Chapter Fourteen Zephyra #2
“As I said, many foolish things,” Arion interjects smoothly. “We never should’ve risked the ocean. Our boat capsized in a storm just off the coast, and I nearly drowned.” He pins me with a pointed stare. “It was the worst day of my life.”
With a sage nod, Harold says, “Which would explain your lack of attire.”
Gerald snorts indelicately. “It was their honeymoon, sweet.”
“That, it was.” My grin turns catlike, and I ignore the flutter of heat low in my belly.
I ignore the bond as well, how it pulses between us as if Arion feels it too.
“Our own fault, really. My dear husband needed a bit more guidance belowdecks”—I waggle my brows pointedly—“than I expected, and the storm snuck up on us.”
Both Gerald and Harold cackle at the lie. “Really?” the former asks, instantly intrigued. He considers Arion anew, both brows lifting in surprise. “You never can tell, can you? How unexpectedly delightful.”
If Arion’s expression is any indication, he doesn’t find it delightful. He doesn’t find it delightful at all. No, he looks ready to commit bodily harm, and at that muscle feathering in his cheek, I can’t help it—I cackle too.
“That isn’t quite how I remember it,” he says through gritted teeth as the vines overhead begin creeping toward him. He forces a smile in response, and it looks physically painful. “Wife.”
“Arion, there’s no need for petty insecurities here.” I gesture to Gerald and Harold, who both nod a little too enthusiastically, before sweeping my arms wide to encompass the entire shoppe. “This is a safe place—”
“I think what you meant to say, Zephyra, is we were distracted—”
“Oh, come on, there’s no need to be so formal.
What was it you called me last night?” I tap my chin, pretending to consider and enjoying this entirely too much.
I don’t think about what happened here all those years ago, what will happen again when we leave this shoppe.
Instead, I immerse myself fully in the present.
In this one, delicious moment where I can pretend to be someone else, someone better—that, and annoy the shit out of Arion.
“Oh, I remember now—‘the divine goddess of your heart.’”
Harold claps his hands together. “Oh, to blaspheme in the name of love!”
“‘Goddess’?” Arion’s eyes flash like molten lava.
I bat my lashes sweetly, blowing him a kiss, before hastily turning back to the mirror when a literal spark flies from Arion’s fingers.
Right. There’s a difference between poking a shark and bludgeoning it with a stick.
Still, I cannot help winking and add to Gerald, “Forgive my husband. He’s not always the brightest.”
“Handsome men rarely are,” Gerald laments, and Harold nods his understanding.
When I risk a glance at Arion in the mirror, he still glowers at me. A bee darts toward him—stinger raised—but he flicks it away without even glancing at it. Happy thoughts, I mouth to him.
“You know,” Gerald says, tearing my attention from the warlock, “I do believe I’ve heard a tale or two about Abysses being swallowed by the sea. Perhaps that’s what you heard as well.”
My gaze sharpens on his face. Not a chance. “Perhaps.”
“Where did that happen?” Arion asks, gullible as the rest of humankind. “Did the tales ever say?”
“No, no.” Harold dips his fingers inside a jar of beeswax and then runs them through Arion’s hair, styling it in a careless way that should make him look unkempt and failing miserably.
I allow myself to examine the hard lines of his jaw, his neck, his shoulders, for only a second—okay, three—before forcing myself to look away.
Over my reflection’s shoulder, Arion’s eyes go half lidded as the cord pulses again, and that muscle in his cheek jumps.
“Greenwood tales seemed to be more metaphorical than most, but I do believe…” Harold’s lips pinch.
He thinks for a moment before reciting in an exaggerated thespian accent, “‘In the heat of the sea, the ocean claimed its victim with savage abandon, before the sun burned the corpses whole. And thus Abysses vanished, lost to our world and the next. We mourn! We mourn! We… die.’” He pretends to fall to the floor.
“Oh, brilliant performance, my sweet!” Gerald applauds with eager enthusiasm.
Harold flushes, but he stands and bows regardless. “Thank you, my pet.” To Arion, he adds, “I used to partake in a theater troupe. I was the lead seven years running.”
Arion attempts to smile again, but it’s more grimace than anything as his rough voice manifests in my head, scraping against my skull.
