Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Emmeline
Thoughts of the instructor dormitories haunted Emmeline, but she resumed teaching as soon as the bruises had faded. All her life, she’d lived in the wake of fear, threats, and wickedness. This would be no different.
She didn’t venture near her room, nor did she stay after dark, opting to conduct her sessions in the apartment above Desmond’s parlor or at her cliffside sanctuary when she was able to escape to it.
Roremar was escorting her to and from the Academy each day, any spare moment spent discussing their various theories from the Trade House, the Accords, and the Warders of Selene.
Lyra Isle Guard thought they’d narrowed down the identity of the most recent victim, but so far there was no family found, no one reporting her missing.
Roremar had met with them this morning to discuss possibilities while Emmeline conducted readings.
The Fates had been less than helpful, which always left her frustrated and Roremar with a smug grimace.
Now, she strolled down the zig-zagging path to the training arena, afternoon sun baking the stones and the breeze rifling through the cypher trees. Her lessons were completed for the day. Roremar should be done any moment, and she wanted to find out what Darcy had told him.
His voice drifted through the columns before she rounded the corner, the students’ queries and complaints interjecting over one another. She stopped behind the last pillar, peering around it.
Roremar’s head was tipped back, a beaming smile on his face.
It was such genuine joy—brighter than anything she’d seen on him before.
Sword in hand, he crouched beside one of the students.
It was the twelve to thirteen age group.
Old enough that they were using real weapons but not quite big enough to wield full-sized swords, he had a lot of them using triple-blades.
Emmeline observed as Roremar the Reckless instructed the student gently, patting him on the back.
When they were done, he moved on to the next.
Aviana, the girl in one of Emmeline’s classes who’d confessed to having two Fate ties.
She bore a fierce expression, lifting a triple dagger and sending it whirling toward a target.
The three blades whizzed around each other—the weapon soaring like a shooting star—and landed just beside the spot she aimed for.
Roremar sheathed his sword and corrected her stance, helping her with the next throw.
It struck perfectly.
Each child he spoke to brightened, seeming to leave the interaction with a new tip.
And Roremar…his smile caught the light when he laughed at something a group of boys said.
He ran his hand through his messy waves, the tattoos on his forearms flexing.
A bead of sweat rolled down the column of his throat, beneath the collar of his tunic where more ink peered around the laces.
Something curled below Emmeline’s stomach as she watched, heat gathering between her thighs. The strong lines of his back as he demonstrated a throw, the muscles flexing. Her fingers tingled, wishing she could reach out and touch him.
She’d never considered how much strength lay beneath the surface with Roremar.
He was a soldier after all—a good one, from what she’d found out.
His clever mind was clearly an asset, but he also had a compassionate, doting side.
Not only with her the other night after the attack, but with the students, too.
Perhaps there was more than what reputation spewed with this reckless war—
A bloodcurdling scream rang through the grounds, and Emmeline’s stomach plummeted.
As if sensing her horror, Roremar’s eyes snapped to hers.
He directed the children to follow the assistant instructor inside.
Then, he and Emmeline were running, tearing down corridors and across the grounds, following the haunting chill of that cry.
“It was a child,” she panted.
“I know.” Roremar ran faster, the pair of them weaving between cypher branches and toward the vineyards. They stumbled to a halt at the entrance to the grapevines.
“Oh, Angels,” Emmeline gasped.
Myrella was already there, tears streaming down her cheeks as she crouched beside the victim. A cluster of students were behind her, being herded away by another instructor. Horror streaked their faces, one of them clearly having been the one to scream.
“Liana,” Emmeline whispered.
Liana’s ice-blonde hair fanned around the dirt path at the head of the vineyard, orderly rows of grapes stretching into the setting sun, down the hill and beyond. It was a poetic image, but Emmeline’s blood had run too cold to make any sense of it. Her mind was slipping into a numb place.
Something pressed against her throat.
Starfire crackling.
TO TEMPT THE FATES, AND REALMS WILL WREST,
What? What would they wrest? Was it this—this life of another woman, one close to her? Had it been her and Roremar tempting the Fates by trying to solve this murder? Was this her fault?
