25
“The exchange that occurs when a diabolist takes confession is poorly understood. Scholars of the past have suggested it might be a transfer of energy. If this is the case, can it be surmised that when a person sins, some dark energy resides within their very soul? Are diabolists drawn to sinners because a sort of recognition occurs? The principle ‘like attracts like’ comes to mind.”
“You’re back,” I say, emerging into the foyer to find Slade, Emeric, and Ceri conversing by the front door.
Slade is wearing a T-shirt today—the first time I’ve seen him in one—and it feels like the sight should be illegal. His tattooed arms are slim, though corded in muscle, and his rings glint as he drags fingers through his platinum hair.
“We are,” he agrees. “Forgive me, little sinner. I’d forgotten how much you hate it when I leave.”
Emeric chuckles at Slade’s side. He’s wearing a navy cable-knit sweater and beige trousers that might have been made for him. “Didn’t Ceri keep you entertained?”
I’m unamused. “This isn’t social hour. We only have a few days before the Congregation.”
“Yes. I, too, am able to mark the passing of time.” Slade steps out of his combat-style boots. “I explained everything to Emeric, and he knows how we can cross into the Reaches.”
“How?” Ceri asks at once, but my stomach plummets.
“We can cross via the bridge,” I intone. “Isn’t that the whole point of you posing as Felix Astor?”
“That’s a good cover for when we arrive, but Emeric has another idea. One that lets us avoid coming face-to-face with Regiment agents.”
I knew we shouldn’t have come here. I don’t need Emeric complicating the one part of the plan I felt confident about. But how can I argue? I can’t very well reveal that Gabriel has promised to ensure our safe crossing. “And that idea is what, exactly?”
Emeric heads into the conservatory, gesturing for us to follow. I’m barely cognizant of him pulling the table away from the wall and arranging the chairs so that we can all sit—I’m focused on the rotary phone behind him, as tense as if Gabriel might still be listening on the other end.
“There’s a dock on the far side of the river where supplies get delivered to the Reaches,” Emeric says finally, reclining in his chair. From his posture, we might have been discussing a low-stakes day trip. “I often see boats unloading from the window of the Citadel.”
“So?” I challenge.
“You and Slade can cross via the water.”
“I can’t swim.”
“That’s where the boats come in,” he says pleasantly.
Slade is perched on the very edge of his chair. He interlaces his fingers, resting his chin atop them. “I don’t suspect you have one, though, do you?”
“Well, no. I’ve more or less nailed down the schedule though. The first vessel of the day arrives around eight in the morning.”
Ceri tosses her auburn hair. “So we’re hijacking a boat?”
“Talin and I are,” Slade corrects her. “You and Emeric will cross the normal way. If the boats are just delivering supplies, there shouldn’t be many people on board. We’ll be able to make quick work of them.”
His words send a jolt of panic through me, though I try not to show it. “You’re planning for us to kill them?”
“I didn’t think you’d have any qualms with that.”
It’s not that I have qualms with committing murder—obviously.
I just don’t know how many more instances of violence it’ll take before I’m consumed by the Bloodrot, and the idea of Slade being there to watch it happen is even worse.
I’m so close to freedom. Losing myself now would be the most hideous sort of irony.
But what other option do I have? “Fine.”
“We’ll leave for the Reaches early Friday,” Slade decides. “The bridge is only about two hours’ drive from here.”
“Then you and Talin can stay with us in the chaplains’ quarter,” Ceri says, bouncing her leg up and down. It’s the only outward indication of her stress. “You’ll just need to avoid Gabriel on the way.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem. I doubt he’ll just be out walking around.”
I’m no longer listening. The plan itself sounds doable, but I’m worried Gabriel will grow suspicious if Slade and I never cross the bridge as anticipated. I can’t risk calling him again, and besides, he’s probably already left for the Reaches.
The sound of my name draws my attention back to the current conversation. Ceri is indicating me, her brows drawn together. “If you’re Felix Astor, who is Talin meant to be?”
“His hired sinner,” Emeric says before Slade can reply. “It’s not uncommon for sinners to accompany Regiment employees when they travel to the Reaches. It’s the one place nobody seems to care about hiding it.”
“Gabriel never brought me with him,” I put in, horrified when I realize how petulant I sound.
