Chapter 37
Lucina
Isilently search the rest of the tunnels—numb to the bone. I’m unable to relax or even take a full breath. The knife stays firmly gripped in my hand, though I never use it. These passages are vacant. No one knows they even exist, vacant.
I stop by the small alcove on my way back up, illuminating the abandoned space and triple-checking that I’ve not missed anything.
Hopeful for a hidden door that leads directly to the dungeons or some clue on how to break open those cages.
That and a drink are the only things that would be helpful right now.
Confident that it’s been fully searched, I tug on my orb of light, throwing it forward to illuminate my path to the top. The bench is still closed, but all it takes is a small push for the hinges to creak and the fresh air of the room to hit my flushed cheeks.
The said room is dark. No fire, no lantern, no dreary grey sky to be seen through the windows, just a pitch-black night and a blanket of stars.
Chiaros, I’ve been down there all day.
I fight with the pillows on my way out, losing my footing and barely catching myself on the edge of the bed. It’s my final straw.
The knife I’d evidently been itching to use comes down on the first pillow I see. Fabric rips and feathers explode all around me. It isn’t enough. I grab another, ripping it open too. Another. Then another.
I stab until I’m breathless, a flurry of feathers gently floating to the floor at my feet. I’m only slightly less irritable, and it certainly doesn’t help that I haven’t eaten today.
I’m tempted to rip apart the excessive amount of pillows on the bed too when a light clicks on, and a warm glow fills the room.
I whirl around to face the corner.
The Hound is lounged back in an upholstered chair, his all-black suit exchanged for a more casual ensemble—still void of all color. It’s as if he’s allergic to it.
His elbow is propped on the armrest, and his chin is propped in his hand, his pointer finger curled around his mouth. He isn’t looking at me; he’s looking at the mess I’ve created—the pile of feathers I stand in. Remnants of the tantrum I’ve just thrown.
“You know,” he starts, the curve of his accent carrying across the room, “I was thinking about just shoving them under the bed.” Salem gestures to the massacre at my feet. “But this is much better. Truly.”
I scrub my hands over my face, kicking up feathers as I move towards him. “Did you find the sources?”
He gestures to the massacre again. “So, we’re not going to talk about that?”
I glare at him.
He fights a smile.
Planting both hands on the back of the couch, I grit out, “Did you find the sources or not?”
Salem lifts his chin. “Yes, I did, and I’ll tell you all about them.” He leans forward in his chair, sliding something across the coffee table. “Over dinner.”
My eyes dart to the full plate before him, then fall to the empty one on the floor at his feet. Inhaling a deep breath, I hold it for a few seconds, then exhale through my mouth—a shitty version of a breathing exercise that Ivy’s Nana taught me when we were little.
When it leaves me just as irritable, I decide food might very well be the cure.
Unclipping my vest, I slide it off my shoulders and lay it over the arm of the two-seat couch. The thick material of the armor has been digging into my armpits all day, so the relief is instant, cool air reaching my heated skin through the breathable fabric of my undershirt.
I take a seat on the small couch and drag my plate towards me, muttering a thank you before raising the first bite of chicken to my mouth.
I hadn’t realized how hungry I was. I’m not even sure when I ate last. Somewhere between killing sources, rescuing Captures, and curse-breaking, the need to eat must have fallen to the wayside.
“So, the sources?” I probe between bites.
Salem nods. “The Umbra, the Countess, and two members of her inner circle. Each a descendant from one of the five original Rogue bloodlines.”
“And you’re sure?”
Bright blue eyes drag to mine, a hint of annoyance in them. “Yes,” he huffs. “I’m sure.”
I slow my chewing, watching him as I swallow a mouthful of roasted potatoes.
I can’t imagine what that must be like—to catch the scent of bloodlines and emotions and who knows what else.
Is it something he can turn off if he wishes?
Like Callan’s infiltration of memories. Or is it something he’s forced to live with?
Like the way Kimber sees spirits, whether she wants to or not.
My wondering gets the better of me. “What do they smell like?” I ask aloud.
His brows pinch, but when he realizes what I’m referring to, his expression softens. Salem sits on the question, vivid eyes going distant. I’m not sure if he’s trying to recall the smell or trying to figure out how to best explain it to me.
“Rogues characteristically smell like smoke,” he starts. “However intense the smoke, is how I gauge their power. The worst of them, they smell…” he shakes his head, lip curling back in disgust, “...rotten.”
