Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Roremar
Roremar’s fingers drummed impatiently on the table, light bouncing off his rings as he watched Emmeline read.
There was something intrinsic about the way she fell into the session.
With so many Starsearchers—even with Desmond—their magic seemed to pull at them, demanding their attention.
It always made Roremar feel like they were no more than objects to the Fates.
But Emmeline’s hazel eyes slipped closed like she was falling into a dream, and the cloud of lilac-tinged incense wafted around them. It was as if the reading from her Fate tie seeped into her, coiled around her and melted against her skin rather than grasping her viciously.
Why had she seemed so reluctant to read when it was so…effortless?
A soft, peaceful expression settled over her features—one Roremar had yet to see on her. Long lashes drooped over faintly freckled cheeks, lips parting on slow breaths. Her brow creased ever so slightly as she communed with whoever lay on the other end of her connection.
But even the presence of a reading set his teeth grinding.
Crossing one ankle over his knee, he cracked his neck, studying the blackened steel ring adorning his middle finger.
A gift from his father, he often tried to ground himself with it.
The grooves throughout the medal swallowed the cloying presence of the burning incense, the only spot around the table that seemed free of the shit.
The uncontrollable nature of readings wasn’t something Roremar appreciated. He detested the way it left searchers defenseless. His fingers quickened their tempo against the table as memories flashed through his mind.
He’d seen too many warriors unable to wrench themselves back from the Fates on a battlefield before a blade sank into their chest. Had seen his own plans go to the Spirit Realm because one reading said changed fortunes at the last moment.
Warm blood across his hands, things he didn’t want to name beneath his knees as he crouched in the dirt—
“What is it, Restless?” Emmeline murmured, her eyes still closed.
Roremar balked. “You have one foot in the reading, and you can still speak to me?”
Emmeline cracked an eye open, hazel irises burning in a way that would have made Roremar stumble if he hadn’t been seated. “As the research you undoubtedly did on me told you, I am very in tune with my magic.”
She closed her eyes again, her chest rising on a deep breath.
Very in tune with her magic be damned. Emmeline was a masterpiece.
Typically, sessions swept a Starsearcher away, made it impossible to pull them back unless it was the will of the Fates.
But the way she slipped into it so seamlessly was impressive, even to Roremar who hated admitting anything about being dictated by the Fates was natural.
No wonder Uncle Aldryn had chosen her to lead this mission.
Despite the colorful adjustments she kept making to his nickname and her shock at him having read the files, he had to admit, she was an asset.
Or he thought she would be, until she groaned in frustration, her arms crossing abruptly.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, twirling a finger around the rim of his glass.
All interest in his breakfast was forgotten as he watched her.
Though he’d only ordered so much food because she seemed adamant not to, and he knew from his sisters’ habits that halfway through the meal she’d be looking longingly at his plate, wishing for more.
Emmeline folded her arms tighter, and Roremar had the distinct impression she was a spring ready to snap.
An instinct he didn’t understand coiled inside of her, but he could tell she compressed it with every ounce of stubborn will the Angels had gifted her.
With an elongated exhale, the burning in her hazel eyes dimmed.
“It seems the stars don’t wish to be helpful,” Emmeline bit out.
“Of course,” he sighed. The fucking stars. When were they ever helpful? Roremar shook his head, aggravation grating through his lungs at the damn celestials that mapped out the skies.
“What did your Fate tell you?” He attempted to be civil.
“Nothing,” Emmeline ground out, not meeting his eyes.
He squinted at her. “You’re lying.”
Her fidgeting and avoidance were clear indications: This Starsearcher who read like it was her first language was being deceptive.
Perhaps he shouldn’t have accused her. He should have tucked away the knowledge and waited for what she revealed as her guard dropped over time.
But Roremar the Reckless wasn’t known for doing what he should. He shoved his annoyance at the nickname to the back of his mind and let the instincts that caused it take over.
“I am not,” Emmeline swore. “I learned nothing about this case. In fact, she told me we should not be digging into this. We should in fact be avoiding it at all costs.”
“Sounds dramatic.”
“Well, Prophecy and Demise is known for theatrics,” Emmeline grumbled, folding and refolding her napkin atop the table.
