Chapter 54 #2
I nodded again. Words felt beyond me.
She stepped aside, and I saw him.
Damien’s clean-shaven face looked nearly as bleached as the bed linens, only it was tinged with a gray cast.
They had shaved his head.
His thick, close-cropped golden hair was gone.
What remained was glistening stubble crisscrossed by a map of fresh scars drawn in angry red lines.
Someone—Arsinoe, probably—had operated on his head, leaving behind a scar that started above his left ear and arced across the crown of his head, ending above his right ear.
Huge bruises bloomed across his exposed skin in colors that ranged from eggplant to the sickly green of old meat.
He was propped up on pillows, one arm resting across his chest in a sling, the other laid palm-up on the blanket. His eyes were closed. For one terrible second, I thought they had lied to me, that he was still unconscious, or worse—
Then his eyelids fluttered. His gaze found me, bleary with pain, but alert.
“Luk.” His voice was rough, scraped down to something that barely carried across the space between us. He tried to smile. The effort cost him. One side of his mouth lifted, then fell. “You look like shit.”
I laughed. The sound that came out sounded more like a sob. I pulled the visitor’s chair right up to the edge of his mattress and sat. Then I reached for his good hand, but stopped when I saw the purplish-green bruises covering his forearms and the backs of his hands.
“You’re one to talk.” My voice came out steadier than I felt, which was something. “What in Vesta’s name happened to your hair? It was your best feature.”
Another twitch of a smile. “Arsinoe said I had a skull fracture, and they had to operate to remove bone fragments. I guess my head isn’t as hard as Mother always told me it was. And now I have a metal plate somewhere under this itchy mess.”
He lifted his hand, slowly as if it was heavy as lead. He scratched his stubble and ugly scars.
I winced in sympathy.
“So, now you know what my headaches feel like?” I asked, trying to force a joking tone.
That got me a breathy chuckle, followed by a deep wince. “Don’t make me laugh,” he pleaded. “It hurts.” He paused, “Actually, it hurts when I breathe.” He closed his eyes. “Or move. Or try to sleep.”
I should have said something kind. Something reassuring. The words lined up behind my teeth and died there.
What came out instead was: “The DMR came and went while you were deep in your beauty sleep. Expelled and exiled, all four of them: Ormond, Montplaisir, Cresta, Bernardo. They were shipped off to Darkstone Academy last week.”
His eyes widened. “No shit?”
I inclined my head. “Your father marched over to the palace to give the domina-regent a piece of his mind as soon as he found out what had happened to you. The DMR showed up here the very next day and questioned everyone… Chatelaine Lirelle, Third-Year Assistant Chatelaine Leonor, your uncle Varro, Miss Fishwife’s sisters…
and a bunch of others. Oh, and Cresta and Bernardo, of course.
Rumor had it that Cresta and Bernardo implicated Ormond and Montplaisir in return for escaping the death penalty for trying to kill you with magic. ”
Damien absorbed this. His hand flexed against the blanket, fingers curling and straightening in a rhythm that might have been pain or might have been satisfaction. “Good.”
“They were fools.” I leaned back in the chair and reached for the casual tone of someone discussing the weather.
“Ormond always was too arrogant by half. As for Cresta—” I shook my head.
“She never understood that the point of power is control, not spectacle. If you’re going to break someone, you do it quietly.
You don’t leave witnesses and you don’t use a combat spell.
So much for the vaunted Custodes Sanguinis. ”
I hoped I’d delivered my carefully rehearsed lines with just the right blend of contempt and detachment to convince Damien that I’d washed my hands of them.
Privately, panic had been gnawing at my insides like acid since the DMR delivered their verdict.
Ormond, Montplaisir, Cresta, and Bernardo—my most reliable supporters and allies—exiled, possibly forever, to an island far off the coast of Espola. And by now, everyone had heard it was Damien who’d delivered the final pieces of damning testimony against the four.
Worse, the Custodes were utterly demoralized, their ranks decimated by a wave of desertions. No one dared to wear the silver thorn rings in public anymore. My hopes of using them to keep me safe had dissolved like a peasant’s mud-brick hut in a flood.
