19 #3
“Well, Slade and Emeric were never officially together, but they were definitely together for a bit.” She gives a tinkling laugh. “Emeric was convinced jealousy wasn’t the problem though. They were only ever casual.” Something seems to occur to her then. “Do you two have a contract?”
“In a sense, I suppose.”
“Does he feed from you? Or is it sexual?”
I stare at her, equal parts bewildered and horrified. “What? Neither.”
“Oh. Okay.” She looks utterly unruffled.
I’m not sure she believes me. “Anyway, not long after Slade disappeared, the rumors began to spread. About the Prophet defeating the last diabolist and how it was the first step toward saving humanity from sin. All nonsense, of course, but we feared Slade was the diabolist in question. We tried finding answers, to no avail. We were sure the Regiment had captured or killed him.” Ceri shudders and presses her lips together.
“Then, months later, whispers about the Trench reached us. How it had come back to life thanks to someone known only as the Warden. We thought for sure it must be Slade—who else would have both the funds and the ability to command that kind of deference from sinners?” A reluctant smile curves her mouth.
“The only problem was that there was no way to get in contact with the Warden. Nobody even seemed to know his real name.”
“So you never had any concrete proof Slade was still alive,” I summarize. “Not until he showed up here tonight.”
Ceri nods, no longer looking at me. “I’m so relieved, of course. But if the bastard had only sent a single letter…”
“He deserved the punch.”
She laughs and tosses her hair, the auburn locks shining in the firelight. “That he did. Now tell me, how did he convince you to let him bring you here?”
I’m still not sure how to answer that. Despite my misgivings, Ceri strikes me as genuine and straightforward.
The type of person to tell you exactly how she feels.
But my trust is a hard-won thing, and I’ve spent too many years holding my cards close to my chest. No way am I about to tell her that I worked for the Prophet as recently as three days ago.
“I think you should let Slade explain everything. Assuming Emeric doesn’t kill him. ”
Ceri waves a hand. “Emeric puts on a good show, but he doesn’t have a violent bone in his body. Whatever Slade’s explanation, I guarantee Em forgives him.” She gives a long-suffering but affectionate sigh. “That man is far too loyal.”
“And Slade excels at talking his way out of things,” I mutter.
“So you do know him well.”
Her tone is suggestive, and I leap to my feet, suddenly desperate to be free of the conversation. “I need the restroom.”
It’s a lie, but Ceri nods. “Down the hall and around the corner. First door on the left.”
I follow her instructions, making my way down the dimly lit corridor.
Once in the restroom, I lock the door and brace my hands against the countertop.
The granite is cool through my gloves. I don’t turn on the light, instead staring into my own ghostly reflection.
Like this, in the near dark, I’m almost featureless.
I can almost pretend my face isn’t sallow, my arms veined in darkness like fruit left to oxidize. I can almost pretend I’m not dying.
I know Slade said Emeric could help us, but I’m growing impatient, not to mention skeptical.
I’m not here to make friends or watch Slade reconnect with his—I’m here to win my freedom and save my own life by any means necessary.
None of these people understand. Why would they? They might as well be indestructible.
I think I hate them for it. The tightness in my chest is borne not of fear, but of resentment, of envy.
I’m envious of Ceri’s beautiful, carefree existence.
How she’ll never experience the Bloodrot, and how she seems to know Slade in a way I hadn’t imagined anyone could.
Why am I envious of that? I’m not trying to understand him for any reason but my own gain.
The way Ceri speaks about him, though, is jarring. She makes him sound so…human.
I take deep breaths through my nose, listening to the distant sound of Slade and Emeric arguing outside the window.
I can’t hear the words they exchange, but their voices are easy to differentiate.
Emeric’s is urgent, moving up and down in a way that’s distinctly emotional.
Slade’s, on the other hand, is low and controlled.
A little imploring, as if pleading his case.
After splashing water on my face, I glance around in search of a towel. I don’t see one, but there’s a closet in the corner of the room, the double doors slightly ajar. I yank them open.
Then I freeze.
The sight before me is appallingly familiar. Unmistakable. All the blood in my body turns to ice.
Because there, hanging on the back of the left door, is a long, cream-colored strip of fabric. Simple as the robe it’s regularly worn with, boasting a crescent moon with a line through it that, when donned, drapes over the left breastbone.
Why the fuck do these people have a Solemn Apostles preaching sash?