22
—The Prophet’s Modern Translation of the Holy Book
“You’re planning to kill Gabriel.” Emeric doesn’t frame it as a question, though it feels like one regardless. “And in the Reaches? Slade, this is a suicide mission.”
“Are we forgiving him, then?” Ceri interrupts before Slade can answer, her arms crossed. “Because it seems like you’ve forgiven him.”
Emeric’s boyish grin is apologetic. “Sorry, my love. I know how you love to hold a grudge.”
Ceri grumbles something under her breath but doesn’t argue. It’s too bad; I would have liked to see her hit Slade again.
“I know it seems counterintuitive,” I say, “but the Reaches is the best place to corner Gabriel.” I give him the same explanation I provided Slade, taking care not to reveal too much.
Emeric tilts his head as I speak. “I suppose you never see anyone with an entourage of agents up there, no matter how important they are.” He grins again, this time at me. “And you’re…what? Slade’s sidekick?”
I stare balefully in return. I have no idea if Slade plans to tell them I worked for Gabriel.
I give him an opening to jump in, but he doesn’t, his face inscrutable.
It’s almost funny, trying to imagine him and Emeric together.
They’re a study in opposites: Emeric exudes warmth while Slade is all cold angles.
“You’re pale,” Slade says abruptly, and I realize he’s addressing me.
“That’s rich, coming from you,” I retort. Now that he’s said it, though, I do feel a bit lightheaded.
“How’s your arm?”
I glance down at it, having all but forgotten the injury. The black fabric of my sleeve is completely soaked through with blood. “Oh. Shit.”
“Shit,” Ceri agrees, leaping to her feet. “You need to sit down.”
“I’m fine.” I hate having their attention on me, especially accompanied by the unwelcome reminder that I’m the weakest one here.
If we execute our plan successfully, could that change?
I don’t want to let myself believe it—that I could become like them.
Moments like this, though, make me yearn for it more than ever.
“Don’t be an idiot,” Slade says, his voice rough. He crosses the room in three long strides, dragging the nearest chair along with him. He sets it behind me. “Sit.”
“No, thank you.”
“Sit.”
Because my head is spinning—that’s the only reason—I do as I’m told.
Something in his icy gaze hardens further. “Good girl.”
The praise catches me off guard, and my breath snags in my throat. I clamp my teeth together so tightly they ache, tossing a glance in Emeric and Ceri’s direction. Neither of them appear to have thought anything of his words; perhaps I’m ascribing something he didn’t intend.
But this is Slade, and I don’t put anything past him.
“We’re planning to cross into the Reaches on the first day of the Congregation,” he tells Ceri and Emeric as he crouches down beside me.
Clearly my instinct for self-preservation has evaporated, because I don’t even realize he’s procured a blade until he’s made an incision along the seam of my sleeve.
He continues speaking as he stows the knife away again.
“That’s why we’re here. Emeric knows a hell of a lot more about the Congregation—and the Reaches in general—than I do.
Since I intend to pose as a chaplain, I’ll need some advice. ”
Emeric snorts. “You, a chaplain? If that’s what your plan hinges on, you’re screwed.”
“Don’t tell us he killed Felix Astor for nothing,” I mutter, and Emeric lets his head fall back in long-suffering resignation.
“You killed a Regiment employee, Slade?”
“We couldn’t very well risk him showing up, now could we?” Slade detaches what remains of my sleeve with an audible rip. I wince as he frees my arm, letting the blood-soaked fabric drop to the floor.
Ceri lets out a soft gasp, slapping a hand over her mouth just a moment too late. I steel myself against the sound, my cheeks burning. The sudden tension in my muscles has nothing to do with Slade’s proximity. I know what they’re all seeing: the Bloodrot-riddled patchwork of my skin.
I square my shoulders, waiting for one of them to say something.
They don’t, but I can’t help my gaze from flicking to Ceri.
The unblemished skin of her own arms, and how she drags a hand down one of them unconsciously, as if imagining what it’s like to be me.
A girl who bears the stark promise of impending death.
“Well,” Emeric says dryly. “That explains a lot. I was wondering why I longed to be near her.”
Appalled, I glance at Ceri, but she’s nodding in agreement.
For some unfathomable reason, Slade seems to match my agitation. “No one takes confession from her,” he snaps. “Not even me. Got it?”
“Of course.” Ceri is earnest. “But she is interesting.” She shoots Slade a pointed look.
“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” I grumble.
Slade’s cool, strangely careful fingers rotate my arm. It’s smeared with a disconcerting amount of crimson. Though I doubt it’s purposeful, he angles his upper body as if attempting to conceal my skin from view, and I relax a bit.
