Chapter 30
I WAKE WITH something warm beside me, and oh gods is it glorious to stretch out, pressing the full length of my body against it, snuggling my cheek into it. When I inhale, I hazily realize all at once that I know the scent, that it’s Drystan at my side, and that his arm is around me.
My eyes pop open.
Instead of seeing him, though, there’s an expanse of gray fur. The cat. His little body moves gently with sleeping breaths, and beneath him, Drystan’s chest rises and falls, long and slow. He must’ve fallen asleep, tired from the late hour.
I move just enough to peer down at the large windows opposite the bed.
The sunset streams through them, a black ball at the center of hot orange, fading to pink and purple.
Time for the unseelie’s night to start. But I’m enjoying the softness of this bed, the warmth of its owner and the gilded light spilling through the windows. I don’t want the day to end.
Drystan’s fingers flex against my side, and when I look up, I find him awake, watching me.
The dying light catches on his pale skin, warming the tone.
It paints his lashes with gold flecks that match the spark of his eyes.
I search for any sign of the dimples I saw the other night.
There’s maybe a whisper of them, a faint line on each cheek, only visible because I’m so, so close.
His gaze surveys me, too, and I wonder what he sees in the golden light. Do I look more like the woman I once was? Does the sun gild my hair, showing off how shiny it’s becoming thanks to Min’s care? Does it make my olive skin look warm and sun-kissed rather than pale and sallow?
I open my mouth to break the silence, uncomfortable at how long it’s lasting and how much I hate not knowing what he sees with that inscrutable gaze. But he lifts his other hand and presses his finger to his lips, then points at the sleeping cat.
The King of Death is worried about waking up a cat.
That’s a new one to add to my list of improbable things that are nonetheless true.
Somewhere between keeping quiet and the combined rhythm of Drystan’s breath and the cat’s, I drift back into darkness.
When I wake up, my arm’s draped over his middle and I’m tucked tightly into the space between his arm and side, cheek resting on his chest. The cat’s gone. The sun has set.
“You should be asleep.” His murmur rumbles through me.
“I’m sure the King of Death’s future bride has responsibilities,” I say around a yawn, stretching and wincing as my body makes its displeasure known. Though, I’m grateful for the excuse to remove my arm from him without having to address how it got there in the first place.
“Not tonight, she doesn’t.”
I look up at him, not able to make out much more than the faint gold glow of his eyes. It should probably be disconcerting, but it’s actually a relief to not have to take in the full force of his striking features or try to read his expression to work out what he thinks when he looks at me.
Then I remember fae can see in the dark.
And he’s probably thinking about what a poor, pitiful creature I am. Mortal and sickly.
I pull back, putting a few inches between our bodies, and sit up. But fuck, it’s hard, and I end up flopping against the headboard, exhausted from just that slight motion. “Then I’m sure the King of Death has responsibilities.”
“Only making sure his future wife takes her medication.” The twinkling lights over the bed emerge from the darkness, followed by the gradual brightening of the wall sconces. He holds up the jar for examination before passing it to me.
There’s a lot more air inside than medicine.
“How often do you have to take those?” he asks as I fish one out.
“Once a day. Well, half of one.”
“But you don’t have many left.”
I bite back a sigh. “I know. Hence the half.” There will be three and a half after this. Seven days.
The thought of running out is a distant terror I’m too tired to fully acknowledge.
He helps me take a sip of water so I can swallow the half tablet. I’ll give it to him—he makes a surprisingly gentle nurse. Another thing for that list. King of Death takes good care of his dying humans.
“I can’t just go to the surface and retrieve more for you.
” He frowns at the jar while I swallow again, the tablet half working its way down my throat, leaving its bitter aftertaste.
“Being able to travel there requires various things to align. Life, death, your moon. But if you give me one of these, I can have the Apothic test them and analyze what they’re made of. ”
Lose one tablet for the chance of gaining more? The offer feels like a lifeline. Not a guaranteed solution, but a chance.
And I’m nothing if not hopeful.
I agree to his help. He insists I eat and drink a bit more, though all I want is sleep. He’s king, so he wins. Or maybe it’s because I, begrudgingly, know he’s right. Food might help. A little. Then, at last, he lets me lie down.
My mind churns, dizzy and half delirious from exhaustion.
