Chapter 7 #2
“Well, that’s simply untrue,” he responded. “At least insult me properly if you’re going to try.”
Exasperated, Emmeline continued on the path that wound out the ornate silver gates and down through the narrow streets in the hills. “If you’re a dining expert, where would you suggest?”
“The Mezzanine.”
She jolted to a stop, her blood chilling at the mention of the grand, two-story club that boasted food, performances, and a gambling den on the first level with private offices on the second.
“Not the Mezzanine.”
“Come on,” Roremar argued, still walking. “You can’t disagree with the Mezz. They’re known for having the best food on Lyra, and the widest variety of options. Even travelers make the trek from the Western Port just to get there.”
But Emmeline barely heard his argument.
Her mind tunneled in beneath impossibly bright lights, sweat beading along her brow.
Rough scales scratched her skin. Voices jeered and roared.
Magic bubbled in her chest, begging to be released.
“Not the Mezzanine,” she repeated, voice hoarse.
At her tone, Roremar paused. “Are you—”
“We can go anywhere else,” she interrupted. Squeezing her eyes closed for a beat, Emmeline fisted her hands, ignoring the urge to reach for the triple blade in her satchel. “How about Fortuna Tavern in the foothills at the top of the Peddler’s District? They open early and it’s a short walk.”
He studied her, and once again, the endless effects of that too-piercing stare spiraled through her. She had the sensation of being stripped bare by her memories, all scars on display.
“Okay,” Roremar agreed without further questioning.
And as they cut through the jungle paths leading to Fortuna, Roremar didn’t press her. But she wasn’t foolish enough to think he missed a single blink.
Emmeline asked the barkeep for the simplest thing on the menu, her gut still riled from the mention of the Mezzanine. Roremar on the other hand seemed ravenous, ordering two different meals because he couldn’t decide which sounded better.
There was something boyish about him trying to choose, finally saying, “To the Fates with it” and requesting both. An unexpected innocence that pulled a surprised laugh from Emmeline.
The tavern was simple, but it was clearly designed to commemorate the Fate of Eddies and Lost Luck, Polyr.
With the calming sea tones of the mismatched linens draping over tables, glimmering shells carving elaborate designs into the chair backs and doorframes, and the wide windows looking out over the ocean beyond the Peddler’s District, the whole place felt like it had been touched by the Fate who was known to share fortunes that rolled and flowed like tides.
It almost made it possible to forget the sanctity of vices their jungle-coated isle had become.
Almost.
Emmeline sipped her water and focused on the ocean, letting the waves wash away those worries.
Of the other six constellation isles, Della was typically where the most tributes to Polyr were held.
While each Fate’s sigils could be found sprinkled across the islands that sat off the coast of Gallantia, they all had a dominant presence on one in particular.
The Isle of Lyra was the exception, not tending toward one or the other, but honoring all Fates and the Angel who ruled over them, Valyrie.
Della, with its specialty in navigation and defense, was where Polyr’s sigil was most prominent.
Everyone speculated that Raul—Fortuna’s founder who passed a few decades ago—was aligned with the Fate of Eddies and Lost Luck, but no one knew for certain.
It wasn’t that it was restricted to inquire about someone else’s Fate ties, but some Starsearchers chose to keep them private, just as no one learned the Fates’ true names until the stars themselves shared them with the warrior when their tie was revealed.
Much about spinning fortunes relied on superstition and trust in the universe, magic woven into their bones since the day Starsearchers were born.
“Have you gone through the information from Falliare?” Emmeline asked after a basket of pastries with jam was set before her, a tray steaming with meats, eggs, and some sort of hash dish in front of Roremar.
“Every page,” he said between bites, and Emmeline’s attention snapped up. “What?” he added at her wide-eyed expression.
“Nothing, I only…” Her words trailed off. She had read every word, of course. She’d stayed up late into the night, flipping through the pages and taking notes until her candle burned to the wick. “I hadn’t expected you to have read it all.”
“Underestimating me, DeLeoste?” Roremar asked, a crooked smirk highlighting the small scar barely touching his upper lip. He had another one just above his left eyebrow, the two combining with the slight bump on the bridge of his nose to mar this perfect facade he’d built.
“More like surprised someone matched my dedication to studying for once.” Emmeline wasn’t only in her position at Lyra Temple Academy because of her deep ties to the Fates. She’d had an exemplary tutor growing up and had worked hard to earn her role, regardless of her magic.
And because she’d often needed solace as a girl, books and stories became a haven. Myths and legends—both those of the Angels and Fates as well as her own wild imagination—were her sanctuary, knowledge a source of power and prestige.
Roremar grinned again, brushing his hands on his napkin as he chewed a bite of fluffy bread still steaming from the oven. “So,” he said when he was done, “what conclusions did you draw?”
