Firebringer done so far other than pretend to be someone she wasn’t and nearly get tossed out a window? A Titan-sized nothing . She scowled.
Carver inspected her wrists, his expression darkening. “I’m going to kill whoever sent those things here,” he muttered.
His fury heated her belly. “You were…” Strong. Fast. Smart. Just what I needed. She cleared her throat. “In any case, they’re done for.”
“I’m just glad pulling their heads off worked.” A self-deprecating smile touched his lips as he turned to the pantry cupboards. “I’m usually at a loss when the pointy end of a sword doesn’t do what it should.”
“I’ve seen you fight with more than just a sword.” Between her fire and his everything else, they’d never lost a battle—tonight included. “You’re just like the rest of your family. Sheer determination trumps everything else—even automatons.”
Carver shrugged, turning away from her. He never took praise well, even indirectly, always perpetually sure he didn’t deserve it. That was Konstantina’s legacy. She’d given Carver the lovely gift of doubting his own worth. If the woman were still alive, Bellanca would love to punch her in the teeth with a flaming fist.
His back to her, Carver rummaged in their well-stocked pantry and pulled out an unopened pot of honey and several clean cloths. He set them on the table, and Bellanca pointedly ignored the way his sun-bronzed skin glowed in the lamplight and how each muscle rippled as he moved. His back was a bit raw, two clear floor burns scraping down his shoulder blades. His hands seemed fine now, or at least not dripping blood. He probably hardly felt the injuries. He’d been through worse.
“Now’s when we could really use a Magoi healer,” he said with a wry look across the table at her. “Lucky for you”—he peeled the oiled cloth off the honey and set it aside—“I’ve picked up a few things over the years. Impossible not to, with a mother and a sister who are both Hoi Polloi healers.”
She suddenly wished she’d listened better during all that dinner and after-dinner family time she’d been subjected to in Castle Thalyria. It seemed a lifetime ago now. Funny how she could miss something she didn’t even think she’d liked.
Her burns throbbed a little harder again.
Carver reached for the water they boiled and set aside for drinking. It stayed cold under the stone counter. He pulled out a pitcher of it and set it on the table along with a deep basin.
“At least we know one thing now. Or, I think we do,” he said as he sat in the chair across from hers. “It’s not real harpies kidnapping Atlantian kids. It’s automatons.”
“I think you’re right.” Bellanca blamed not having made that connection yet herself on trying to mentally beat back the pain in her wrists and ignore the fact that Carver was only half dressed—again. “And there are probably more of them.”
“Maybe. But at least these two won’t be gathering up an army of potential Magoi children anymore.”
Her gaze followed his toward the open door to her dark bedroom. She’d told Carver she suspected children on the cusp of adolescence were being abducted in order to teach them magic when it returned to Atlantis. She understood the why —indoctrination, loyalty, honing humans into weapons of war. It was the who they still didn’t know about. She’d never fought a nameless, faceless enemy before. And this one happened to be a god powerful enough to set their sights on the high throne of Mount Olympus, which was even worse.
Carver poured some of the cold water into the basin and dipped two clean cloths in it. Once they were soaked, he took them out and carefully wrapped them around her wrists.
Bellanca sighed as the cool seeped in. “Maybe I should’ve spent more time in the healing room with Jocasta and picked up a few tricks.”
“You two would’ve killed each other.”
She huffed in protest. “Your sister and I got along fine on the road.”
“On the road, yes. Because you had me to torture.” She huffed louder, and he added, “ And Prometheus and Flynn.”
“Are you saying I need… buffers ?” Irritated as she was, true anger refused to rise to the surface. She did need buffers. One on one, Carver was the only person who’d never fled her truthfulness. Some might call it abrasiveness. Well, most would.
“You said it. Not me.” He glanced up from her wrists, grinning.
Her heart thumped absurdly hard. She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t need buffers here. I get along just fine with everybody.”
“That’s because you’re hiding behind an act.”
“So when the true me…” She paused, searching for something that didn’t make her sound terrible.
“Blazes forth?” Carver supplied archly, his brows creeping up his forehead.
She shot him a dirty look. “Isn’t under wraps, I’ll need buffers again?”
He shrugged. “That’s up to you.”
“Why?” she asked warily.
“Because it’s your life, and I like you however you choose to be.”
She stared at him in shock. They’d defend each other to the death, but words like that never fell from either of their lips. “You like me?”
“I would’ve killed you by now if I didn’t.”
A snort burst out. “You think you could?”
He chuckled, his dark eyes smiling. “I’d find a way.”
His voice, part rough, part teasing, sent an odd ripple through her. “And I’d find a way to haunt you.” Because the thought of not seeing him every day made her stomach drop like an anchor.
He grimaced. “Well, that makes the whole idea less appealing.”