Drystan being kind is worse than all his taunts. More unbalancing. More frightening because it strikes deeper.
Maybe he’s realized he can’t break me with beauty, so now he’s trying tenderness.
Much more dangerous.
Because it almost—almost—feels real.
It takes me more than a day to recover.
Each night, as sunrise approaches, we go through the same argument-cum-discussion.
I tell him I can’t spare the time. He tells me I can’t not spare it, especially if I want to get through the tougher challenges on the labyrinth’s final levels.
When I ask, he won’t tell me what they are.
But he promises not to count today, if I’ll only rest, and that ends the conversation… until the next morning looms.
On the day I manage to sit up on my own and eat the entirety of a small meal under his watchful gaze, I catch him frowning at me thoughtfully.
I cock my head with a guarded smile, wondering if he’s about to tell me I have food on my cheek. “What?”
“I’m trying to work you out.”
I sprinkle cinnamon into my coffee, which is a delightful luxury—one of those small pleasures the Underworld provides. “I’m sure I’m not that complicated. What exactly are you struggling with?”
“You’re sick all the time and yet you’re still this… happy.” His brow scrunches like he’s skeptical about the whole idea.
“Would you rather I was miserable?”
He flinches, the lines between his brow etching themselves deeper. “No. Not at all. I just… don’t understand how.”
I blow on my coffee as I formulate a response. Maybe presenting the options will help. “Well, I can choose to give in, right? Or I can try and make the best of a shitty situation. There are good things, even if my body isn’t always one of them.”
“Like what?”
“Like the sun on my face. The feel of earth between my fingers.” I close my eyes and I can feel them both.
“The sound of the sea on the shore. The scent of flowers in spring and summer—oh! And the way the scents change between day and night. My brother’s sketches.
Min’s smile.” I stop myself before I can say anything nice about Drystan.
Because, yes, he raised the dead to force me to come here, threatened to tear my father’s tongue out and did in fact cut out that singer’s tongue, but there are things about him that I enjoy.
He just doesn’t need his ego stroked by me mentioning them.
And I’m not sure I want to voice the positives, because, really, they should all be offset by his casual disregard for the sanctity of people’s tongues.
He makes a thoughtful sound when it’s clear I’ve stopped. “The sun on your face.” He nods. “Yes, I’ve caught you basking a few times.”
I nearly spill my coffee. “Basking?”
“Yes. Like the cat.” He nods over to the windowsill where the cat is lying on the windowsill, even though night has fallen.
“Whenever there’s sunlight in a room, somehow you’re there, sitting in it.
Sometimes with your eyes shut. Ancient fae used to worship the sun.
I sometimes wonder if you’re one of them.
Or a cat.” A faint smile curves his lips, pressing a dimple into his cheek.
It makes him look less mocking, more… genuine. I’m not sure what to make of that.
“Oh. Right.” I busy myself drinking my coffee even though it’s still a little hot.
“You forgot something on your list.”
If he says “me,” I’m going to pour this coffee on him.
“Ginger biscuits.”
I chuckle into my drink, conscious of his attention and the way he’s noticed all this. “Ginger biscuits,” I say with a solemn nod.
My heart feels… weird. I add a quarter measure of belladonna to my coffee and stir it in. He knows about my illness: there’s no need to be surreptitious any more.
The giddy buzz is subtle from such a small dose, but it leaves me on edge about his close attention, why he might give it and what it might mean.
Clearing my throat, I search for a change of topic. “How did he get in here anyway?” I glance at the closed door. I’d wager the door to his suite is shut, too. And Drystan may have let the cat sleep on his chest, but I can’t picture him opening the door for a small feline.
“How did… You mean you haven’t noticed?” At my blank look, he whistles for the cat who jumps off the windowsill and runs this way.
He runs through the settee at the foot of the bed, then jumps up.
Through.
Like it’s nothing.
He trots across the bed to Drystan and lifts his head as if to say he’s ready for stroking now, thank you very much. Of course, Drystan is powerless to resist and pets the cat, giving a half shrug at the same time. “He’s… not entirely corporeal.”
“He’s a ghost cat.”
“This is the Underworld.”
I’m reminded of that fact each morning when I see a black sun in the sky, but the next day dawns, sunny and warm. Drystan opens the windows and comments that it’s the warmest day they’ve had in years.
The icicles over the windows drip all day long.