Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Emmeline
She recognized Desmond’s voice.
That was why he’d seemed so familiar the first time she met him.
He’d been one of the two cloaked men on the cliffside the night of the first murder.
When she’d first spoken to him in the Accords, a string had snagged in her mind.
Now, after hearing his voice again on the docks—the slight drawl in the way he pronounced certain vowels, like he had all the time in the world—she traced that thread to its source.
But was he the stranger she’d tracked through the vineyard or the one who had escaped into the jungle? For reasons she couldn’t explain beyond the Fate within her insisting she follow them, Emmeline had been so sure those two men were involved in this case.
Who had he been meeting that night? Was it Roremar?
And if it was, what did that mean?
She glanced over at him as they sat in their familiar wood-paneled room within the Accords, sorting through a stack of books on the histories of various cults and ritualistic sacrifices.
Dark waves tumbling over his forehead, he flipped a page, a graphic image of a body splayed on an alter staring up at them.
“Yes?” Roremar asked without looking up, as if he sensed her eyes on him. For someone so aware of studying others, he’d barely seemed to glance at her since they left the port, some inexplicable wall erected between them.
No more secrets.
Emmeline shook her head. “Daydreaming,” she excused, pushing back from the table and gliding around the room on the pretense of lighting a few candles. Nothing overpowering, but something indulgent—soothing, like vanilla and cinnamon—that wouldn’t trigger her readings.
She hadn’t told Roremar about her encounter with the hallucinating warrior near the Eastern Port last night. She was trying and failing to connect the dots in her mind.
Tucking away her concerns over Desmond, Emmeline exhaled slowly and resumed her seat at the table, recapping what she was sure of based on the research she’d done thus far. “Compared to these accounts, the two murders are clearly ritualistic sacrifices.”
Roremar grunted in agreement. “But there’s no mentions of twelve-pointed star tattoos or what they could be intended for.”
“If we’re assuming this is connected to the Fates, Anphrosia and Serchus have the strongest history of cult worship,” she added.
Roremar’s shoulders tensed at the mention of those two celestial beings. “Neither of them has a particularly loyal foothold in Lyra. It wouldn’t make sense for their followers to be striking here of all places.”
Emmeline studied him. “No, but Lyra has always been the most eclectic of the isles.”
As the largest population of the Constellation Isles, Lyra hosted the most even spread of Starsearchers revering each Fate, rather than greater groups culminating in one place.
Emmeline had always preferred that, though right now, it trumped her budding theory that the Fate of Cruelty and Adoration or the Fate of Secrets and Greed were directly involved.
“It could just as easily be followers of Zorrahn or Hyllara,” Roremar argued, hand fisting atop the table.
“It could be,” Emmeline agreed softly. The Fate of Storms and Peaceful Stretches and Fate of Fertility and Betrayal were often painted as the epitome of divine love and celestial power, sometimes even revered as the leaders of the other ten, though many legends revealed darker truths about their entanglements.
Still, she didn’t point out the obvious to Roremar: None of the books they’d combed through mentioned either of those Fates. Overwhelmingly, it was Anphrosia and Serchus.
Given his clear discomfort, Emmeline redirected the conversation, shifting closer to look at the pages he turned. “There’s also the ash around the second body to consider—wait!” Emmeline leaned across Roremar, flattening the page and dragging a hand across the top. “Look at this.”
His eyes traced the path of her finger as if his life depended on it, his chest pressing against her body as he craned his neck to see, one hand falling to her waist. A line of heat spread out from his touch, her breath catching. Spirits, she’d all but jumped into his lap.
She ignored how his attention and proximity sent her heart stampeding, how the skin of her back where his thumb brushed just above her skirt was burning.
“The insignia,” she whispered.
Centered at the head of the worn page, a pair of angel wings were sketched, one feathered and artistically filled in, one brutish, as if made of iron.
“You think this is what the medallion is supposed to be? Not the tattoo parlor where the ink was done?” Roremar asked, his finger brushing against hers as he traced the design. It was much more detailed than what Desmond had shown them.
“I’m thinking it’s too similar to overlook,” Emmeline asserted, turning toward him. Her heartbeat pounded through her entire body, her fingertips tingling with awareness.
“I’m thinking you’re probably right, Huntress,” Roremar said, and when he lifted his gaze from the page, that molten steel pierced her.
Emmeline’s breath caught in her throat, her body tingling. Her face was only inches from his. The beat of his heart rumbled down her bones. Each of his exhales tickled her shoulder, and his eyes melted into quicksilver that scorched to her core.
That stare was magnetic, pulling her in, but two words looped through her memory.
Endless ruin.
Suddenly very aware of how she was still stretched across him, Emmeline shifted back into her seat. She swallowed and asked, “What does the footnote say?”
Roremar cleared his throat, blinking a few times as if forcing his eyes to refocus on the words before him.
“It’s described as an approximate estimate of a mark of the Warders of Selene, a fanatic group that existed in the rumored time that the Fates walked Ambrisk many millennia ago, but that was disbanded upon their ascension.
Many believed their strongest foothold was on Lyra and that is where their most common festivals of reverence and worship occurred. ”
“Sounds like sacrifices to me,” Emmeline said.
“But they’ve been disbanded for centuries. Since the Angels ascended and the Fates assumed their realm.”
