37. Leah
Leah
Istare at the fancy seal on the envelope in my hand, trying to make out the crest embedded in the scarlet wax.
“Who’s that from?” Syrus asks, sliding onto the bed behind me.
“I don’t know.” I frown, holding the envelope out so Syrus can see it better. It was delivered half an hour ago by one of Strickland’s staff, along with some refreshments. “I can’t imagine who would send me something that looks so official.”
Syrus pulls me a little closer so I’m flush against his chest. He’s been like this for the last few days, wanting to be right next to me at every moment.
I’m not complaining, of course. I just hope it means Syrus is trying to show me there was no tension about the discovery of my new powers.
The other option is that he’s freaking out over them, and he’s soaking up what he sees as our last hours together before our inevitable doom.
Either way, we haven’t properly talked about it yet, though we danced around the subject a little when I told Syrus that Strickland wants my help with the collateral.
But this morning, when I was washing my face and thinking aloud about going down to see the collateral again, he’d muttered something in Cyrax.
“You’re always going somewhere I can’t follow.”
I didn’t think he could be talking about the restricted part of the Assembly building. But before I could ask what he actually meant, he’d disappeared under the guise of finding one of the staff to clear our breakfast things.
As it is, I’ve not had a chance to examine the Mantle or the Dawnheart again. Strickland obviously doesn’t want me messing around with them alone, and he’s been especially busy. Apparently, his opponent Jaxon has been giving him some trouble, and there’ve been political fires to put out.
Now, as Syrus and I look at the letter in my hand with him wrapped around me, I wonder if this desire for closeness is because he fears it too—the distance that’s naturally developed between us now we’re no longer linked.
Syrus drops his lips to my bare shoulder, kissing it lightly, and I close my eyes, wishing that everything was simpler.
“Well, this might sound a little radical,” Syrus says teasingly. “But you could always open the letter and find out who sent it.”
I roll my eyes and nudge him in the ribs with my elbow before sliding my finger under the edge of the seal and breaking it open.
The letterhead displays the crest more clearly, over a company name: Gailraithe and Sons Solicitors.
It means nothing to me, but I keep scanning down the neatly written message.
Dear Mrs. Reed, Chief Assemblyman Strickland has been kind enough to…
“It’s from Hathwell’s solicitors,” I blurt out before I’ve even gotten to the end. “They say Strickland told them I was staying here.”
Syrus’s arm tightens a little around my waist. “I suppose after you told him your real name, he was bound to do a background check on you.”
He’s right. Strickland isn’t reckless, and it makes sense he put feelers out about me, especially if he’s going to trust me with the collateral. It just feels strange to know those feelers ended up with Hathwell’s lawyers.
“What do they want?” Syrus prompts. “Are they asking about Hathwell’s death?”
“No,” I shake my head. “Not directly.” The letter is very restrained, written in crisp lawyerly language which diplomatically doesn’t mention how strange it is I’ve been missing since before Hathwell turned up dead.
“They just say they’ve been looking to get in contact with me to settle his estate. ”
I pause, having to re-read the next words of the letter.
“Apparently, Hathwell didn’t leave any will, and so everything—the house, his fortune, the shares in his father’s businesses—it all goes to me.”
Syrus has been running his fingers gently up my side; now they go still.
“That’s good news,” he says. “Isn’t it?”
“I suppose.” I exhale. “It’s just…I wasn’t really his wife, was I?”
“The man tried to kill you, Leah. Making you a rich woman is the least he can do in death.” On the surface, Syrus’s words are encouraging, but there’s a slight hollowness beneath them.
Syrus is right, though—with Hathwell’s fortune, I am a rich woman now, and that changes things.
It’s been a while since I thought of my old plans of building an independent life in Strata. But it turns out dreams dreamt so fiercely and nurtured for so long don’t just disappear. Even when they go dormant, they’re always ready to resurface when given the chance.
That’s what I feel now, re-reading the letter.
With my shares in Reed Mills, I’m automatically a part of a guild—a license is a given, and I’d have enough money to live solidly, quietly, and never worry about work.
I could look after Evie and Jeremy, Hodges and his family… everyone I care about here in Strata.
