Twenty-Two #3
“None that I’ve found,” I mumbled.
“Good.”
I recognized the heat and anger burning beneath his words; I’d been the same, after all.
I would’ve gladly applauded the death of every single Ever until I met the Ferngloves.
Well, most of the Ferngloves. I’d already killed the one who didn’t deserve my grace anyway.
Splintering pain shot through my skull, and my left eye watered.
Immediately, my hand went to my forehead.
“We need to get you out of here,” Rorik said beneath his breath. Between the gaps in my fingers, I could see the worry lining his expression. He’d given up on scouring the room and was solely focused on me.
My breath came out shaky. “Okay.”
Clipped footsteps marked Zeverin’s approach, and I let my hand fall away to meet his stare head-on. He’d stopped across the table from us, right behind the Waterstones. Ossanna grinned foolishly up at him, along with Issa, but Zeverin paid them no mind.
Despite the blight’s best efforts, I wasn’t sure there was anything in this realm or the next that could dampen Zeverin’s presence.
He was a dominant force, with pointed fangs and slitted eyes like those of a snake.
His skin had transformed into stonelike scales, and between every crack was a river of flowing crimson, as if his veins were made of lava.
A long tail covered in bloodred feathers with orange eyes swished the floor behind him, and large wings of the same plumage were tucked in tight against his back.
Heat radiated from his form, and my already sweat-dampened blouse was on the verge of becoming completely soaked.
He exuded royalty with every breath, and he knew it.
Still, he was good at playing magnanimous.
The wide grin, the easy way he gestured to the room, even the way he spoke.
But I knew better than to fall for honeyed words after my time with Orin.
Still, I could pretend. So, I offered him my own demure smile before tipping my chin slightly in a show of politeness.
“Lord Embergrave,” I said softly.
“Edira, I trust you and Dermon have been getting along swimmingly?” The syrup in his voice made my skin crawl, but I nodded just the same.
“Of course. He’s a delight.”
Zeverin beamed. “Wonderful. It seems in my desire to honor tradition, I forgot about what that effect would have on you. Allow me to remedy that.” He snapped his fingers, and a spark ignited to life a few inches above his pointed nails.
It hovered in the air for a moment before lifting to the rafters and then exploding, showering the entire space in a wave of reflective ruby flecks.
The effect was much the same as before when he’d burned the glamour away, but it lasted only for a breath, and relief hit hard and fast as the manor was once again beautifully blight-free.
This was signal enough for the guests, and they, too, began replacing their glamour.
I sank into my chair as the weight in my chest disappeared, and the headache behind my eyes—while still annoyingly present—lessened.
My bones ached and my muscles screamed for me to rest, to escape back to my quarters and climb right into bed.
And since I was supposed to be weak, I let myself fully fall into that state.
I didn’t even stop the subtle tears spilling over the corners of my eyes, or the heavy sigh, or the limp posture.
I felt Rorik’s panic spike down our bond, but I pushed it away.
Zeverin watched me closely. “The mirage is back in place.”
I knew he was referring to the glamour, but I couldn’t help but inwardly sneer. Because it was. I could glamour my intentions, too. “Thank you, Lord Embergrave. That was incredibly gracious of you.”
“Our tradition has been observed. All is well.” His gaze flicked to Rorik for the first time since coming to the table. “It seems you’re keeping your threadmender healthy somehow. We have much to discuss.”
“We do?” Flippant. Bored. Indeed, the mirage was back for Rorik, too.
“Oh yes. But if you’re unwilling to share .
. .” His stare drifted to Seville. And damn if she wasn’t ready for it.
At some point during the exchange, she’d propped one elbow on the table and cupped her chin, expertly exposing the length of her neck and the thin strap of her dress that was threatening to slip off her shoulder.
She’d also crossed her legs to expose the slit in the gown’s fabric and her bare thigh.
Her lips were wet with wine, her gaze somewhat hooded.
Instantly, I was reminded of the time she’d talked about lingerie as armor, and I couldn’t help but marvel at how she poised herself like a gods-damned weapon.
No one could stop Seville from getting what she wanted.
“I’m happy to provide you with scintillating conversation,” she said coyly. “After my brother and I escort our threadmender to her room, though. She’s clearly fatigued.”
“Of course,” Zeverin said with a bow. Then he snapped his fingers again, and someone peeled off the wall to join him at his side. Kara. I hadn’t even noticed her lingering in the shadows, but she was there in an instant. Her cool gaze swept over us once.
“Yes?” she asked.
“It seems Dermon is indisposed. Please take him back to his quarters,” Zeverin said.
I shifted my gaze off him for a moment to steal a glance at Dermon, only to find him slumped over in his chair.
His breath was rattled but deep, indicating he’d slipped into slumber shortly after the blight had been masked.
Exhaustion was already tugging at my senses.
I wasn’t far behind him. My eyelids fluttered, and I stifled a yawn.
Kara was easing Dermon out of his chair, and, beside me, Rorik was doing the same. His strong arms slipped beneath my legs and shoulders, and then I was snugly cradled against his chest. With a small finger wave, Seville bid goodbye to Zeverin as she stood.
“I’ll be back,” she said. And then she led the charge, swaying her hips as she strolled out with us hot on her heels. The moment we exited the hall, though, she dropped the act. “Gods, Edira, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I murmured. It was all I could muster, both from exhaustion and for fear of Rorik hearing the truth masked beneath my words: that the wave of blight had hit me much harder than I’d expected.
I hadn’t mended anyone, and yet it’d felt like I’d healed someone for hours.
I vaguely wondered if I should’ve asked Dermon how many threads remained.
Because for the first time since learning about the blade, I feared I wouldn’t be strong enough to face Death down. Not like this.
Rorik raised a brow. “Are you sure?”
I waved him off. “What are we supposed to do now?”
“We keep playing the game,” Seville said as we hit the stairs.
Neither one of them said anything else as we made our way to our rooms. I was already fading by the time we made it inside and shut the door.
Seville and Rorik exchanged hushed words—Rorik’s decidedly more heated and agitated than Seville’s, but that didn’t stop her from returning to the party downstairs—and the next thing I knew I was being laid on a soft bed with a mound of blankets being pulled up to my chin.
A deep sigh filled the air. Fingers grazed my cheek. “Sleep, Edira.”
And I did.