22. Awake in the Dark
V iola kept the light on low, sensing, Nico realised, that he disliked sleeping in total darkness, even though he wasn’t sure he’d told her that. Not that it would have mattered in this case; he was powerless with or without the dark. He hated the absence of his shadows. It was like someone had snatched away a piece of him, snipped away his clothes, his hair, a layer of skin. Nothing that wouldn’t grow back, but enough to feel wrong without it, cold in the dark.
He was glad she was here, though he’d never admit it. Even though he was surrounded by knights who wanted him dead, he felt safer than if she’d dumped him at an inn. Strange that she should make him feel that way. He’d wanted her to trust him. He’d been bitterly unprepared for the sensation of trusting her, or how good it felt to talk with someone as he drifted off to sleep, the words turning gummy in his mouth.
Despite his exhaustion, he woke a few hours later. His shadows were reforming, twitching under his fingers, but nowhere near the strength he’d need to leave this place. For some reason, sleep eluded him. He stared around the sparse room, amazed at his body’s capacity for alertness despite all he’d attempted the day before. He’d attended the party on a whim. He’d been training for most of the day, and Cordelia warned him that going to the ball was a bad idea on multiple levels, especially since the training had drained him.
“I have enough to summon a wyvern there and back.”
And he would have done, had the damned firemancer not tried his hand at conjuring something he couldn’t control, and if he hadn’t followed Windbright into the inferno, quashing whatever flames he could when he hoped nobody was looking.
He might even have been fine if Windbright hadn’t stood beneath the damned tree like she wanted to be crushed.
He disliked how unhappy he was about the idea of her burnt corpse. Not that corpses had ever really thrilled him, but it had been a long time since any of them had bothered him, either.
Phantom images of Viola’s corpse bothered him. Phantom images of her corpse bothered him a lot.
He turned towards her now, sleeping peacefully, smelling slightly of woodsmoke. He watched the slow rise and fall of her chest, enjoying the warmth she emitted, trying not to fixate too much on the desire to smooth back the hair lying across her cheek.
His chest ached in a way he couldn’t describe, in ways he wasn’t prepared for.
It was entirely possible he was sickening for something, or perhaps this was another side effect of depleting his magic. It didn’t have anything to do with Viola Windbright or the way she’d looked at him when she’d eased off his mask and seen his face.
He thought she might have glimpsed it that night in the kitchen, but it had been too dark to make out much of anything, and if she had noticed, she hadn’t said anything.
But she’d noticed now. She said it ‘wasn’t ghastly’. She hadn’t flinched or looked at him any differently.
And she’d touched him, too.
He’d held her hand briefly to help her onto the wyvern. He’d touched her skin when he was doctoring her. She grabbed his arm to pull him into the garden and held him upright when he couldn’t walk without her.
This was different.
She’d touched him.
It had been a long time since he’d touched anyone.
Do that again, he’d wanted to command her when she’d moved away. Keep your hand there.
Would it be terrible if he touched her now? If he placed his hand against her cheek like she’d touched his? That would be fine, surely—
No. No. He couldn’t. She hadn’t given him permission.
He didn’t know why that bothered him. He had no qualms with killing folk, but apparently touching the cheek of the woman lying next to him was a crime too far.
Just sleep, he told himself. Just close your eyes and sleep…
Instead, he found his eyes wide open, still staring at bloody Viola Windbright like she was a painting in a gallery he was trying to figure out .
A very, very attractive painting, who slept with her hands clenched together, as if wielding an invisible weapon. He wondered if she kept a knife under her pillow. It couldn’t hurt to check—
No, no knife.
He tried to tug his arm back, but she rolled towards him before he could extract it, flinging an arm around his waist.
Nicodemus froze. Once he’d recovered, he tried to inch back, but her arms tightened around him instead. Perhaps he ought to wake her? No, she might be embarrassed about it, and he knew she often struggled to sleep. He didn’t want to take that away from her.
Not doing a very good job of being villainous today, Nightshade, a voice reminded him. You helped extinguish a fire, you saved a girl’s life, and now you’re letting her sleep despite your obvious discomfort.
All that was true… but he wasn’t exactly uncomfortable. It was quite nice having someone else hold you in their arms. The last time he’d experienced the sensation, he’d been a boy, and it hadn’t been anything like this .
Maybe this wouldn’t be too bad a way to spend the night.
Viola’s legs brushed against his. Even with the blankets tangled between them, a shiver of sensation still raced straight up his thigh.
Oh. Now that was uncomfortable.
And new.
He definitely couldn’t wake her now.
“No,” she whispered under her breath. “No, no, please don’t go. Please, please, please…”
He glanced down at her. Tears trembled beneath her dark lashes. She was panting hard, like she was running from something. Or towards it.
“Windbright?” He shook her arm. “Windbright, wake up. You’re dreaming.”
“Please… you can’t leave me here…”
“Windbright—”
“Take me with you,” she murmured. “I shouldn’t be left. Why was I left?”
She trembled in his arms, shaking like a child. She seemed to shrink in size before his eyes.
“Windbright!”
Viola’s eyes shot open. She shoved herself away from him, her breath heavy. “You… you’re not Freya.”
Nicodemus kept his hands in front of him, palms up as if approaching a wounded animal… or perhaps he was just trying to hide where his hands had been mere moments before. “Alas, I am not.”
“I thought… I thought you were her.”
“Evidently.” He paused. “Are you all right? I’m not sure I can make you tea, here.”
“I’m fine.”
“I doubt that’s true, but if you don’t wish to talk about it, then I understand.”
She was still trembling, her breath coming hard. Against his better judgement, he reached out towards her, hardly knowing what he was going to do. Touch her face? Stroke her arm? Fold her against his chest again?
He never had the opportunity to make up his mind. Viola bolted back, skittering off the bed like an affronted cat.
“Don’t,” she said.
“I didn’t mean—”
“It doesn’t matter.”
She grabbed some clothes from her dresser and started to wriggle into them.
“Where are you going?”
“A walk,” she said, “maybe training. You stay here. Get some rest.”
“Vi—”
“It’s fine!”
She was gone before he could think of another thing to say. He sighed, leaning back against her pillows, turning slightly towards the space where she’d been. Her scent lingered against the fabric, a smell he couldn’t name, but knew in the same way a person traced a scar. It was branded into him.
The warmth of her body, however, quickly faded, and soon he was once more alone in the dark and the cold.