Chapter 13 #2
Again, no verbal answer, but the girl inclined her head to the left, a silver hoop in her nose glinting, and Emmeline took it as permission.
With a nod of thanks, she strode around the desk and down the marble hall lined with portraits of every Fate—or what one artist imagined them to look like since there were no actual records of their appearances.
The Angel had her own life-sized canvas at the end. Valyrie’s silver hair tumbled around her shoulders like silk, rich olive skin awash with the sparkling purples and blues of her ether.
The Angels were all made of raw power, straight from the earth, and Valyrie’s resembled the very cosmos her clan was known for.
Emmeline had never had the honor of seeing the Prime Starsearcher, but in almost every rendition, that swirling galaxy of magic accompanied her, spilling off her great white wings and bathing the realm in constellations.
Sometimes a halo of stars surrounded her head. Sometimes she was dressed in silver battle armor and bedecked in triple blades, but she was always magnificent.
As she breathed in the presence that seemed to surround the portrait, Emmeline’s own magic pulsed. She bowed her head, muttering a prayer of gratitude to Valyrie, then veered right as the Temple Master’s instructions had directed.
A few turns down nearly identical corridors later, and she found the private room. When she pushed the door open—
“Finally decided to show?” Roremar teased, though his expression showed not an ounce of humor as he propped his feet on the table.
The door clipped closed behind Emmeline, and the air thickened.
From the outside, she hadn’t noticed how small it was.
No windows, so Roremar’s imposing presence consumed the space.
Not much beyond a sideboard with a pitcher, water glasses, and some candles, an empty shelf for them to organize their findings, and a blank chalkboard accompanied him.
“I’m not late,” Emmeline snapped, but her gaze flicked to the clock ticking against one wood-paneled wall. She was right—it was still five minutes until their specified meeting time—but Roremar grinned triumphantly.
Flicking off her cloak, she strode across the deep green and tan patterned rug and suppressed any hint of annoyance.
“If you’re not early, you’re late,” Roremar responded, dragging a ringed hand through his waves. His forearm flexed, one of the tattoos peeking beneath the rolled sleeve ticking. Serchus’s sigil? Emmeline thought. “That’s what my father always said.”
Said.
That word shocked Emmeline from her investigation of his ink. Her hands stilled where they smoothed her cloak over the back of her chair.
But before she could comment, Roremar went on, as if that slip hadn’t revealed a vital piece of himself to her.
“I’ve brought my notes, believe it or not.” She wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but Roremar pulled out the file Falliare had given them along with some she hadn’t seen but assumed were from Lyra Isle Guard, dropping them on the wooden table with a loud smack.
“Me, too,” Emmeline said, pulling out the chair opposite his and removing her own notes from her pack.
“Where do you want to—”
But Roremar’s question stalled when the door was wrenched open and two men barreled in. Emmeline was already pulling the knife from the lining of her boot when one spoke.
“Sorry we’re late!” the shorter of the two blurted, dark waves bouncing wildly around his flushed cheeks. “You wouldn’t believe how easy it is to get lost in the corridors here.”
The other guffawed, locks of honey-blond hair shaking around his face with the exhale, the front pulled back in a knot but for a few strands.
“A part of me thinks that was the plan, Nico.” He locked his arms across his broad chest, the short sleeves of his casual tunic showing off a pattern of ink entirely covering one, an intricate design on the other forearm.
Surveying the room, his gaze widened on the blade in Emmeline’s hand.
“What are you planning to do with that, darling?”
“Depends on who you are and why you’re here,” she clipped. “I don’t like being surprised.”
His eyes danced. “Oh, you are fun.”
Roremar pushed up from his seat, and out of the corner of her eye, Emmeline swore she saw an impressed smirk flash across his lips as he took in her dagger. But he turned his attention on the men. “Yes. What are you doing here?”
“We’re here to help,” the blond, tattooed warrior answered simply.
“This is private business,” Emmeline said firmly. “You must go.”
“What she said,” Roremar echoed, falling back into his chair.
The two men exchanged a glance, both pinning Roremar with insistent stares, and Emmeline was struck with the instinct that she was lacking information.
Interrupting their silent duel, she asked, “Who are you?”
“His brother,” and “His best friend,” the two answered in unison.