My stomach rolls, and not with the memory of a bad smell.
Breaking his stare, I push my plate away, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
Out of my peripheral, his head tilts. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“You didn’t finish your food.”
“I’m not hungry anymore.”
He says nothing. Not a single thing. He simply props his elbow back on his chair, rests his chin in his palm, and stares at me.
It’s unnerving—like he’s observing me from the other end of a microscope—and the longer he looks, the more I believe there's something written across my forehead. A big stamp of what’s actually wrong.
Every few seconds, he breathes in through his nose and exhales slowly. Smelling for whatever I’m feeling, no doubt. But nothing shifts on his face. Whatever he’s detected, he remains completely stoic with the information, and I can’t take the silence anymore.
“Fine,” I huff, falling back against the couch.
He perks up at that.
“What do I smell like?”
You would have thought I asked him to tell me his deepest, darkest secret with how quickly his demeanor shifts.
A second ago, he was curious, albeit a bit bored, but now he’s rigid and unnaturally still. Perhaps he’s uncomfortable telling me I smell rotten—as vile as the other sources he sniffed out today.
“Never mind.” I push off the couch. “Don’t answer that.”
He reaches across the table and snatches my wrist.
“Sweet,” he forces out. I look back at him. “You smell sweet. Not like…candy or sugar,” Salem shakes his head, “like…amber. Warm and…subtle.”
I glance down to where he’s still holding my wrist.
“You smell like evergreen trees,” Salem continues. “I thought it was rosemary at first, but it’s not. It’s lively and…”
He lets go of my arm, dropping it as if he hadn’t realized he’d been holding it. Then he laces his own fingers together instead, bracing his elbows on his thighs.
I find myself sitting, all too invested in his answer. “And what?”
“Comforting,” he admits, his shoulders falling with his reply.
It’s a compliment, one he delivers so casually that I wonder if he tells everyone that. I’m sure I’m not the first woman to inquire about her scent. But I didn’t ask for the aesthetics or for vain purposes. It’s not so much what I smell like but what I don’t want to smell like.
Salem’s silent after that, cautiously gauging my reaction, and when I’m unable to produce one, he sighs. “Rogues smell like smoke and the Sol smell like fire,” he tells me. “You carry both scents. Copious amounts of it. But you do not smell rotten, Lucina. Not even a little bit.”
“You can tell me if I do,” I assure him, attempting to lessen the sudden tension when I’m fairly certain it’s my own insecurities that caused it. Lifting my chin, I shrug. “I can take it.”
Something sinister darkens the blue in his eyes, but the second I notice it, he looks away.
“I’m sure you can.” Salem nods his agreement, knuckles turning white where his fingers are laced together. When he lifts his head again, his expression is entirely earnest. Completely natural. “But it’s the truth.”
My brows furrow. “But you said Rogues smell—”
“It’s not the magic that makes these people evil, Lucina. They smell rotten because they are rotten, and that has nothing to do with the power their god granted them. Being malevolent is a choice.”
I try to absorb the words, but they reject my basic understanding of Rogues. I’ve been told it’s a sickness. An infection. A madness. “But I thought it was…”
“Dark magic corrupting them?” Salem shakes his head. “Power decides a lot of things, but what is done with that power is up to its user. You are in control of your magic, yes?” He leans back in his chair. “You could have burned down that whole forest last night if you wanted, but you didn’t. Why?”
My response comes out quiet, edged in revelation. “Because I didn’t want to.”
“Exactly.” The Hound flicks his chin to the door. “They wanted this city and its people, so they took it. The magic they used to do it was just the means it took to succeed. It’s irrelevant, really.”
The statement renders me speechless.
It’s irrelevant, really.
In the last six months I’ve been told a barrage of wild and seemingly impossible things: Diviners see dead people, Velkan are spirits that bind themselves to the living, Pirn is a hidden world protected by a sentient tree, but this…This steals all the words from my mouth.
Salem pushes the plate back in front of me.
“What you have is a gift,” he exhales. “I’m guessing your reluctance to shift the color of your eyes and your loss of appetite when I mentioned our sources smelled rotten means you believe the magic makes the person, but you aren’t a monster unless you decide to be.
Now,” he gestures to the plate, “are you sure you don’t want any more of this?
Depending on how tonight goes, this might very well be your last meal. ”