She pressed her lips together, not quite smiling. “You know, if you’d stayed in Thalyria like I told you to, I would’ve been…” She let her too-revealing sentence trail off. It was too hard to finish.
“Miserable without me? Lonely? Sad? Deprived of my beauty?”
She laughed without thinking. It jarred her wrists, but she ignored the ache that flashed up her arms. “You’re impossible.”
“That’s probably the nicest insult you’ve ever given me.” Carver picked up the pitcher. “Now, don’t move.” He poured more cold, clean water onto her bandages, letting the excess drip into the basin and roll toward her elbows.
“How can you be so normal?” she asked.
“One of us should be. It’s definitely not you.”
Making a face, she flicked a spark at him. “I mean act so normal. After…” She glanced toward her bedroom again. “ That .”
“You’re alive. I’m alive.” He shrugged. “That’s all that matters in the end.”
“Even if we fail?”
He looked at her thoughtfully, a crease denting his forehead. “I don’t think we’ll fail, but even if we do, I’m not here for the mission, Bel. I’m here for you.”
Her new, sun-flare magic surged from deep within. She barely caught it before another disaster. Hints of redness still colored Carver’s face and arms. She’d never put him through that again. She swallowed, the awful loneliness she’d suffered on the beach after he walked away washing back over her. “I don’t know what to say to that.”
“That’s because you’re terrible with words.”
Her mood soured. “Always the charmer.”
“No, that’s not true.” He held up a finger as if to say wait for it . “You’re terrible with nice words.”
“Thank you for the clarification. It wasn’t needed.”
His low laugh shouldn’t have sounded so appealing. “I meant what I said. Whatever version of yourself you want to show others is fine with me, as long as you’re just you when it’s only us.” His face turned serious. “I wouldn’t change a thing about you.”
Bellanca’s heart cinched in her chest. Magic stirred inside her, and this time, she felt the difference between her usual fire and the new ability. One was a familiar friend, permeating her from top to bottom. The other felt like a star ready to incinerate anything passing by in the cosmos.
“Well, I would change a lot about you,” she grumbled, tamping down both powers. To her relief, the sun flare sitting low in her abdomen listened.
“Do tell.” Carver refreshed her bandages again. They’d been on long enough now for the coolness to really seep into her skin, layers deep. The burns felt surprisingly better.
“You have a terrible temper,” she said.
“I’m not the only one.”
“You’re too competitive.”
He gave her a pointed look. “Are you trying to describe yourself or me? Because I’m confused.”
She rolled her eyes. “You like children and let them hang all over you with their sticky hands and snotty noses.”
“So do you.”
She shook her head. “I don’t.”
“Right… Never…”
“You’re too tall,” she blurted. She had no idea why. It was ludicrous, and a flush crept up her neck and cheeks, her burns heating again.
Carver’s brows rose. “So what’s your solution to that, princess? Should I cut off my feet?”
Her nostrils flared. “Don’t be stupid. Your somewhat quick feet have proved useful now and then.”
His low laugh ignited a warm pressure inside her. “That might be the most backhanded compliment in the history of all the worlds.”
Bellanca lifted her chin. “You want one that’s not backhanded?”
Carver sobered. His gray eyes lost some of their luster. “Sure,” he eventually said.
She held back a sigh. It was no secret how bad she was at saying nice things, but did Carver realize how bad he was at listening to them?
Suddenly self-conscious, she turned her wrists back and forth, testing the pain level now that the cold bandages had worked their magic. “This.” Her eyes flicked to her wrists and then back to Carver. “You know how to treat a burn. I don’t. Hoi Polloi from back home have all these useful skills because Thalyrian Magoi spent so long depriving them of any magical help.”
His mouth quirked with wry humor. “Should we conclude that rampant prejudice is helpful to the masses?”
His reply was so unexpected and absurd that she laughed before she could stop herself. “‘Adversity builds character’ might sit better as a catchphrase,” she said as he poured the rest of the stone-chilled water onto her wrists, finishing the pitcher. Most of the excess dribbled into the basin. The rest rolled toward her elbows, tickling her arms and puddling on the table. “But I’m serious. If you dumped me in the woods, I wouldn’t know how to build a shelter, hunt for food, string grass and leaves together for clothing…”
He chuckled. “At least you’d never be cold, even if you were naked.”
“It’s not funny. I’d die.”
“You wouldn’t die.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’d hunt and cook and build shelter.” He nodded across the table at her. “You can start the fires.”
She gave him the evil eye. “Who says you’ll be there?”
“ I say I’ll be there.”
She hmphed. “Then you’d better know how to sew clothing.”
His eyes dipped over her, heating. “Sorry, princess. No needle skills here. Or hide tanning. I guess you’ll have to figure out that grass-and-leaf thing.”