A blaze of frustration roared through her. Before she could think, she flicked her wrist. And her dagger landed in the seat of Roremar’s chair, right between his spread legs. All three men sucked in a breath, the blond one biting back a smile.
Emmeline didn’t look at the new guests. She surged toward Roremar, one hand gripping the arm of his chair, the other threatening on the hilt of her dagger. “You told your friend and your brother about this, Reckless? We’re working with sensitive information here.”
Roremar, clearly not impressed with her attitude, leaned forward so his nose nearly brushed hers. “Yes, but I haven’t told them anything more than is necessary!”
“Why would you do that? Can’t handle this on your own?” she accused.
“Believe it or not, Huntress, some of us don’t have the privilege of being so isolated.” His words landed like a fist to her chest, shattering her ribs. How did he know that? Was it simply from all the research he’d done on her?
But she didn’t—wouldn’t—ask. His fingers curled around hers on the weapon, and she hated how that motion wrested control from her. “Some of us have people relying on us, and when we’re being called away at all hours of the day, we have to notify them.”
The pieces of her ribs pierced her lungs, and judging the way Roremar’s brow creased, she didn’t hide it as well as she’d hoped.
He wrenched her dagger from his seat, keeping her hand steadily pressed to the hilt as he sheathed it back in her boot.
She ignored the way his fingers brushed her bare calf beneath her skirt, heat scorching through her.
Her breath was still stuttering from the harsh impact of his words as he shoved his seat back.
“Just because I have to tell them my whereabouts does not mean I invited them.” Roremar rounded on his brother and friend. “Now what in all the Fates’ fucks are you two doing here?”
They were both silent, eyes still flicking between Emmeline and Roremar. Then, the shorter—his brother—leaned toward the friend and muttered, “Spirits, we were right about them having a lot in common.”
The blond warrior whispered back, “They’re going to eat each other alive.”
“WHY?” Roremar barked over their murmuring, and Emmeline couldn’t suppress her haughty smile when they snickered. Apparently she wasn’t the only one who enjoyed needling him.
“You know damn well you could use more help on this,” the tattooed friend said sternly. He held Roremar’s steel gaze, and something Emmeline didn’t quite understand passed between them.
For ages.
So long that the brother removed his cloak, pulled out a chair—the legs scuffing over the rug—and plopped down.
“Don’t sit,” Roremar said, still holding his friend’s stare.
His brother ignored him and held his hand out to Emmeline. “Hi, I’m Nico. I promise I’m more pleasant than my brother. No need to throw knives at me.”
Emmeline took him in with raised brows. He did greatly resemble Roremar, though he was certainly younger.
The same dark waves drooped over his ears, the same almond-shaped eyes lifted just slightly at the corners to make every stare impossibly intense—though Nico’s burned blue—and the same knife-sharp jaw threatened to slice her.
But Nico grinned without any of the antagonizing arrogance Roremar’s seemed to possess.
No, Nico’s smile was…friendly. Warm.
“Emmeline,” she answered kindly, shaking his hand. “Don’t give me a reason to take out my knives again, and we’ll be okay.”
She resumed her seat without waiting for his answer and peered pointedly at Roremar. As if he felt her stare on him, he finally broke his battle of wills with his friend and glanced at her. “What?”
“This is your mess. How are we proceeding?”
One dark brow lifted with a scoff. “You’re leaving this up to me?”
Truthfully, she couldn’t believe it either.
But that slight mention of his father paired with the appearance of his two clear confidants had reminded her she knew nothing of Roremar besides his reputation.
If she was going to be forced to work with him, she needed to uncover what secrets lurked beneath the surface.
Not to trust him—no, she knew she would never be able to trust Roremar the Reckless beyond working together—but to understand him enough that she knew how to watch her own back around him.
His brother and best friend seemed like a reasonable place to start.
“So long as they don’t impede our work or breathe a word of it beyond these walls”—a cutting glance at both newcomers—“then I’ll agree.”
The blond warrior laughed, Nico joining in with a much quieter, softer chuckle.
“You certainly are entertaining, Miss DeLeoste,” the friend said, dropping into the last available chair in the small study. He leaned his elbows on the table, folding his hands beneath his chin, and giving her an earnest look she wasn’t positive wasn’t meant to mock her.