Chapter 35
Lucina
Istumble into a smoke-filled hallway.
The Estate is just as dark as it always is, but something is glowing at the far end of the corridor. Golden robes snap around the corner, leaving a trail of warm light in their wake.
I follow that light, drawn to it, quickening my steps when it begins to disappear.
“Hello?” I call out, but my voice falls flat.
When I turn the corner, I see her. Her back is to me, shoulders tall, silver hair spilling down the fabric of gilded robes. There’s a crown atop her head, glittering like the sun in this lifeless dark.
She turns, laying her eyes on me.
Then she walks straight through the door in front of her.
My feet move after her, and when I approach, the door opens for me, revealing a pitch-dark room. I freeze over the threshold, searching for the woman.
One by one, broken wall sconces flicker to life, lit with the same golden hue she was made of.
One by one, shelves come into view. Hundreds or thousands of books—tattered and strewn across the floor.
I take a step forward, crossing the doorway, and a dark energy slams into the center of my chest.
It’s violent and tragic and so devastating that I’m consumed with the feeling. It wracks my whole body. I feel it everywhere. A hollow thump that spreads like wildfire, twisting my gut and forcing tears to my eyes.
My knees hit the floor.
This is death. Or what I imagine it to be.
I scream, but no sound comes out. I move to stand, but I’m slammed back down.
Through the shadows in front of me, the silhouette of a man emerges. He’s the night itself, his yellow eyes the only thing I can see over the mask obstructing his face. As he approaches, I scream with everything I have, but the room stays silent, save for the slow and steady stomp of his boots.
He crouches before me.
I know those eyes.
“What do you want me to do with her?” someone I can’t see asks.
The man’s stare never leaves mine, and when he replies, his voice sparks recognition so violent I nearly fall backwards.
“Round her up with the others,” my father says, “she’s just a scribe.”
I shoot up, gasping for air, and nearly smack my head on a broom handle. My hands tremble as I raise them to my face, scrubbing away that image and attempting to rid myself of that feeling too.
It was agony. Pure agony. Not physically, but emotionally. Arguably the worst pain I’ve ever felt—and I’ve been through some shit.
There’s a knock on the closet door, and I flinch, gripping my jacket to my chest. Panic rushes through me. Stiffening my muscles and short-circuiting my heart.
Until I hear, “Rise and shine.”
My shoulders slump, the breath I’d been holding blowing past my lips. Standing, I straighten my clothes and open the door.
He takes up the entire doorway—Salem. Why he decided to finally share his name is beyond me, but it feels like confidential information. Which, if used correctly, might be leverage should I need it.
Crystalline eyes sweep down my frame, and I take a step back when he inhales, nostrils flaring. “What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
His stare darkens. “I hate liars.”
“And I hate busybodies.” I let go of the door, and he catches it before it closes, inviting himself inside. Mercifully, he doesn’t ask about my feelings again, allowing me the silence I need to focus on my illusion.
I’m halfway into Alesi’s disguise when he snaps for my attention. Snaps. Like I’m a fucking dog.
“No.” The Hound blocks the exit, leaning back against the closed door. This closet is hardly big enough for one person. Two average-sized people would even be a tight fit, but his shoulders are wider than the doorframe, and if he were only a few inches taller, his head would hit the ceiling.
I throw light into the broken bulb above us, illuminating the closet. “What?” I ask.
He’s less menacing without the cover of shadows, and I quickly notice that one of his hands rests on the doorknob—as if he’s worried I might fight him for it.
“You’re done with Alesi,” Salem tells me.
I wish. “No, I’m not.”
He exhales, and I get the feeling he’s searching for patience. “In a few hours, the Baron won’t show up to breakfast. People will start asking questions. And who do you think will get the brunt of those questions?”
I look down at myself, at my half–illusion, and frown.
The very last thing I need right now is attention—which is exactly what I’d get if I walked out there as the man who went missing’s mistress.
“Dammit.” I let the illusion go and glance around the room. “Then how am I supposed to get around the Estate? And how is that going to stop the Countess from searching for the Baron?”
“They can search all they’d like.” The Hound dismisses the assumption with a shrug. “They won’t find anything. Without a body and with Alesi missing too, it will likely be assumed that they ran off together.”
“Likely?”
He nods.
I huff, folding my arms across my chest while I search for something wrong with his plan. It’s flawed for sure, but I have nothing to replace it with.