This was Liana. The jesting, antagonistic, confident Liana. Her colleague who’d had very little care for personal space and always welcomed people into hers, whether they needed a drink or gossip to cheer them up or simply a distraction from their worries.
This was Liana, with her throat slit and a twelve-pointed star tattooed upon her chest.
This was Liana, the next sacrifice to whatever brutal rituals were stealing life from their isle.
Starfire roared in Emmeline’s chest. The Fates had said nothing of this—they hadn’t deemed to show her this death was coming.
“Her body is already cold,” Myrella whispered to Emmeline and Roremar.
How long had Liana been here before the students found her? How long had the Fates kept this from Emmeline?
“This is connected isn’t it?” Myrella asked. “To the others?”
“I believe so,” Emmeline croaked, all emotion eroded from her voice. The last two bodies had been horrid, but this was a new kind of devastation. A personal kind that frayed the edges of her own defenses.
Everyone close to you winds up dead.
No. This case had nothing to do with her. Liana was a victim, but it was not Emmeline’s doing, and the first two hadn’t been either. These were unrelated to everyone else she’d doomed.
But this one left a new scar, one in the shape of Liana’s name. Beside her mother’s. Her father’s. Her sister’s. And all others she’d lost along the way.
“Where’s Charisse?” Emmeline asked. The grounds were wrapped in an eerie silence, Roremar’s and Myrella’s heartbeats as loud as her own. None from Liana, though.
“I think she’s finishing her last lesson of the day,” Myrella answered.
Circling the body, Roremar asked, “Who’s Charisse?”
“Her partner.” Emmeline blinked, trying to find any words that made sense. Her arms hung loosely at her sides, useless. “It was a secret—against Academy rules for instructors—but they’d been together for some time.”
“Nearly a year,” Myrella added, hugging her frame.
Roremar’s gaze snapped up to the two women then down to Liana. “You were close?”
Emmeline didn’t quite know how to answer. She wasn’t close to anyone. But Myrella confidently said, “Yes,” and gratitude for her warmth flooded Emmeline. Liana deserved to have someone who could say that.
“I’m sorry,” Roremar responded to Myrella, but his eyes landed on Emmeline, branding her with his attention as they always did, dissecting every inch of her.
And she had a distinct feeling he noticed her avoidance, tucked it into that analytical brain of his, and went on to distract them. “There’s no blood.”
“What?” Emmeline asked, taking a step closer.
“You don’t have to look—”
“No,” she interrupted. “Thank you, but I want to.”
Carefully, she approached the body. Liana’s arms were folded precisely over her stomach, as if intentionally placed there. Her legs were tucked up, eyes closed and head turned to the side, almost as if she were sleeping. And there wasn’t a drop of blood on the dirt.
“She wasn’t killed here,” Emmeline observed.
“Don’t think so,” Roremar agreed. He took a mystlight lantern from the hook at the entrance to the vineyards and crouched beside Liana’s still form. “She has all the same signs—the tattoo and wound line up—but it looks like she was left here.”
“But why?” Myrella asked, still keeping her distance from the body. Mourning rippled off her every move, thickening the air.
“That’s what I don’t know,” Roremar puzzled.
“The past two deaths were both left in public areas, but the way she’s positioned almost implies…
reverence. And her being at the Temple..
.” Roremar scanned the tall towers, and Emmeline could almost see his mind working through the puzzle. “It’s as if he was returning her.”
“If we’re right, and this is ritualistic,” Emmeline said, trying to forge ahead despite the friend at her feet, “then the killer returning her implies this sacrifice didn’t achieve whatever they’re trying to do.”
“It’s possible none of them have,” Roremar added. “If they keep killing.”
“Do you think she knew the murderer? If they were being…respectful.” That word soured her stomach. Nothing about this exemplified respect.
“It’s possible the killer felt guilty,” Roremar answered, lips pressing into a line. “Or they cared for her.”
If they cared for her, had they known her? Had Liana willingly given herself up for whatever cult was doing this?
Roremar reached for Liana’s hand, his glove gently sliding against her skin and lifting it toward the light. “She has smears of ash on her.”
Large grey smudges streaked her hands and arms, gathered on the hem of her white skirt, too.
“She smokes quite a bit with Charisse,” Myrella offered.
“Could be,” Roremar said, gently placing her hand back where it had been.