Slade drags his focus to my face, the shape of his mouth too wicked to be a genuine smile. “Of course he didn’t. My brother has an image to uphold. But don’t worry, little sinner—I’ll make good use of you instead.”
The air in the room abruptly shifts. Emeric makes a poor attempt to stifle his laugh.
I roll my eyes, but I can’t help wondering how, exactly, Slade would go about making use of me.
Whether he’s the type of man to compel me to stillness, or if he’d make me work for it.
Most of all, I’m desperate to know what undoes him.
I want to know what it takes to wipe that impassive look from Slade Markovich’s stupidly handsome face.
* * *
The next few days pass in a blur of strange routine.
Ceri prepares breakfast each morning, and eventually I start offering to help.
This goes disastrously, but she’s kind about it.
Emeric is less so—he appears to find everything I do borderline hilarious.
The duo is quick to realize that I’m more comfortable alone, however, and leave me to my own devices.
Sometimes I hide away in my borrowed bedroom, but much of my time is spent in the conservatory.
There’s a small shelf of books in there that I hadn’t noticed on the first day, and I recognize a few of them from my youth.
Some are the very ones I watched my father burn.
I don’t read much anymore. I’m slow at it now.
Impatient. Still, as I flip through the familiar pages, the relentless pressure in my chest seems to ease a bit.
I can almost feel my sister at my side, her head against my shoulder, and I bask in the memory until it begins to ache again.
Slade never returns to my room at night.
In fact, he seems to be avoiding me altogether.
When we do cross paths, Ceri and Emeric are always present, and the conversation revolves around our plan come Friday.
I lose track of how many times we’ve discussed the same points.
I don’t know what annoys me more: the repetition, or Slade’s inexplicable refusal to be alone with me.
The night before we’re meant to leave for the Reaches, I can’t sleep. My head is too full, my heartbeat too loud in my ears. I don’t know what compels me to do it, but eventually I throw back the sheets, pull a sweater over my head, and stalk down the hallway.
The house is dark, the silence absolute.
It wraps around me like something alive, broken only by the soft creak of my own steps.
The first three doors I pass are open, the rooms beyond shrouded in darkness, but the fourth door—the one at the very end of the hall—is shut.
Light emanates from beneath it. I freeze when the door suddenly swings open, almost as if Slade was expecting me.
My accusations evaporate like mist as I ogle him. “Why is your hair red?”
It’s not red, exactly, but more of a rich auburn not dissimilar to Ceri’s. Regardless, it certainly isn’t the pale blond it had been when I’d seen him only a few hours ago.
Slide lifts an eyebrow. “Do you have a habit of creeping around at night?”
I blink, unable to answer right away. The change in his hair is so drastic, so distracting, it took me a moment to notice he isn’t wearing a shirt.
I’m at eye level with his inked chest and—devil help me—the silver bar through his right nipple.
The scars I’d glimpsed on his back extend around to the front, and all at once I see them for what they are: burn scars.
That’s why the skin is so twisted, so uneven, beneath the tattoos. “I…couldn’t sleep.”
Part of me yearns to ask what the scars are from, but I don’t dare.
Instead, I drag my gaze up to his neck. The ink at his throat makes the hollows there even darker, and I finally see the design for what it is: a pair of skeletal hands linked at the thumbs, forming a shape akin to a pair of wings.
A sword passes through the center of the image, its pommel beginning directly under Slade’s chin and traveling all the way down his throat, giving way to curling script across his collarbones.
“Perfect. You can help me.” He moves aside, motioning for me to enter the room. Seeing no other option, I do, pivoting to study him.
“Help you with what?”
“This.” He shuts the door, indicating vaguely at his hair.
“It looks like you need more help than I can provide.” My tone is dubious.
At the same time, though, I can’t help being annoyed by how good he looks.
Even without his usual shock of platinum, he’s no less attractive.
In fact, the warmer shade makes him look less sallow.
“Is there a particular reason for the sudden change?”
Slade’s arched brow is withering. “Felix Astor had black hair, did he not?”
I’m caught off guard. Did he? Why, then, had Gabriel chosen him for Slade to impersonate? Unless he hadn’t known Slade was blond now. “Right,” I say hastily, hurrying to salvage my response. “I don’t know if you’ve looked in the mirror yet, but that is not black.”
“You can’t just dye platinum hair black, little sinner. You have to transition to an in-between shade, then put the black on top.”