It was believed that the Fates had once inhabited this realm with the Angels, but many millennia ago they had all disappeared. Though the Angels had since returned, the Fates were yet to be seen.
Scholars on Alvan and Epi, known for magic and mythological studies respectively, claimed it was to protect the Balance.
The Angels engaged directly with their warriors sometimes, but if the Fates did outside of readings, it could have cataclysmic effects on the paths of fortune, altering the delicate scales the realms hung upon.
They were meant to be as distant as the stars in the sky, not personally involved.
It made sense why a group such as the Warders of Selene would have faded over time, but Emmeline had no idea who or what Selene may be.
If this was their symbol, though…
“Maybe they’re back,” Emmeline hypothesized. “If the Warders of Selene are the ones doing this, and they were known for their proximity to the Fates, it would make sense why the twelve-pointed star was their calling card.”
“What do you think they’re trying to do, though?” Roremar asked. “Remind us of the power of the Fates?”
“Maybe open up some new channel of communication with them? Like creating Fate ties?” Emmeline’s blood ran cold at the consideration of how powerful that magic would have to be.
Roremar’s steel eyes widened for a beat before sliding back into his typical assured skepticism. “That can’t be done.”
“You can’t prove that something is impossible,” Emmeline claimed.
“Short of doing it, can’t prove it’s possible either,” Roremar argued, and Emmeline had the distinct feeling he was doing so for her benefit, no matter what he believed.
Just as she’d allowed his fear at the mention of Anphrosia and Serchus to fade into the blanket of theories they were weaving, he was soothing her worries.
“Outside of the medallion and the means of, which I’ll admit does seem ritualistic now,” Roremar said, drumming his fingers on the table so his rings chimed against one another, “what evidence is there? We don’t even have any proof that they’re back.”
“The second body was found near the Cursed Markets, which would be the easiest access to nefarious supplies for cults settled in the jungle.” Emmeline bit her lip. It did feel like a bit of a stretch, but in her bones—in her magic—she was certain something was there.
“There were no candles or incense at either site,” he reminded her. “I’m not saying it’s wrong, I’m just saying we need more before we assume someone is trying to wield Fateblessed magic, or whatever it would be considered.”
With that, she agreed. Emmeline sighed, but it took significant effort to keep her tone light. “Who knows, Roremar the Reckless, perhaps someone out there can make star bonds fall and rise again.”
His expression flickered with what she thought was annoyance, but he concealed it quickly, leaning on the arm of his chair so he was once again in her space. “Trust me, Miss DeLeoste, if they believe they can, we’ll find them.”
“How are you so certain?” she whispered, letting a hint of fear slither into her words.
A wink. “Because everyone makes a mistake eventually.”
A mistake. She straightened.
Why was she sitting here getting cozy with this warrior when she was supposed to be tracking down a murderer? She was making a mistake. They agreed to work together, but getting close to him, comfortable around him—it couldn’t happen. Especially not now that Desmond, his best friend, was a suspect.
Endless ruin.
The vanilla and cinnamon scent was heavier in the air than she’d intended, warmth and comfort swirling through her senses, luring her in. By the looks of it, it was doing the same thing to Roremar, his eyes glazing over.
Emmeline stood to give herself room to breathe. His heady sandalwood scent was becoming another too-comforting presence.
“Any mentions of a twelve-pointed star in that passage?”
Roremar scanned it briefly, shaking his head.
“I’m going to gather more books on the Warders now that we have a specific group to look for. Maybe there will be an explanation for it in there,” she said, breathier than she intended.
“We should leave soon,” Roremar reminded her, his voice more distant than a moment ago. Perhaps he’d realized the mistake occurring between them, too.
“I’ll be quick,” Emmeline said, leaving before he could respond.
The main hall of the Accords was a towering room with starry mosaics splashed across the ceiling and dark-wooden shelves climbing the walls, directories perched at the end of each neat row.
The organization and magic of this place soothed her.
Typically, only approved scholars and acolytes were allowed to roam the halls, but their approval from Falliare granted her access, and Emmeline embraced the quiet.
As she pulled a handful of aged volumes off shelves, she picked through every interaction with Desmond, fighting to disprove her suspicion of Roremar’s best friend.
But he’d been at the cliffs the night of the first murder, she couldn’t deny that. He could have easily been the man who escaped through the jungle. And he’d been putting significant effort into being covert, which meant he was hiding something.
Not to mention how eager he’d been to help them under the guise of assisting his friend.
That was an easy cover, she reasoned as she strolled down another row of books.
Roremar clearly relied on Desmond, so if the tattoo artist—another piece of evidence—was involved in this, it wouldn’t be suspicious to be close to the investigation.
With each fact, Emmeline grew more and more convinced.
And as her thoughts raced in the stillness of the Accords and her arms grew laden with pages she hoped contained answers, the hall was quiet.
But she didn’t realize that in the vast emptiness, a presence hovered around her shoulders like a worn cloak. And she never felt alone.
When she made it back to Roremar and dropped off the books she’d found, he was dozing off in his chair, the sleepless nights he’d been spending on this case catching up to him.
“Come on, Reckless,” she said, rousing him. “It’s time to go.”
Shaking his head and rolling his shoulders, he blinked away the exhaustion and followed. Emmeline spent the entire walk back to Lyra Temple Academy worrying over how she was going to reveal to Roremar that her primary suspect was his closest confidant.