Chapter 72
I set a mug of water on the low table, passing a glance over the stranger draped across the seater, mostly covered with a thick black throw.
Still passed out from her fainting episode, she breathes past barely parted lips—pink like the clouds outside—my gaze catching on the freckle that sits just above the precise bow, slightly to the right.
Perhaps the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen. On anyone.
Poking free of all that hair, I notice her ear is more slanted than most fae ears.
“Huh …”
Again, I take in her pale skin and blazing red hair. Features so fine they look … otherworldly. “I’ll be damned,” I mutter, seeing an uncanny resemblance to the portrait that hung on the wall in our family’s library before everything turned to shit. Probably still there, but I wouldn’t know.
A coincidence. Surely.
I scratch the back of my head and force myself to look away.
Moving to the encumbered feasting table, I frown at the round stone pinched between a metal clamp. A scope arched over it magnifies thousands of miniature runes that would’ve taken cycles to etch.
And a damn steady hand.
Whistling, I note the dozens of split, shattered, or charred stones scattered about—each appearing to have suffered a different, though equally shitty end—then look back over my shoulder at the slumbering stranger.
Wonder what she’s up to.
I shift my attention to a staircase pressed awkwardly into the wall, leading to another trapdoor I probably shouldn’t go through without permission.
It’s one thing to be on Raeve’s hit list, something much worse to ruffle the feathers of an experimenting Runi.
Might end up growing an extra bone somewhere.
Or losing one.
In the kitchen space, I lift one of the many loaves and draw a deep whiff, picking up notes of buttermin, sorrin spice, gongnut, something creamy—
Wow.
Slotting a drab on the table, I use Grihm’s dagger to slice myself a chunk, then lift the lid on a brick of golden butter. The type only produced by the fatty milk of fluffy southern colk. And my favorite thing in the world. Last time I had it was … well …
Before everything turned to shit.
I slide another drab on the table, slather my loaf in a thick layer, then take a large bite of the soft dough.
Something that feels a lot like being punched in the mouth with creamy, nutty deliciousness.
The salty butter seems to caramelize with each chew, warming the hearty flavors into something unmatched. By anything. Ever.
I groan, eyes rolling into the back of my head …
Fuck.
Me.
I pile another three drabs on the table and take another bite, pausing to tally the loaves. Over thirty.
Hope she hasn’t spiked them with something to mass murder the hierarchy. Seems like something one of Raeve’s friends would do …
I shrug and pile my plate with three more buttered chunks in exchange for a small fortune, deciding it wouldn’t be such a shit way to die. We’re all doomed anyway.
Moving toward the big hole in the wall that looks south, I notice the aurora ribbons tickling the horizon, marking the coming dae. I pack my mouth full and set my plate on a stone table. Wobbly, like it was shaped by someone who spat a few hurried commands and hoped for the best.
Still chewing, I lean forward to put my head out the window—
“I wouldn’t do that.”
It takes all my willpower not to shed my skin, leap out the window, and plummet to my death.
I look back at the stranger now sitting on the seater, hugging her bent legs, gripping the dagger I left on the table beside her. Not because I wanna die, but because it seemed the right thing to do.
Meeting her unusual gaze feels a bit like staring at the sun. Hard to hold. Don’t know why.
Swallowing, I study the hole in the wall again. Notice the runes etched all around the jagged edge, some painted with blood. Most, actually.
Oh.
“More vomiting?”
“Death.”
All the warmth drains from my face, and I slide back a careful, very precise step.
“Not a nice one either, if my etchings are correct. Which they usually are.” Her gaze flicks to the shattered, burnt, and busted stones on the table, back to me. “Well, at least by the time I reach the final prototype.”
Right.
“You’d get on well with my brother.”
And by well, I mean they’d collaboratively find creative ways to blow things up, melt tables, probably fix some things, too.
Smart-folk shit.
She tilts her head, watching me for so long I wonder if she’s working out how to politely tell me to get the fuck out of her home. Probably.
Needing something to do with my hands, I retrieve my plate of loaf, lift a piece, and toast the air.
Like an idiot.
I stuff my mouth to smother the moment, moaning as I chew, flourishing her with appreciative hand gestures.
She looks from my hearty stack to the pile of gold drabs I traded, back to me. A small smile pulls at her lips. “You’re different.”
A sudden kick to the cock would shock me less.
I raise a brow, hoping she’ll elaborate without me having to speak through my overburdened mouth.