And I could be in Strata, couldn’t I? Because I’m friends with the chief assemblyman now. He knows I’m nephilim and doesn’t seem to care. I’m sure he’d grant me the right to stay here. It’s not like with Syrus, who as a demon lord would need to get the Assembly’s permission to remain in this realm.
Syrus. The warm weight at my back. The presence wrapped around me.
The one huge obstacle in all of this, like a hook in my heart.
If I choose Strata, I’ll be choosing to leave him. And I don’t know if I could bear that.
I gently disentangle myself from him and rise from the bed, my eyes falling on another open envelope on the table. I didn’t notice it in the surprise of getting the solicitor’s letter.
“You got a letter too?” I ask, seizing on the distraction.
“An invitation to Lady Roseningrave’s party,” he says. “It’s tomorrow night.”
Despite everything, I roll my eyes. “Ugh, the last thing I want to do right now is go and make small talk with a bunch of rich snobs.”
“Those rich snobs happen to include a lot of Assembly members,” Syrus says, rising too.
“It’s been more than a week now, and I can’t get the other demon lords to even talk to me, let alone start negotiating my return.
I’d hoped we wouldn’t ever need to ask the Assembly for that extension…
” His expression is grim. “But I think we should start building some alliances just in case.”
We, he says, like we’re still a unit, one interconnected being—and yet it seems every day that goes by, another connection between us is severed or bent out of shape.
But because I love him, and because the idea of having nothing tying me to him is too terrifying to contemplate, I simply smile and kiss Syrus’s cheek.
“All right then. Let’s ask Aster to find me a party dress.”
“You look like you fit right in,” Syrus leans in and murmurs to me a day later, when we’re sipping drinks at Lady Roseingrave’s party. I already want to leave. Half the conversations are about people I’ve never met and the other about politics I have no say in.
Syrus must sense my frustration—hence the flirting, to distract me.
“I look like I fit in?” I throw back. “Says the man who used to be king of this city. If anyone’s going to get on with these snooty types, it’s you,” I say, lowering my voice enough to ensure no one hears.
He shakes his head, smiling fondly. “Only you would take fitting in as an insult.”
I know for a fact that I look good. Aster found me a black dress that has reams of skirts and a tight-fitting bodice that scoops low at the front.
Fashionable while being just on the right side of scandalous, if Syrus’s reaction was anything to go by.
Whenever I look over at him, he’s eyeing me, his gaze dark, and his hands seek me out without him even seeming to be conscious of it.
Lady Roseingrave’s house is incredible, so at least there’s lots to look at, all done up with exquisite taste.
My stepmother Ada would kill just to own this room alone, with elegant, deep blue drapes and brocade wallpaper decorated with fine panel molding.
The furniture is upholstered in rich, beautiful fabrics, and the crystal chandeliers sparkle like stars, almost outshining the guests.
But not quite, because they’re all exquisitely dressed too, and the ladies in particular are dripping with more pearls and diamonds than I thought even existed in the realm.
“Besides,” Syrus continues, “I’m not sure runes and horns really fit in.”
After some debate, he’s broken out his demon form for the party, although he has kept his wings vanished for the practicality.
“No,” I agree. “But you saw how happy our host was when we arrived. You made the right choice about showing off your true form. Now you’re Roseingrave’s guest of honor. I’m sure she loves the drama of having a demon lord at her party.”
Even if people have been too nervous to approach Syrus, they’ve followed him around like a gaggle of geese, squawking and hissing to each other, with a few managing a handful of bland remarks before scurrying off.
Syrus and I pass the time by discussing the other guests, snickering like naughty children at a guest who’s so drunk he doesn’t realize he’s put his elbow in the lemon mousse.
Before I know it, I’m actually having fun.
This—being able to spend time together without it feeling like the sky’s about to fall down around our ears—is nice, even if we have to endure some pompous bores to get it.
I’ll take what scraps of normality I can.
Which is why when Syrus tangles his fingers in mine and starts to lead me away from the main room, I follow without protest. He pulls me into a shadowy corner in one of the smaller side rooms.
“What are we—”
My words are cut off with a huff of pleased surprise when he presses me up against the wall, his mouth on my neck.
“It’s criminal, how good you look in that dress,” Syrus murmurs against my skin. “I’ve been thinking about doing this all evening.”
My breath hitches as he pushes a knee between mine, sliding a hand up my leg until his fingers are caressing the bare skin of my thigh.