Chapter 66
The wind rode on the sawing gasp and heaving sobs of the citrus and pearl dust scented one.
She was hunched forward, her thin arms wrapped around her stomach, her shoulders shaking.
Her throat constricted and spasmed, and each drag of air closed her esophagus, tightening it so she choked on her own breath.
She made desperate, raw, wretched noises.
The wind sped down her clenched throat, blowing air into her empty lungs.
“Lia,” the boy soothed, pressing his hand to her back. “Lia. It’s okay—”
“Don’t touch her!” The musician shoved the boy back. “I’ll kill you—”
The wind sped from the woman’s throat and slammed against the musician, knocking him off-balance. He stumbled and hit the brick wall.
The wind stirred the fetid alley air, shooting grime, dirt, and dust in an angry whirlwind.
A ripped newspaper flew past, smacking the musician in the face.
How dare he threaten the boy? The boy had jumped into the pit after them.
The boy had saved them from the trap that had snapped shut on them.
The musician should be thanking the boy, not glaring at him like a wet, feral cat, envisioning the boy’s dismemberment.
The boy ignored the musician, leaning protectively over the woman, drawing her into the alley’s shadows. They huddled behind a large green dumpster, far enough from the Bard’s wedding hall that they wouldn’t be found.
The woman’s tears were stained with blood and mournful ocean salt. The wind moaned as the fragile scent mixed with the decaying rot leaking from bloated trash bags.
“He’s dead.” She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut. “He’s dead. He’s dead. I killed him. I killed—”
“No.” The boy grabbed the woman’s shoulders. “Lia. No.”
“He’s dead.” Her body shook, a spasm running through her.
The musician scrubbed a hand down his face. His jaw clenched, and he turned away, slamming his fist into the brick wall. The wind jolted with the splitting of his skin, the spray of blood, and the sharp sting of blood cells rushing to bruised and aching knuckles.
He swore and drove his fist into the brick again. The wind padded the wall, pushing against the musician’s fist. Some beings fought sorrow with anger; grief with rage. Was the musician one of them?
But no—his songs were full of lamentations. Melancholy was his muse. When the wind caught the anguished tilt of his mouth as he turned away from the woman, it knew the fury was for his sister’s pain, not his own.
“He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead,” she moaned, her voice the endless tide scraping over the rocky shore, ceaseless and sorrowful.
“He’s not dead,” the boy said.
The woman didn’t hear him; she only kept choking on air and repeating her litany.
But the musician heard. He tensed and stared at the boy, his wet hair sticking straight up in the wind’s gust. “You’re certain?” he asked, clenching and flexing his bruised hand once, twice, and once more again.
The boy flicked his gaze to the musician, his mouth flat. He looked down at the musician’s bloody hand and then turned back to the woman. He pulled her against him, wrapping his arms tightly around her.
They were both wet from the pit, their clothing heavy and sodden. The woman shivered, even though the alley was as hot as a brick oven.
“Lia,” the boy whispered, rubbing his palm in a soothing circle over the woman’s back. “He’s alive. Listen to me. Lia.”
The musician took an angry step toward the boy. “If you’re lying—if you’re manipulating—”
The boy yanked darkness over himself and the woman, and the wind slipped into it, running over the velvet-night softness. The alley, the heat, the fetid stench, and the musician were blurred behind the dark veil, like forgotten things beyond a curtain.
“Lia,” the boy whispered, running a finger over the woman’s pale cheek. “It’s okay. He’s alive. You didn’t kill him.”
The citrus and pearl dust scented one tilted her chin higher, and her gaze slowly focused on the boy. The wind sighed and stroked the salty teardrop running to the corner of her mouth. It settled there, a glistening dewdrop on a soft pink petal.
The boy’s gaze caught on the tear. Slowly, he leaned forward, his breath tight in his chest. “Don’t cry,” he whispered.
The wind traced the space between their lips and the soft, yearning exhalations.
He reached out and pressed his thumb to the corner of the woman’s lip, wiping her tear free.
Then, as she watched, he pressed his thumb to his lip, kissing her sorrow.
He sent his hands gently over her cheeks to the hollows beneath her eyes, to all the stray places her tears had run. He wiped them free and kissed each one.
The wind swirled in the potent combination of sorrow and joy. The emotions held the wind taut, vibrating in pulsing vibrancy between the boy and the woman.
Her skin was warming, her cheeks turning seashell-pink. Her eyes swirled and glistened like the sea at sunset. Glowing blue fireflies lit the shadows around her, sparking brighter with each heartbeat.
“He’s alive?” she whispered. The wind caught the hope threaded through her husky voice.
The boy smiled, brushing her wet hair back. “He’s alive. You didn’t kill him. It’s all right, Lia.”
“It was a trap.”
The boy laughed, and before the wind could flick his ear, the woman flicked his shoulder.
“I thought I was smarter than them. My dad loves switching places to confuse attackers. I knew he’d do it, but I didn’t think he’d do it more than once.
I was stupid. Arrogant. I should’ve known he’d have told Luvic to switch with him in case of an attack.
He always expected us to sacrifice ourselves for him.
You swear Luvic’s alive? You promise . . .? Why are you smiling like that?”
“Did you like my gift?”
The citrus and pearl dust scented woman’s mouth tightened. The boy’s smile grew.
“What did you name her?”
“I’m not talking about the dog with you.”
The boy’s eyebrows rose. “You named her ‘the dog’?”
