27
“Prior to the Prophet’s rise, the country was overseen by a council of politicians with military inclinations. They relied heavily on the advice of chaplains, of course, but the current prophet is the first and only man to have held such a position.”
The next day, I’m woken at the crack of dawn by someone hissing my name through the door.
No—it’s not even dawn yet. The light filtering through the crack in the curtains is that of the moon, not the early-morning sun. I sit up, disoriented, running a hand through the tangle of my hair. It takes me a moment to realize my first instinct wasn’t to reach for one of my weapons.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I pull my hair into a knot, mentally bracing myself. I already know who’s outside. Nobody else’s voice sets my teeth on edge and pushes my pulse into overdrive.
“What?” I snap at Slade the moment I yank the door open.
1 can’t make sense of the way he’s looking at me. The guarded dismissiveness of his gaze, and the muscle that leaps in his jaw. He’s dressed in formal attire, the white button-down dangerously striking against his tattoos and dark hair. Still, something is…wrong.
He scans me from head to toe, the tendons in his neck becoming more prominent. “Get ready and be downstairs in ten minutes.”
In the darkness of the hallway, I remember how he’d looked last night, his pupils dilated and his gaze full of hunger.
It feels like years ago. Something that happened between two entirely different people, maybe.
That’s the problem with Slade Markovich—he’s either wildly unleashed or coldly restrained, never anything in between.
“Are we going to eat first?” I demand.
He doesn’t answer my question, which I take to mean he considers it a foolish one, and then he’s gone again. I slam the door in his wake, cursing his name under my breath. I can’t have gotten more than a few hours’ sleep.
I quickly bathe, dress, and brush out my hair.
Black dye still stains my fingers—it looks like a hideous mutation of the Bloodrot.
I shudder, then gather my things and hurry downstairs.
Ceri stands by the front door wearing an embellished black dress and looking as tired as I feel.
She looks fabulous nonetheless, her mahogany hair tied back in a loose knot, a few tendrils falling around her face.
I cringe inwardly when she smiles at me, hoping she didn’t overhear anything last night.
“Morning. Did you and Slade have a fight?”
I’m still not accustomed to the way she seems so comfortable prodding people—me, specifically—for information. I narrow my eyes. “No. Why?”
Ceri shrugs. “He’s in a weird mood.”
“Isn’t that his regular personality?”
She’s unappeased. “You can tell me,” she wheedles. “Emeric and Slade are outside packing the car.”
Packing the car. It’s such a simple sentence, but it hurls me back several years to the day we left to join the Apostles.
If the Regiment really has been supporting the cult, then all the more reason to shake their foundation.
To slaughter their precious Prophet. I want to watch the whole thing burn.
“Did Slade say something to you?” I’m horrified at the thought.
“No!” Ceri shakes her head. “We were chatting this morning before you got up. About you, mainly, but I didn’t pry.”
“About me?” The prospect horrifies me. I wonder if that’s why Slade seems off.
“Can you blame me for being curious? I could hear you two in the hallway last night.”
I want to sink into hell. “You could?”
She shrugs noncommittally. “How you two deal with your urges isn’t my business. But can I give you some unsolicited advice?”
“Fine,” is my gruff response.
“I adore Slade. I really do,” she says. “But I don’t think he has the capacity to love in the way that most people do.”
“He left to try and protect you,” I point out, then immediately regret it. It’s not like Slade needs me to defend him.
“Oh, he cares about Emeric and me. But I believe you have to give something of yourself to call it love, and Slade doesn’t trust anyone enough for that. He gives only as much as he feels is safe.”
I understand what’s happening. Ceri is trying to warn me away from Slade because she thinks I’m like her. The kind of person who loves and wants love in return. What she doesn’t understand, though, is that I’m like him. I don’t trust anyone either. I also give only as much seems safe.
“Thanks,” I tell her curtly. “But you don’t need to worry. I assure you, I don’t want him that way.”
A lie. I do want him—I just don’t want his love. Even thinking the word in conjunction with Slade is absurd. I yearn for something more primal, more crude, than romance. He and I are like two corner pieces of a puzzle: cut from the same board, but utterly incapable of fitting together.
Ceri nods, finally picking up on the fact that I’m not interested in having this conversation. Relieved, I follow her outside, only for my stomach to flip over when she climbs into the back seat with Emeric. I have no option but to sit up front beside Slade.
