Chapter 70
A dense thump rips me awake.
I groan, though it quickly morphs into a dry heave spurred by the taste of vomit still tainting my tongue.
Fucking Raeve and her fucking vomit runes.
I blindly slap around for my looted flask, pop the cork, and tip it above my wide-open mouth … only to remember it’s as empty as my current will to survive.
“Creators end me.” I roll to my side so I can wedge onto my elbow, every muscle in my body aching from what was, without a doubt, the worst sleep of my existence.
Raeve invested in vomit runes but seemed to forget the basic necessities. Like a comfortable pallet with even a single fucking feather inside. Or a blanket. Or a pillow. Or anything besides enough blades to wage a war, a few fancy gowns, and some finger-smudged moons on the ceiling.
I rub the ache from my eyes, then reach for the mug of water I glug back, washing the rank taint from my mouth while squinting through the window etched in frosty runes, out toward the south.
The Mists have receded for a bit, allowing me to scan the snow-covered plains and the colorful moons above, poised to fuck us all up.
“At least the view’s good,” I mutter, slamming the mug down. Ignoring the ache in my chest that tells me it’s not a good view at all, but the scape of one of my most painful memories. An ache I wish I could burn away with a flask of something caustic enough to make me think less.
I sigh, scanning the horizon. Fail to find a single peek of the aurora ribbons.
Still slumbertime, then.
Checking the hatchling coiled beside me in a prickly knot—thankfully still breathing—I gather I haven’t slept long. Had I, the little fucker would’ve woken me screeching for food. He hasn’t even shat, which is great since he’s using my cloak and shirt as a nest.
At least someone’s getting a good slumber.
I lift the lid on the small wooden box I found beside Raeve’s pathetic excuse for a pallet, making sure the sowgrubs I picked off the wall down in the Ditch are still squirming, munching on the clump of moss I lined the base with. Getting nice and plump to be stuffed down Gruffin’s gob.
Tink. Tink. Tink.
My heart jerks at the shrill sound tapping down from above. From somewhere past that fucking trapdoor in the ceiling I was told not to go through.
Shoving up too fast for my unlubricated brain, I dig through the pocket of my tight pants, weald in hand as I creep up the jagged stairs in the wall.
Pausing directly beneath the trapdoor, I wait.
Listen.
Tink—ting-ting-ting … TINK. TINK. TINK.
“Fuck,” I mouth, shoving a hand through my hair as I look down at Gruffin …
Raeve’s one condition for staying here was that I not go through this door. Under any circumstance. But what if this place is compromised and something dangerous is living up there? Would I be able to live with myself if I don’t investigate, only for Gruffin to get eaten while my guard’s down?
No. I’d be willingly throwing myself on Raeve’s blade.
Tink—ting-ting-ting … TINK. Ting-ting-ting.
“Fuck it.”
I flatten my hand against the trapdoor and push, wincing when the hinges creak.
The sounds dissipate. All the confirmation I need.
I shove the hatch and charge through, whipping around. Take in as much as I can of the open living space in one swift sweep of my eyes.
Roughly hewn. Painted black. A big, open window that’s failing to let the cold in.
The decadent smell of baked buttermin and a taunting blend of spices make every breath a treat, the black kitchenette to my left piled with filthy dishes and—
Loaves.
Stacks and stacks of rich brown loaves.
What is going on?
I move around the stone table that dominates the room, spawned from the ground like a crooked mushroom and covered in Runi tools and tinctures. The sort of shit that would bring Roan to his knees.
A lump of glittery black stone catches my eye, split in half, its core a marble of swirling silver. Like its liquid, but not.
I avert my gaze before I vomit again.
Scanning the large stone seater draped in a cushy throw—softened with a thick swab that looks really kind to my aching muscles—I consider the very real possibility that Raeve was fucking with me.
Confining me to her cell-like slumbersuite when there’s an entire suite up here, equipped with everything I need to cook a good meal and get more than a blink of sleep.
Or maybe it’s because whoever lives up here is just as stabby as Raeve and I’m about to be gutted …
Creators, that’ll be unfortunate.
“Hello?”
Amongst the tabletop shambles, the bright-red streak of a feather catches my gaze; glittery. Curly at the tip. Almost the length of my forearm.