“No, I didn’t name her ‘the dog.’ What’s wrong with you?” She glanced at the black mist surrounding them. “I think you have about thirty seconds before Raggie conjures a storm and busts through here.”
The boy grinned. “He can try.”
“Why did you come today?” The woman pressed her finger to the boy’s mouth. “Don’t tell me for the cake. Was it the leggerock’s creature? Are you and her—?”
The boy swooped down like the wind diving from a high cliff and captured the woman’s mouth. She let out a puff of surprised air, but then she grabbed his wet hair and yanked him closer.
She bit his lip, piercing the skin. He grunted, and she licked his mouth, chasing the taste of him.
The wind swirled around them, diving over the stroke of the boy’s hands and the softness of the woman’s skin.
She plundered his mouth, dragging soft exhalations and quiet murmurs from his lips.
He kissed along her jaw, pleasured her mouth, erased the salty taste of tears.
She backed against the brick wall, dragging the boy with her, until he was pressing over her, pressing into her.
There was nowhere to go except into each other.
The woman pulled the boy close, working her mouth over his.
“You attacked me—” She broke off, kissing him.
“I saved you—” he said, and she bit his lip again.
“I don’t trust you—” She kissed him.
“You can always trust me—”
“I don’t want you—” she argued.
“Yes. You do.”
“I don’t forgive you—”
“I know.”
“I won’t.”
“Lia—”
“What?”
“Do you want to go have cake? There’s a bakery in the East Village—”
“Are you out of your mind?”
The boy blinked and then tilted his head, considering the question. “No,” he finally decided. Then he added, “It’s dark chocolate. With ganache. If you want, we could have dinner first.”
“Are you asking me on a date?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
The woman’s mouth quivered, fighting a smile. “What about Raggie?”
“He’s not invited.”
She held back a laugh. “That’s not what I meant.”
The boy shrugged. “He has other things to do tonight.” The boy tapped his hand against his right thigh, his damp jeans squishing. The woman looked down at the nervous tapping of his fingers and smiled.
“All my instincts are telling me to run,” she said, “but I can’t decide if they’re telling me to run to you or away from you.”
“To me,” the boy said confidently.
The wind pushed the woman’s shoulders, pressing her closer to him.
The woman let out an amused huff. “Jacob?”
“Hmm?”
“You’re still my sea.”
His fingers stroked down her cheek, trailing over her jaw. “I’m here,” he promised.
She nodded and rested her head against his shoulder. “When you hide things from me, is it for a good reason?”
“Yes.”
The wind trailed over the hard line of the boy’s shoulders.
“When you betray me, is it for the best?”
“Lia, I’m sorry.”
She sighed. “The sea is a funny thing. People love it, but it can kill them so easily.”
She was right. The sea was stronger than a human, and it had no heart. But the boy did have a heart—he felt more deeply than the deepest trench in the ocean. The wind knew this, but did the woman?
The boy started to step back, but the citrus and pearl dust scented woman clung to him, pulling him tighter against her. “Don’t. Don’t pull away.”
The boy stayed. They stood for a long, quiet moment while the musician sent waves of water and blasts of heat at the boy’s wall of darkness. Nothing he did could penetrate the boy’s dark embrace.
Finally, the woman looked up, her face solemn. “Was Luvic married?”
“Yes.”
She sighed. “I failed. I nearly killed him, and he married the psychopath.”
“It might work out.”
“How?”
The boy’s forehead wrinkled. The wind could practically hear his brain working to find an acceptable answer.
The woman snorted. “I’ll kill her tonight.”
“No,” he said, tugging on her hand. “You’re drained. You don’t even have enough illusion to disguise yourself. You have nothing left. He won’t thank you if you die.”
She stared at the boy and then down at her delicate hands and the thin trace of veins visible beneath her skin.
“Raggie—”
“Is dry too,” the boy said, nodding to the musician. His water attack had dwindled to a trickle.
The wind traced over the woman’s narrow shoulders, brining goose bumps up as it trailed down her arm.
“Let me take care of you,” the boy said.
“I don’t need anyone to take care of me.”
“I know. Consider it a favor. To me.”
The boy’s heart thumped loudly as he stared steadily at the woman. Her long black hair was curling at the ends, drying in the wind’s gentle breeze. It ran over the pink of her cheeks and blew softly against her flushed skin.
“Just one piece of cake,” she said firmly.
“Two,” the boy said, “and dinner.”
“One, and dinner to go. Cheesecake, not chocolate.”
The boy’s nose wrinkled. “I hate cheesecake. I hate it more than wet socks in soggy shoes.”
“Cheesecake,” she said, her mouth tightening, “or deal’s off.”
The wind fluffed the boy’s hair, and he held back a smile. “All right. Cheesecake. But if I concede cheesecake, then we’re sitting in at a restaurant.”
The woman gestured to herself, reminding him she was one of the most recognizable women in the world. And supposedly dead.
The boy smirked and twisted his hand. She transformed into a willowy middle-aged woman with bobbed blonde hair and gray eyes. The wind laughed. The woman looked like the model on the cover of the book the boy was reading. He made himself older, stouter, with a gray mustache.
The woman snorted. “All right,” she said.
The boy grinned. “All right?”
She nodded. He grabbed her hand, and then, as the darkness receded, the woman stood on her tiptoes and whispered in his ear, “I named her Kyon.”
The boy laughed. Kyon meant “the dog.”