Chapter 19
Chapter
Nineteen
After checking out the temple district, we wander the city a bit longer and then head to an inn we spotted earlier in our explorations.
I’m in a strangely good mood, and I’m not entirely sure why.
Balsingra isn’t the haven I’d built it up to be, and there are still problems to solve.
I have no idea where we’re heading next, or even how we’ll pay for things once our coin bag is completely empty. It’s already feeling rather light.
But Dingle trots and prances happily on the cobblestones, bleating, and his antics make Kalos smile and me laugh. Our manner together is easy, and we toss jokes back and forth as we head back to the inn.
“You think we can find a decorator here that deals in bones and scabs?” I joke as we pass by a small shop laden with rolled-up rugs.
“Scabs, no. Vultures, yes.”
“Is the whole vulture thing because you love birds? You’re a big bird man?”
He shoots me a dark look, and when I lift a hand to smother my laughter, his expression breaks and we’re both laughing. “You should know I’m more of an appreciator of goats.”
“Oh, of course. I’m sorry that I’m your Anchor and Dingle isn’t,” I tease.
Kalos pauses thoughtfully. “I’m not sorry.”
My cheeks heat with a blush, and I think about how I kissed him back at Gental’s celebration.
Oh lord. The last thing I need to do is start developing feelings for the God of Disease, who’s currently riddled with Apathy.
This job isn’t supposed to be about getting a crush, but I’m finding it increasingly difficult to not obsess over his reluctant smiles or his even rarer laughter.
Is it wrong to want to make him happy? To see him happy? Or am I breaking some unspoken rule of the game? I wish I knew more about his world and why I was chosen to be his companion instead of someone here.
Our walking brings us back to the inn, and Kalos carefully adjusts the hood over his silvery hair again. I’m a little sad to see our walk has come to an end. “I guess we should go inside.”
“You are no doubt hungry,” Kalos agrees. “And then you will sleep and mutter things about horses in the walls.”
I smother another laugh, because it does sound completely ridiculous when he says it like that. “I can’t help it! In my dreams, it’s all very real.”
He grunts. “Nothing like a bit of screaming to make the evening restive.”
I chortle despite myself.
We head in and arrange lodgings with surprising ease.
We head upstairs to our room. I’m delighted when, a few moments later, a a tray full of fresh, hot food is delivered.
The scents are incredible and my mouth waters.
Dingle heads for the tray, and I have to push his nose aside before he knocks it over.
“This looks amazing. You never get hungry?”
“Never.” He moves to the rickety chair by the hearth and sits down, adjusting his robes. “They want us to be a bit mortal, but not too mortal, I suppose, so we don’t decide to stay.”
“Why would you stay?”
His gaze lingers on me. “Why indeed?”
My face feels hot, my body tingling. My mouth feels dry, and I can’t think of what to say next, so I grab the tray and set it down on the bed, then move to sit beside it.
There’s a delicious smorgasbord of offerings, from pulled chicken to slices of fruit, to a huge loaf of crusty bread.
There’s a soup that smells amazing, and what looks like cooked carrots drizzled in honey.
I fish out one of the carrots and offer it to Dingle, so someone can enjoy this feast with me, and I dig into the soup.
It tastes like warm spices and lentils, and I want to eat all of it.
“This place is nice,” I say, changing the subject. “I wouldn’t mind staying here a while.”
“Mm.” Kalos watches me feed another carrot to Dingle. “I will leave it up to you.”
Because he’s Apathy or because he wants to make me happy? I devour more of the soup and between bites, I ask him, “Is there any place you like? Anyplace you’d want to visit? I don’t want you to feel like you have to do what I want to do.”
“You don’t?” A hint of a smile teases at his mouth again. “You have been telling me what to do since I met you, Elsie.”
The soup is making a syrupy warmth spread through my veins.
I must be more tired than I thought, because bed is looking mighty tempting.
My stomach demands its due, though. I finish the soup and attack the bread, using it to mop up the last bits in the bowl.
“I’m just used to taking care of people, I guess. ”
“Because that is how you show your affection. You charge in and try to make things easier for those around you, but it doesn’t make it easier for you, does it?”
I yawn, contemplating the fruit. “I guess? I figure I’ll have time to relax when everyone I love is taken care of.”
“And is that what you are doing with me? Taking care of me?” Kalos’s voice grows quiet, intense. “Adding another notch to your martyr belt?”
I don’t know how to answer that. My brain is fuzzy with exhaustion. “That’s…not nice.” My tongue feels heavy. How strange. “I’m not a martyr.”
“How do you feel about me, Elsie? I am very curious. You do not seem like the type to fawn over a god simply because he has power.” He leans forward in his chair, all glittering eyes and fascination. “Tell me.”
I yawn again, contemplating my answer.
“Don’t fall asleep before you tell me,” he prompts.
I want to point out that I’ve never fallen asleep mid-conversation, unlike him, but it feels like too much effort. I manage to focus my thoughts enough to answer. “I like you, Kalos. But I’m not here to fall in love…”
As I speak, Dingle collapses at my feet.
Alarm races through me, and I jump up at the same time Kalos does. The room tilts dizzily around me as Kalos moves to the goat and gently cradles his head. How sweet, I think, even as my thoughts seem to be turning into the same warm syrup that’s flooding my veins. He really does love that goat.
He looks up at me. “There was something in the food. Elsie—”
Was there? Huh.
The floor rushes up to meet me. I’m vaguely aware of slamming into the flooring, of gentle hands picking me up and cradling me.
Then, blurry snatches of conversation.
…been searching for you…
…looking for silver-haired man with a woman and a goat…
Come with…your woman is of no importance to us…
Not to me, either, says Kalos.