And Damien, who should have been the one person I could count on, was croaking, “They saved my life, you know, those three Bernswick girls. Before Mage-Healer Arsinoe arrived, they stabilized me with some kind of advanced charm. Mage-Instructor Ilaria said she had her hands full trying to keep my brains from spilling out of the cracks in my head, so it was Talisa—” He stopped.
“I mean, Miss Bernswick, who kept me from drowning in my own blood. Mage-Healer Arsinoe said that if they hadn’t been there, doing what they did, I would have died before she could start applying heavy-duty healing spells and operate on me. ”
I clenched my teeth. My fingers dug into the edge of the mattress hard enough to make my fingertips ache.
“Saved by commoner medicine. How very rustic,” I drawled.
Damien frowned. “Oh, please, Luk. There was nothing ‘rustic’ about it. It was just good spellwork. Mage-Healer Arsinoe told me she wants to recruit all three of them as her apprentices when they’re fourth-years, but especially Talisa—Miss Bernswick, I mean.”
Because she’s better than me. The thought arrived fully formed, like a venomous snake uncoiling in the dark of my mind.
One of the infirmary apprentices approached us. “Mr. Corvellan’s next set of visitors just arrived,” he announced. “Lord Lukhan, I’m sorry, but your time is up. You can return tomorrow.”
I stood up, pushing the chair back with a loud scrape against the tiled floor. My pain spilled over into sarcasm. “More visitors intent on hero worship, Damien? Well, I won’t keep you from your adoring public.”
“Luk. Stop.” Damien’s gaze held mine with an intensity that made my skin prickle. “Just stop. For once in your life, could you pull your head out of your ass? I almost died. Talisa of Bernswick pulled me back from the edge. I’m grateful to her. Is that so difficult for you to hear?”
Yes.
Because gratitude meant debt, and debt meant obligation, and obligation meant that Damien—my Damien—was sliding away from me and into the grasp of someone I’d spent the past six months trying to destroy.
“You wouldn’t have gotten hurt in the first place if it wasn’t for her,” I snarled. “Get well soon.” I didn’t look back as I walked to the door. “And try not to step in front of any more combat spells.”
I yanked the door open and stepped into the entrance hall—
—and collided with Miss Fishwife and her sisters. And Ferraro, of course.
She staggered back a step, and he caught and steadied her. Her hazel eyes widened. Ferraro moved forward and slid between us with a glower.
The twins—those impossible, infuriating children—flanked her like petite guard dogs.
For a heartbeat, nobody moved.
“Lord Lukhan,” Miss Fishwife said warily, as if she thought I might bite her. “I, ah, didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Clearly.” I didn’t step aside. I planted my feet and looked down at her, not hiding the fury boiling under my skin. “Do they let just anyone wander into the infirmary these days, or is there a special dispensation for commoners who nearly get my friend killed?”
Something flashed in her eyes—anger, quick and bright—but before she could answer, Elio Ferraro shouldered forward, his manner insolent as always.
“Please move aside, milord,” he barked. “Mr. Corvellan’s expecting us.”
“He’s tired.” The words came out sharper than I intended. “Your heartfelt expressions of gratitude can wait.”
Juno, the bold twin, lifted her chin to look up at me. Her hazel eyes looked as fierce as a hawk’s. “He asked to see us.”
Of course he had.
The pressure behind my eyes built to something white-hot and blinding.
I can’t let her know she’s won. Not just Damien. But everything.
The Custodes Sanguinis in disgrace and disarray. My staunchest allies, expelled and banished. And the girl who had dismantled it all—piece by careful piece, prank by prank, victory by victory—was standing in front of me, looking suddenly concerned instead of triumphant.
He’s my friend. Mine!
Except he wasn’t. Not anymore. I forced down the fear, the rage, the desperate, clawing need to have something, someone who belonged to me alone—and stepped aside.
“By all means.” I swept them an elaborate, mocking bow. “Don’t let me keep you from giving him the thanks you owe him.”