Warmth tumbled through her, and the image of Carver covered only by a fig leaf suddenly wouldn’t exit her imagination. Him sitting across from her shirtless— again —made her wayward thoughts even more vivid.
She glanced down, inspecting her bandages. “What’s next? My wrists already feel better.”
“We take off the cloths, let your wrists air dry, apply a layer of honey to help fight infection and accelerate healing, then wrap your wrists back up so you don’t stick to everything.”
She frowned. “That’s it? It sounds rather basic.”
“I could hop around and sing chants, but I don’t think they’d help.”
“Do the chant.”
“No.”
“Then hop around.”
He snorted. “You’re dreaming. I don’t hop.”
“Then why’d you offer?” she asked with a scowl.
“Because you were supposed to know I wasn’t serious.”
“You should know by now that I don’t understand nuance. I take everything at face value.”
He leaned in, his upper body crossing half the table. The pendant she’d given him swung forward, winking in the lamplight. “You’re twenty-six years old. Most people have figured out nuance by now.”
“You’re older than I am, and you haven’t figured out how to get dressed. As proved once again by this .” Her eyes darted over the muscle-bound chest still slowly edging toward her.
Carver eased back. “I was in bed until you so rudely disturbed me by getting attacked. Just be thankful I had pants on.”
Her face scrunched up. “Next time, by all means, please take the time to get dressed.”
His expression abruptly hardened to rock. “Am I that hideous?” he ground out.
Her mouth fell open. “What are you talking about?”
“I clearly repulse you. It’s a little hard to digest.”
She gaped at him, his growled words still resonating in her chest. “You don’t repulse me. Why would you think that?” And why were they fighting? A second ago, she’d been about to laugh.
His eyes dipped to her mouth, his change in focus so brief she might’ve imagined it. “Never mind,” he said. “Hold out your arms.”
Too confused by the sharp turnabout to protest being ordered around again, she lifted her arms. Carver started carefully unwrapping the dripping cloths from around her wrists, his expression unreadable now.
She stared at him. If this was anything like usual, one of them would stomp off soon. In general, it didn’t bother her too much. Tonight, she didn’t like even the idea of it. Carver had already stomped away from her at the beach, and she’d hated it.
With a grunt of dissatisfaction, he moved around to her side of the table for a better angle, leaning over her shoulder as he continued to unwrap her wrists. The heat of his skin seemed disproportionately intense, and Bellanca stiffened away from him, opening a gap of cool air between them. She heard his aggravated exhale—could almost hear him shake his head—and drew her lower lip between her teeth. With effort, she slowly relaxed back into him. What was she so afraid of anyway? She didn’t normally touch people or let people touch her, but this was Carver . If she could trust anyone, it was him.
By the time he finished, her blood ran so hot she started sweating. She shivered when he backed away from her, his warmth seeming to pull straight through her body and out. “What if more automatons come back?” she asked, feeling oddly empty and alone after the prolonged contact.
Carver tossed the wet cloths into the basin with a splat. “We close our shutters.”
She turned to him with a scowl. “That won’t stop them.”
“No, but the creaky hinges will wake us up.”
“And then what?” Shaking her head, she spread her wet arms. “You haul them apart one by one? What if there are too many?”
Carver wiped down the table with a dry cloth, not looking at her. “I’ll buy a saw,” he said. “A serrated one.”
She cocked her head in thought. “That might work.”
“I’ll get one after my guard shift tomorrow.” He glanced out the window at the dawn-gray sky. “Today.” Grimacing, he sat back down across from her and scrubbed a hand down his face.
Worry panged inside her. “You’re tired.” The physical effort to tear those automatons apart must’ve been colossal. It was a wonder he was still standing, let alone taking care of her. And she’d been utterly useless. She wouldn’t be again. “Two.”
“Too what?” Carver asked wearily.
“Two of us.” She motioned back and forth between them, trying not to notice the angry red rings around her wrists. “Two saws. I thought it was obvious.”
“Nothing’s obvious with you,” he murmured.
“I’m the most obvious person alive,” she protested, her voice rising. “I say exactly what I think. All the time.”
“Just look…” He smirked, his gray eyes hard, his smile harder. “We’re arguing like an old married couple, and it’s not even real.”
Bellanca snapped her mouth shut. She stared at him across the table, tension squeezing her hard enough to pop out a few sparks. “Do you want it to be?”
Carver stared back at her. Finally, a stiff, self-mocking twist of the lips warped his features. It was her least favorite smile of his. “Who’d want to be married to me?”
His idiotic words hit Bellanca’s hard-beating heart like shards of ice. Most people usually thought they were ten times better than they actually were. Carver always seemed convinced he was ten times worse. “Probably just about every woman in Atlantis.”
“Hmm.” He looked her up and down, his gaze scathing and hot at the same time. “Just about.”