I clamber into the car, wincing at the deafening growl of the engine. I wait until he shifts into gear and backs out before saying, “Good morning.”
It’s intended to be a peace offering. A sign that I’m prepared to pretend last night never happened. So what if he sent me away purely to frustrate me, as if the fact that I’m attracted to him isn’t frustrating enough? So what if he’s been even colder to me than usual this morning?
He returns my greeting with a nod, barely glancing away from the road.
His expression is detached, unfriendly. Misgiving crawls up my spine.
Something has shifted between last night and this morning, and I don’t have a clue what it might be.
I’m not the type of woman to be self-conscious, or to wonder if it’s a result of something I did.
I remember exactly how his body responded to mine.
The tension between us today, however, is more than just sexual.
I recall Emeric saying that the bridge to the Reaches is only a couple of hours by car, but it’s already clear how slowly those hours are going to pass.
Ceri strikes up a casual conversation as I stare out the tinted window, watching the green hills give way to the uniform blur of the Outskirts.
Navy-tinted clouds lattice the sky overhead, their increasing visibility the sole evidence of dawn on the horizon.
Slade drives too fast, spurring the engine into a slightly unsettling rattle, and I shift on the cushioned vinyl seat.
I don’t know what’s more unnerving: the intensity with which he normally looks at me, or the fact that today he doesn’t let his gaze shift in my direction a single time.
I end up feigning sleep to avoid being dragged into the conversation. Ceri and Emeric lower their voices when they notice, but Slade doesn’t bother. I suspect he knows full well that I’m still awake. I wonder if he can sense my racing pulse.
The time passes at an agonizingly slow pace, and I’m relieved when Ceri shakes me gently from the back seat.
“There’s the bridge,” she says, pointing straight ahead.
The bridge to the Reaches is an imposing thing, all obsidian stone columns and raised arches.
The sea lashes at the cliff face, which abruptly drops off to form a sort of ravine, and I can almost ignore the dark city rising in front of us.
Can almost imagine that we’ve reached the edge of the world as nature rages wildly, relentlessly below.
But this isn’t the edge of the world. Only the border between the place I know so well and the one I’ve only heard about in stories, the spire of its central temple my first glimpse of the Prophet’s favorite refuge.
There’s a guardhouse about three-quarters of the way across the bridge, gray-clad Regiment agents either standing motionlessly on each side or pacing from one end to the other.
Still more agents are thoroughly and methodically searching each of the vehicles lined up to cross, their own gleaming black cars parked nearby.
Apprehension shoots through me as though injected into my veins.
Slade pulls over a short distance from the bridge, tires squealing. Ceri hits the back of my seat with a muffled gasp, and I’m forced to brace my hands against the dashboard.
Emeric curses loudly. “What the hell are you doing?”
Slade disregards the question. His focus is on the bridge, blue eyes narrowed. “Talin and I are getting out here.”
“You’re a terrible driver,” Ceri says, leaning forward so that her chin nearly rests on the back of Slade’s seat. “Also, you’re going to have to climb down the cliffs to reach the river.”
“That’s fine.” Slade adjusts the collar of his jacket, his mouth a thin line. “Get out, Talin.”
A scoff escapes me. “Not if you’re going to speak to me like that.”
If he thinks last night changes anything between us, he’s mistaken. My submission is purely situational and doesn’t extend very far even then. Sure, there’s a part of me that reacts to his commanding tone in a less-than-helpful way, but I’m happy to ignore it.
“Talin, get out of the car.”
This time nobody argues. I haven’t been around Slade long, but it’s suddenly clear that he isn’t just being bossy. He’s angry.
I hate that I listen to him, but I do, buttoning up my jacket more securely and clambering out of the vehicle.
Ceri slides into the driver’s seat as a gust of wind slams the door shut behind her.
It’s colder this close to the water, the air damp and salt-scented.
Emeric moves to occupy the passenger seat, leaning across Ceri as she cranks her window down.
“We’ll meet you in the chaplains’ quarter in a couple of hours,” he says. “It’s easy to find. Head up the hill by the docks, then take the road that angles to the right.”
Slade gives a curt nod. “I’m sure we can figure it out.” He pats the side of the car like it’s a horse that has served him well. “You two should get going. It looks like you’ll be waiting a while to cross.”