“I—ahh, lived in the Undercity for a while.” She shrugs, gaze dropping to the dagger in her hand. “Pass out around unfamiliar folk down there, you don’t wake the same. You certainly don’t wake richer.”
In the aftermath of the statement, it’s hard to choke my mouthful down.
I look around. Set my remaining loaf back on the plate. “You shouldn’t say that sorta stuff ’round me,” I mutter, wiping the crumbs from my chin with the back of my arm.
She frowns. “Why not?”
Makes me wanna charge down there and rip out some fucking hearts.
I shrug. “Just shouldn’t.”
Silence sits in the room for so long I pat my pockets, hunting for a flask that doesn’t exist. I resort to crossing my arms, trying to look casually unfazed by the overbearing clarity I’m currently experiencing.
“So,” she says, tucking a tendril of hair behind her ear. Not that it stays there. “Raeve’s alive?” The hitch of her voice pecks at my chest. Makes me wonder if there’s hurt there.
Shit I probably don’t wanna know about.
“Yeah. She’s a bit like one of those blue trash beetles that keeps scurrying around despite everyone taking stomps at them.”
She snorts. “You’re comparing her to a cocklerbug?”
“She made me vomit so hard I almost died. Until I stop smelling bile, she’s a cocklerbug.”
The stranger smiles so wide I see the full length of her canines, the rounds of her cheeks going bright red. Such a breathtaking contrast to the way her eyes welled earlier. “Actually, that was all me …”
Oh.
“Well, you’re not one of those.”
Another stint of watchful silence has me scratching the back of my head, wishing I was half as smart as she obviously is. Then maybe I’d know the right things to say. Not “I’ve been vomiting” and insinuating she’s some sorta crawling vermin.
“So, ahh …” She tucks the same bit of hair behind her ear. Again, it doesn’t stay. “Is Raeve coming back here, or …”
“All goes to plan, she’ll be back in a few cycles. And minus the blood bind I’m guessing you didn’t know about?”
Her brows crush together, any softness cutting from her features. “Of course I knew. I also know they’re impossible to sever without—”
“She’s with Bothaim’s protégé.”
She pales. “You mean the youngling King Tyroth traded for the Tri-Council’s favor?”
I nod. “The kid’s had unlimited access to the Book of Voyd.” Her eyes grow so wide I’m sure I glimpse something looking back at me from within, wondering if I should’ve given away so much sensitive information to this … stranger.
Too late now.
“He seems to think he can remove the bind. Dunno how. He rattled on about time being stretchy or some shit.”
Her lips silently shape the word wow before her gaze drifts to the window. Stays there. Although her eyes are open, watching the view, it feels as though she’s elsewhere. A bit like Roan gets when he’s in his head, muddling through something.
“I would very much like to meet him.”
“He’s a good kid.” I reach out a hand. “I’m Pyrok, by the way.”
She blinks heaps, refocuses, then sets the dagger down and clasps my hand in the manner of Fade folk—hers so small and smooth.
Such a contrast to mine.
“Essi,” she says, boasting a half smile that’s like a lightning bolt in the room.
Static.
I let go, worried I’ll break her delicate bones if I squeeze too hard. “Short for anything?”
She nods but doesn’t elaborate. I don’t push, knowing what it’s like to keep your real name buried.
Chewing the inside of my lip piercing, I look out the window, scanning all the heavy moons in the sky bunched above Gore from battles long passed, perched to obliterate us all. I don’t care so much about myself, and knowing Roan’s safe is a heavy lift of relief, but my sister—
Past shit be damned, I need to find her.
“So, small question. My only way out is to vomit what’s left of my guts up while edging down a trash chute?”
Another slow smile spreads across Essi’s face. Mischievous.
Warm.
A feeling that spreads into me like a gulp of something too good to be true.
“I’m sorry. I was younger. It was funny at the time.”
I look out the window, waiting for the weird feeling to dissipate. It doesn’t.
“Is everything okay?”
“Course.” I flash her a smile; one that usually has folk writing me off. Either ripping off their undergarments, deciding they wouldn’t mind a fun fuck they don’t have to invest any emotional substance into, or labeling me as the unserious friend.
Instead, she frowns.
I clear my throat. “Any advice on how to weather the blow? The runes really knocked me around the first go. I need to find my sister, but it’ll be hard to do from the guts of Gore’s resident velvet tro—”
A familiar squark cuts me off, shrill and demanding.
Hungry.
Essi all but stills, her eyes slitting toward the trapdoor that leads to Raeve’s space.
“Excuse me.” I jog to the stairs. “I’ll, ah … be right back.”