“Okay,” I surrender. “But if I can’t be Alesi and I can’t be Lucina…” I gesture to the dingy closet. “How the hell am I supposed to get out of here?”
He inhales a deep breath, like he’s about to deliver bad news.
“No.” I shake my head. “Absolutely not. Snare me again, and I swear to the gods I’ll—”
His brows rise. “All the gods?”
The cast of the dim light above him makes his jaw appear sharper and his face more vicious.
Deep, otherworldly eyes are the most obvious indicator that he’s different, but there’s nothing about him that’s ordinary.
His size, his magic, the way he moves like he’s been in this body for centuries… he’s one of his kind. Truly.
“No,” I amend, determined not to be intimidated by him. “Just you.”
Salem nods. “Well, I wasn’t suggesting Snaring,” he admits, only after I’ve thrown a fit about it.
“I don’t have that kind of power to spare—teleporting you all around the Estate.
” Extending the hand not covering the doorknob, he holds out a long piece of black fabric that I’m pretty sure is a curtain.
“You don’t need to be someone else entirely.
No one here knows Lucina. Not yet, anyway. ”
“Not ever,” I clarify, eyeing the dark fabric.
He’s silent for a moment. Then, “You have no idea, do you?”
That captures my attention.
“Lucina, Alaric will return the Countess’s letter, and in it he will tell her why I’m here and what I’ve been sent to do.
Everyone in Onyile knows you exist, and with that one letter, everyone here will know too.
News of your existence hasn’t made it to Streatham yet, but it will.
Another reason we need to hurry this up. ”
It renders me speechless. My jaw slackens, and I realize I have questions. A lot of them.
The Hound pushes off the door, bringing his outstretched hand closer. “No one here knows you, so you don’t need to disguise yourself as someone else. You just need to blend in.”
“Blend in?” I question.
He gestures to his eyes, then nods to my own, and a pit of dread yawns awake in my stomach. To change my eyes would require using Rogue magic exclusively. I’d need to keep a steady stream of it flowing through me at all times, and it’s not that I’m incapable…I just don’t feel good about—
“Why do you feel guilty?”
Not, do you feel guilty—which would still be a strange thing to ask—but why?
My attention, which had drifted to a mildewed spot on the wall, snaps to his. “What are you talking about?”
“You feel guilty.” It’s a statement now. “I can smell it.”
My eyes bulge. “You can smell it?” I take a half-step backwards, bumping into the far wall. “Stop smelling me!”
“Sure,” he huffs, “if only it were that simple. Look, we don’t have time for this.
I shouldn’t have even asked.” Salem holds the “robe” out further, prompting me to take it.
“I found some kind of tunnel connected to my rooms, and you can explore those while I find our sources, but we’re not leaving this closet until your eyes are yellow. ”
There’s no give in his tone. Not a single square inch of room for argument.
Buying myself time, I reach for my shoes, feeling the weight of his attention as I lace them.
There isn’t much urgency as I slip weapons into my waistband and a few mender pills into my pocket, and after I’ve meticulously braided back my hair, I snatch the black fabric from his still outstretched hand.
Throwing it over my shoulders, I freeze.
The next task…the magic…it feels insurmountable.
“There it is again.”
Glaring up at him, I grit out, “Stop. Smelling. Me.”
The Hound smirks, and it makes me want to stomp like a petulant child. But I am far too mature for that, so instead, I stomp down the odd twinge of guilt in my chest and dive headfirst into the magic sitting dormant inside of me.
Both beasts sit like oil and water, a clear division between Rogue and Sol.
I’ve no idea what that means or if it’s normal or not.
Who am I supposed to ask? What am I supposed to compare it to?
Having the power to wield both is uncharted territory—for everyone, as far as I know. I’m in this alone. Painfully, alone.
Sinking into the dark void at the bottom, my father’s magic bursts through my veins. A chill sweeps through my body, like ice-cold water is being poured through my bones, and it takes me more than a few deep breaths to settle it. To get used to the sensation.
When I finally open my eyes, the Hound looks pleased. “See?” he mocks. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
I raise my middle finger, fighting the desire to hold the other one up too.
His smile spreads. “That’s the spirit.”
Pushing the door open, he gestures me through, and I step out into the Estate with my head down.
Surprisingly, it takes less focus to hold Rogue magic in my bloodstream than it does to maintain an illusion—it’s not an image I’m having to focus on, but a feeling. One that is significantly more familiar, and I hadn’t realized how accustomed to it I’d become.