“That there are no easy-to-spot patterns in the cases,” Emmeline admitted, twisting a bit of flakey pastry between her ringed fingers. “Beyond both missing Starsearchers being females.”
Roremar nodded, watching her hands. He rearranged the plates before him, saying, “The first one disappeared while walking home from a night shift at a local gambling hall.”
“Near daylight, though it was early,” Emmeline added with a grim nod, eyes lingering on the plate he’d moved to her side of the table, crisped slices of bacon staring up at her.
“And the second was taken from her home, time uncertain, but likely in the middle of the night.”
That detail twisted Emmeline’s heart, and the scent of iron burned her nose. She took a sip of water to collect herself, nibbling on a strip of bacon as she thought. “The first was almost two hundred, the latter in her fourth decade and worked part time at an apothecary shop.”
“And the other tentative victims seem to be travelers. They could have slipped off the isle without anyone knowing, or they disappeared while they were here.”
“We should check the ports to be certain,” Emmeline suggested. “There may be more extensive records Lyra Isle Guard hasn’t bothered to verify yet.”
“I wanted to ask the Guard about the missing women’s families, too.
Find out if they’ve already been in contact with them and what they’ve learned.
I can do that this afternoon,” Roremar offered.
“Falliare gave me a copy of your lesson schedule. Looks like you won’t need me to play bodyguard today? ”
She did have back-to-back lectures all day, and she’d need to conduct her own sessions afterward. At the thought, magic beat in her chest, rattling like she’d kept it corked in a vial and it wanted to break free. Stifling it, she cleared her throat.
“Right,” she agreed, gazing out the windows and into the calm sea far below. “I’ll search fortunes tonight to see if the stars can share anything about what happened to these women or where the next strike will be.”
It wasn’t entirely a lie. She would read for this case.
But she would also carry on her own hunts in pursuit of the friends of the man she killed a few nights ago.
Tension bracketed Roremar’s expression, his hand fisting atop the table as he looked around Fortuna. Almost seeming reluctant, he suggested, “You could try now.”
“What?” Emmeline asked over the press of magic. Starfire flickered along the edges of her vision. She blinked through it.
Roremar watched her closely, his brow creased but a spark of intrigue in his grey eyes. “Try reading now.”
“I can’t here,” she argued, twisting her tarnished opal ring around her finger.
“Why not?” Roremar retorted. Shrugging, he knocked his knuckles against the table.
There it was—that reckless side. The one she’d been hoping wouldn’t surface.
The one whose very nature could tip this precarious truce they’d built today if he pushed her too far and jeopardized any piece of this mission and her transfer to Valyn.
Sometimes her magic was simply too much. She preferred to be alone with it. But she didn’t want to tell Roremar that for fear of other questions it would raise.
“Why don’t you do it?” she challenged.
“I’m not the one Aldryn recruited for her magic.”
“I don’t have the supplies.”
“I saw you pack and could hear those vials jingling in your satchel the entire walk.” Roremar leveled her with a knowing look that dug beneath her skin, an infuriating knife worming under hardened armor.
Emmeline folded her arms. “I don’t want to read here.”
“You’re going to have to read somewhere, and we don’t have to leave quite yet.
The owners are reading out on the patio now, and you can smell lingering incense from another patron in here before us, so they clearly don’t mind.
You may as well do it here rather than back where students could interrupt you.
” Despite his words, there was a tightness lingering in Roremar’s jaw.
Emmeline watched it tick, not answering.
“Unless there’s a reason you don’t want to?” he prodded.
“They should call you the Relentless,” she muttered to herself.
Roremar actually laughed at that, but the rolling sound didn’t unknot any of the tension lacing Emmeline’s muscles.
Her obstinance only seemed to spark his curiosity. He reclined in his chair, showing no sign of vacating. It would make him more insistent—make him look closer at her—if she kept resisting.
“Fine,” she conceded. Unpacking her supplies, she selected a blend that wouldn’t be too powerful but should allow her to unload the weight of her magic and navigate smoothly through the readings.
Some mixes were stronger than others; some would consume her entirely.
She had to be very careful where and when she allowed those to burn.
But the gentle sandalwood tincture she poured into the well didn’t even need to be lit, and the crushed lavender buds would be tame enough when singed beside it.
Soon, a cloud of pale violet smoke filled the air around their table.
The lulling siren song of the Fates pulled at Emmeline’s senses, a medley hungry to tug her within their grasp.
Would they devour her heart like those in the stories she read as a girl?
Pull her to the depths of herself as they did Seawatchers to the dark ocean bottoms?
Starfire flickered around the edges of her vision, a pair of steel-grey eyes burrowing into her between every blink.
And finally, though terror at how exposed this left her threatened to claw at her throat, she closed her eyes, and the voices consumed her.