When he finally pulls away, my blood is on his hands. For some reason the sight makes my stomach contract.
“Oh,” I say.
“Yes,” is his grim response. “Oh.”
Ceri winces. “I’m sorry.”
“I started it,” I point out, unnerved by the venomous look Slade shoots in Ceri’s direction. “Besides, I’m not as fragile as you all seem to think.”
“Actually,” Slade says, “You need stitches. Emeric, do you have—”
“I’m on it!” Emeric says, already across the hall and halfway into the kitchen, more graceful than anyone of his stature has a right to be.
I strain to see around the corner. “On what?”
“Chaplains are taught basic medical care,” Slade reminds me.
Right. Just in case they’re ever dispatched to an incident to provide spiritual guidance and help is needed in a pinch. I scowl, reaching for my discarded shirtsleeve. “I don’t need medical care. I only need to put some pressure on it.”
Emeric, who has already returned—seemingly from thin air—slaps my hand away. “Don’t be an idiot,” he says. “Relax your arm.”
“He’ll do a good job,” Ceri adds, probably in response to whatever my face looks like. “He has a very gentle touch.”
Now I do know what my face looks like. “First of all, gross.” I never get to decide what my second point is though; hot, sharp pain radiates through my left arm, making me gasp.
“Try not to pay attention to me,” Emeric suggests helpfully.
“Stellar advice.” I’m talking without thinking, my fingers clenching the arms of the chair so hard that my knuckles pale.
“Here.” I don’t even notice Ceri leave before she’s returned, shoving a glass of water into my hand. Desperate for any kind of distraction, I take a sip only to promptly choke on it.
“This is liquor,” I inform her.
“Vodka.”
Emeric has a needle clenched between his teeth, which definitely can’t be sanitary. “Don’t drink that. Pretty sure alcohol affects blood clotting.”
“It’s hardly any,” Ceri wheedles. “She’ll be fine.”
This feels like some kind of fever dream.
I try to dissociate, but it doesn’t help that I can feel Slade’s eyes on me, which makes me more cognizant of my body than ever.
I refuse to look in his direction. If I do, I’m afraid I’ll betray what my pain-addled brain is certain of: that his fingers on my skin would be the only sufficient distraction just now. And that is very, very stupid.
“So!” Emeric says too jovially, an obvious attempt at drawing my attention away from the pain. The needle is between his fingers now. “The Congregation. Felix Astor. Killing the Prophet. Do I have the main points correct?”
“Yes,” Slade replies. “I take it you were planning to attend?”
Emeric nods, his nose mere inches from my wounded arm.
“Ceri and I generally do. There’s a reception at the Citadel on the first night, then several services over the two days that follow.
Rumor has it he also holds private meetings at the Prophet’s Sanctum, but only for his inner circle. At least, I’ve never been invited.”
I tighten my jaw as he jabs me with the needle again. “What’s the Prophet’s Sanctum?”
“It’s Gabriel’s private temple. Nobody is allowed to visit without a personal invitation. I’ll show you both once we get there.” He leans away from my arm with a sigh of satisfaction. “You’re done, by the way.”
I glance down at the uneven line of stitches. It’s far from professional artistry, but it’ll work. “Thanks.”
Slade is shaking his head, his eyes on Emeric. “What do you mean, once we get there? You and Ceri aren’t part of this.”
“We’re going to the Congregation anyway,” Emeric points out. “You might as well let us help you.”
“I don’t want your help. We came for information; nothing more. Besides, you just said you’re averse to risk.”
“That was before I knew what you were planning.”
Slade skims his tongue along his lower lip. The action does something unspeakable to me. “I’m not putting your lives on the line.”
Ceri’s mouth is tight. She still sits cross-legged on the sofa, as if in furious meditation. “You can’t expect us to let you do this alone, Slade. We spent far too long fearing you were dead—no way are you walking into a suicide mission without backup.”
“I’ll have Talin,” Slade clips, sparing me from having to defend myself.
“Yes, but despite her prowess with a blade, she’s human.” Ceri winces. “And injured.”
Although I want to, I can’t very well argue with that, I think bitterly.
“I’ll get us a place in the chaplains’ quarter,” Emeric says before Slade can argue.
“I was planning to do that anyway.” I must appear confused, because he looks at me and adds, “The Reaches is divided roughly into four parts. There aren’t boundaries to delineate it, but those with the same occupation tend to congregate in the same place. ”
“Chaplains, scholars, and agents,” I guess. “What’s the fourth?”
One side of Emeric’s full mouth lifts. “They call it the fourth quarter.”
“Creative.”