“‘The heat of the sea.’ The sun. Sounds like it’s either referring to the climate of the Sol or the centermost point of our world.
What do you think? Or are you determined to be completely useless throughout this entire journey? ”
I glare at him.
“You can think back to me. I’ll hear you. Just search for the silver cord in your mind and follow it to me.”
“Like… this?” I think nervously, allowing Gerald to slip my feet into a pair of silk slippers.
“Yes,” Arion thinks back.
“Great. Fuck you.” I bare my teeth in a murderous grin.
“He has to be talking about the Sol. Its waters are shallow. The Syl can be warm in certain depths, but most of the waters are too deep to properly capture the heat of the sun.” And I’m not going back to the fucking Syl if my life depends on it.
“Of course, it is a random story that a man in a random shoppe just randomly performed for us, so probably not something on which to stake our futures.”
It’s his turn to glare this time.
“We can cross-reference this with what we find in the Illuminated Library.” He steps away from Harold, who has finally finished grooming him. “Do you know how long it will take us to trek—”
I cut him off before he can finish the question. “It’s through the apple orchard. Maybe a ten-minute walk from the market.”
“And we only need to keep our intentions pure?”
“Yep. Empty heads and happy thoughts, warlock. Or should I call you ‘guppy’ from now on?”
“You think you’re funny, don’t you?”
“Oh, birdman, I know I am.”
His lip curls grudgingly at that, and it almost looks like a smile.
A real smile—a true one—for just the briefest of seconds.
And it’s so shocking, I almost fall over.
Harold, however, actually does fall over.
His hand flies to his heart and he careens to the floor with a shriek.
Scrambling backward, he kicks away from Arion as if the warlock is suddenly holding a knife.
Blinking rapidly, my gaze falls to his hand to ensure he isn’t, but—no.
He holds no weapon at all, magical or otherwise, unless I count that smile.
Gerald still rushes to his husband’s side, crouching low. “My sweet? My sweet, what’s wrong?”
“I—I’m sorry.” Harold blinks rapidly at Arion. “I thought… for a moment, it appeared as if—as if something was growing from your back.”
Shit. Our disguises.
Arion stiffens. His jaw clenches. I hold my breath.
Blinking in confusion, Gerald glances at the warlock, but unlike his partner, he doesn’t fall; he doesn’t scream. Instead, his brows contract as he studies Arion, which is hopefully a good sign. Then—“My sweet, I do think you’ve been smoking too much mugwort. I don’t see a thing.”
The bond hums with relief as I relax, ever so slightly.
Not Arion, however. He remains standing there as if carved from stone, his entire body rigid.
Disciplined. And something more than relief travels through the bond as realization descends.
He must’ve—lost control of the enchantment somehow, and even though he regained it quickly, even though his face remains hard and impassive, shame still tinges the bond.
I frown at that, but before I can speak, Arion is already moving, helping Harold to a chartreuse settee to cover for his mistake. To protect us from being caught.
Gerald, indeed, appreciates the effort. He grins when Arion offers him a hand next, helping the shopkeeper to his feet. “Thank you,” Arion says tersely. “For the clothing and your aid.”
Gerald beams even wider, and any doubt he might’ve harbored toward Arion vanishes in an instant. “Polite and handsome. Stunning combination.” He turns to me. “I thought the last boy you brought here was charming, but your dear husband might prove to be even better.”
I blink at him, my smile becoming fixed.
The last boy.
The… last…
boy.
Just like that, reality crashes through me with a vengeance.
The unexpected blow sends me stumbling, reeling, and I fall forward, knocking into the mirror before righting myself.
Flashing a dazed smile. Pretending I tripped on my hem.
Sharp thorns scratch my hands, but I hardly feel them.
Hardly feel anything as claws clench my heart and squeeze and squeeze and—
The last boy.
My throat constricts, emotion clawing to the surface, but I swallow it back down again. Not here. Not now. I force myself to release the mirror. I force myself to turn, to—to smile again. To just keep smiling.
“Whatever happened to that charming lad?” Gerald sinks to the settee beside Harold, heedless, crossing a bare foot over his knee as if settling in for a pleasant conversation. My breath hitches. My heart pounds. “I hope he found a wife or husband of his own?”
Harold pats his hand affectionately. “She came with a different man?”