Is it possible to have hurt feelings even if you’re drugged? I wonder that even as the blackness rushes in to sweep me under.
I wake up in a strange place. My hip and shoulder hurt from sleeping on my side on what feels like a stone floor, and I’m freezing.
It’s dark, and my stomach is sour, even as it growls.
I sit up slowly, and I don’t know whether to throw up or to lie back down again.
I run my hands over my bed, and it’s little more than a thin padding on cold stone.
There’s a dripping sound coming from somewhere.
I run my hands over my clothing and hair.
They’re slightly damp and wrinkled, but they’re the same ones I was wearing before I passed out. My shoes are gone, though.
“Hello?” I call out, and my voice is a mere croak. “Kalos? Dingle?”
No reassuring patter of goat hooves on the floor. No urge to sneeze. I’m alone.
Snatches of the conversation as I was drifting off return.
Someone was searching for us. They noticed Kalos, or our goat, and realized who we were.
Hot fear ripples through me—if they want to get rid of Kalos, they have to kill me.
I’m in some sort of jail cell, it feels like, so this can’t be a mistake.
I wrap my arms around myself and stare into the darkness.
Do I call out for help? Or will that let my captors know that I’m awake and the real tortures can begin?
As if my thoughts summon my enemies, the door to my cell opens and light floods in.
I shield my eyes from the light that floods in, shrinking back as a large, strange man enters the room.
He’s got a tray in his hands, with an earthenware pitcher and a bowl on it.
He’s in armor, and a man behind him carries a torch. Neither of them looks friendly.
“Where am I? Who are you?” I demand.
The man sets down the tray on the floor near the doorway. He points to it. “Eat. I’ll be back to pick up the dishes later.” He points in the opposite corner of my shadowy cell. “If you need the facilities, there’s a bucket over there.”
“Who are you? Where is…my friend?”
He ignores me, stepping back out of the cell. A moment later, the door is locked once more. I’m alone.
Well, fuck.
I try not to worry over Kalos—or Dingle—but I can’t help it.
Are they imprisoned, too? Being tortured?
What do these strangers want? My stomach roils again, and I crawl across the floor over to the tray and drag it to my bed, shivering.
I lift the bowl to my nose and sniff it, but it seems bland.
Hot but bland. Oatmeal, maybe? The liquid in the pitcher is water, and I sip it cautiously.
It tastes a bit brackish, but it’s cool and my throat is so damn dry that I can’t stop myself from drinking all of it.
I figure if they’re going to poison me again, there’s not much I can do.
Might as well eat and drink and try to keep my strength up.
I eat all the food, too, though it has the texture of dry porridge and tastes even worse.
When I’m done, I set the dishes back down and fumble my way in the dark over to find the bucket.
I use it and shake the last of the water out of the pitcher to wash my hands.
The urge to cry is overwhelming, but I fight it off.
I need a plan. I must find Kalos and somehow get us out of here.
Next time the guard arrives, I can use the pitcher as a weapon and attack him.
It sounded like they went down a hall, so I need to listen to the movements around me to try and mentally map this place out.
I creep back toward the door and put my ear to it.
Even though I’m in this cell, I’m not defeated. Kalos must be nearby, because I can feel the tether between us. It’s a little strained, like a cord pulled taut, but it’s not painful. That means he’s close, but not too close.
Wherever this is, we’re both here.
Strangely enough, that gives me hope. We’ll reunite and get out of here.
My money pouch is gone, along with my makeshift weapons.
I’ll have to get new ones. There’s the water jug, and then the piss bucket, maybe?
I imagine slinging it at the guard when he arrives and distracting him.
I didn’t see where he kept his key, though…
and there were two guards. So do I sling the piss and check them for the key and try to get away next time?
Or will they be on alert? Is it better to do it all in one fell swoop and hope I can escape before the guards regroup?
I let the thoughts circle in my head repeatedly, planning out my attack as I sit in the darkness.
It feels like hours before someone returns.
I hear the footsteps long before I see the light approach.
I grab the piss bucket, deciding at the last moment to fling the contents and use the pitcher I keep nearby to attack the second guard.
The torch hovers just outside, light spilling in underneath the door, and a key jangles.
The door opens and I ready the piss bucket—
I hear a woman’s voice. “My god, are all the locks really necessary? She’s his Anchor, not a damn cat burglar.”
That makes me pause.
The door opens and the woman steps inside, her expression a little huffy.
I stand there, clutching the bucket, my mouth open.
She’s about my age, her hair pulled into two knots atop her head like mouse ears, with a filmy scarf draped over them.
Her neck is covered with a heavy encrusted crystalline necklace, and her dress is a pale and delicate sheath with princess-like long sleeves.
She eyes me holding the bucket, and her gaze darts to mine.
“If I ask nicely, could you not toss that on me? This dress is new and I really like it.”
I lower the bucket, watching as she steps aside and more guards file in.
They’re carrying things, and as I watch, one sets up a wooden tripod and another guard rolls in a cart.
A third brings a carved stool and another sets a lantern to hang from a steel tripod.
My mouth falls open as a large, stretched canvas is brought in and settled on the wooden tripod—which I’m now figuring out is an easel.
What the holy fucking fuck is going on?
The men file out of my cell and the woman flashes a bright smile at me. “Okay if we hang out a bit? I’m Margo, by the way.”
“Elsie,” I answer automatically. “Do…I know you?”
“Oh gosh no.” She chuckles and settles herself on the wooden stool, picking up a paintbrush from the cart and eyeing the easel in front of her. “You and I are perfect strangers, but I thought we’d have a chitchat, Anchor to Anchor. Are you from Chicago too?”
My jaw falls open further. “How did you…”