Frowning, I reach for it—
There’s a smear of motion. The soft patter of bare feet on stone as someone leaps out from behind the seater so fast I barely have a chance to pull breath before we collide.
Or before it collides with me.
I go flying backward. Land heavy on the ground, my head smashing stone so hard I lose grip of my weald.
Everything blurs, a burst of pain pounding my skull as something cold and sharp notches against my throat.
The world hones.
I register the weight, realizing that whoever collided with me is now atop me.
Blinking away the smear of red, my vision tightens. All the breath blasts from my lungs with a single gobsmacked word.
“Fuck.”
The fae straddling me … she’s the most exquisite being I’ve ever seen.
Skin white as snow, freckles dusted across her nose and cheeks, features so fine it’s like they were sung into shape by the Creators themselves.
And her hair … it’s everywhere. Coiled masses of it that fall around her small frame; such a deep, unusual shade of red to match the flecks in her simmering, tawny eyes alight with—
Rage.
Oh.
I re-register the blade at my throat. Note that she’s snarling, looking at me like I’m one wrong move away from decapitation.
And perhaps that’d bother me more if I weren’t so entrapped by her eyes.
By her exotic, spicy scent, and the way her face looks like a Moonplume moon perched amongst a flush of red clouds.
“How’d you get in here?”
Her tone is a sturdy, condemning blow that feels a lot like a slap to the face.
“The back entrance,” I rasp. “It made me vomit. A lot.”
Fuck, I’m an idiot. Why say that? Now she’s picturing me vomiting.
Her eyes narrow.
She pushes the blade so deep I’m afraid to swallow lest the motion slit me open. “There’s no way you know about that. Only me and one other knew. And she’s—” The fierceness in her gaze splinters. “She’s dead. And I sure as spangle shit didn’t tell anyone—”
She goes statue still, eyes widening.
Alight.
She sniffs long and deep, making me wish I’d taken the time to scrub every bit of my body after regurgitating my stomach lining.
“This, ahh … This is very stra—” She stuffs her face into the crook of my neck. “Strange,” I finish, all other thoughts bursting from my brain.
The hairs on my arms lift as she draws another whiff, shifting lower—her inner thighs warm against my abdomen.
Soft.
My breathing goes short and ragged, my hands flat and awkward at my sides as I do everything in my power to not move, the blade still poised at my throat. Still pushing deep enough that every bulging pump of my carotid feels like taunting death.
Another whiff, this time atop my sternum, before she uses her whole hand to push my head to the side and sniff my jaw, moving up to my temple, then back down behind my ear.
“Creators,” I grind out. “Please stop doing that.”
She pulls back.
“You smell like—” Her words crack, wide eyes glossed over by a sheen of brewing tears. “You smell like Raeve.”
She bares her teeth. Pushes the blade into my throat again.
Harder.
So hard, I’m pretty sure she cuts into me, her next words seethed. “Tell me why you smell like Raeve!”
“Because I was just with her,” I say much slower than I should probably speak, given her fierce demeanor. But something instinctual is telling me to be calm. “I fell asleep for a bit after I made it through the vomit hole. The retching really took it out of me.”
“You’re lying.” A tear slips down her cheek, leaving a wet trail. I almost reach up and sweep it away with my thumb. “She died. She was fed to the dragons. She fucking died!”
Realization strikes like a baton to my ribs.
This is a friend of Raeve’s. And she doesn’t realize Raeve survived her execution.
Shit.
I bring my hand up to hers, gently touching her fingers clenched around the blade. “The king’s Sabersythe … He never had any intention of actually eating Raeve.”
She whips her hand away. Pushes up and stumbles back so fast she reminds me of a flitting bird. She stills before the table, legs bare, the rest of her mostly hidden within a large black shirt, though the tips of her hands are visible. Trembling.
Not from fear, I hope.
I push to my elbows, feeling a wetness slip from the stinging cut on my throat. Something her gaze darts to, her brows pinching together before she meets my eyes again.
Slowly, I shift into a crouch, aware that I’m much taller than her. If I stand to my full height, she might thrust her hand forward and give me another reason to bleed.
“Rygun carried her north, to Dhomm.”
Her lips open, the softest sound leaking out.
A whimper.
“Raeve is very much alive.”
Her eyes roll to the back of her head, the only warning I get before her body turns boneless.
I leap, cupping my hand under her head just in time to stop it from cracking against the stone.