Metrina was Emmeline’s Fate tie, then. Perhaps one of the most difficult, infamous for sending purposefully untrustworthy fortunes to her searchers, taking out her own horrific losses on them after her child died a brutal death.
Maybe Emmeline had some advanced relationship with the jaded Fate, able to read her differently, and that was what made her magic so strong.
Roremar considered the stubborn set of her jaw and the steady cross of her arms. She didn’t appear to be lying, though his gut told him she wasn’t telling the full truth either.
And he couldn’t help his curious nature. Solving things made him feel more secure, and if he wanted to unpack the secrets this woman was clearly harboring, he’d have to play this smarter. A long game, instead of forcing an answer from her.
“Continue to try,” he pleaded. “When you have the readings to spare. In the meantime, in addition to the docks and Lyra Isle Guard, we should also visit the scenes it’s believed the two potential victims disappeared from.”
“With what authority?” Emmeline asked.
“Falliare’s.” Wasn’t that obvious?
“That would make us very visible while we work on this.”
Very visible? Of course, they would be visible. This was Lyra for Fates’ sake; he’d met a quarter of the population before, and they’d likely all see him out and about again now that he was being thrown into this hunt. “And you’re opposed to that because…”
“Because…then whoever is responsible will look toward the most obvious next victim: us.” The slight pause told him that wasn’t her whole truth.
“We won’t be able to find any answers without investigating,” Roremar challenged. “Plus, we need to do this quickly.”
Emmeline chewed her lip, not breaking her stare from Roremar’s as she clearly fought for an argument she wasn’t going to find.
“Don’t worry, Miss DeLeoste,” Roremar whispered, leaning across the table, purposely infringing on her space to try to rattle her, to learn her tells. To her credit, Emmeline didn’t back down. Didn’t flinch as he said, “I’ve never been afraid of my enemies seeing my face before they die.”
Emmeline tipped her chin up defiantly, that burning stare igniting right down to Roremar’s bones. But when she spoke, her voice was breathy. “You’re being senseless.”
A nerve rioted in his chest at that accusation, the fun of the game obliterating. He’d been trying so hard all morning to make this work. First by glossing over her baseless assumptions of him and then trying to help her relax and read.
But with that word and how utterly untrue it was, he dropped the reins of control.
“Senseless?” He lifted a brow, derision in his tone. “That’s a new one.”
“You said yourself I was clever,” she snapped. “I can’t fail to meet expectations.”
“Oh, come on now, Emmeline. If clever is what you’re going for, I believe you can do a bit better than senseless.” He dropped his voice so she had to lean toward him as he whispered in her ear. “What else are you doing all those hours locked away in your dormitory?”
She inhaled sharply, eyes flicking up to him from beneath her lashes, and Roremar smiled right back at her shock.
“I told you I did my research,” he whispered.
“Asked around about you yesterday after you threatened me. Everyone said you’re very private.
” Roremar leaned back in his chair, appreciating the deepening flush of her cheeks.
“Of course, if you’d rather let my senseless imagination run wild with what you do alone in your bedchamber, I’d be happy to oblige. ”
“As much as I know you’d appreciate the lessons I could teach you on that front, forget it, Senseless.
” He bristled as Emmeline pushed back from the table, throwing silver coins down between them.
A Fate’s sigil glimmered on each as she snatched up her satchel.
“This partnership is never going to work. I’ll be better off on my own. ”
“Fine by me,” Roremar muttered. “Do me a favor and tell the Temple Master it was your decision to call it off.”
And as she stormed out of Fortuna, the fog wafting in her wake, that jarring word echoed through Roremar’s mind.
Senseless.
“Fates’ fucking fortunes, she’s infuriating!
” Roremar raged as he stormed through the door to Desmond’s tattoo parlor late that evening.
He’d gone about his day as was necessary—even stopped by Lyra Isle Guard’s office and left a note for a friend who worked there—and all the while, he’d stewed over Emmeline.
Now, he was at his breaking point.
“Sure, Rore. Come on in,” Desmond intoned, hiding a smirk as Roremar strode past and hopped onto the counter beside the mirror at Des’s station. Typically, it hosted an array of design books for patrons to flip through, but the leather-bound volumes were tucked neatly on their shelves already.
A trio of women chattered in the foyer, comparing their new ink, but they were too lost in themselves to spare him much attention. Thank the Angels for that.