Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
I didn’t expect to spend the last few hours of my life in a private bathing chamber far too large for me and my assigned beautician, getting plucked like a caged bird primed for slaughter.
“How exactly does my lack of body hair prepare me for defeating Sols?” I ask as she scrapes a blade down my armpits.
Her red lips pinch together. “You’ll thank me once you’re in your suit. Less hair, less friction and odor.”
Half an hour later, I’m sewn into the suit in question by another personal attendant. From the neck down, black leather covers every inch of my body like a second skin. And once I put on my helmet, not one part of me will be exposed.
My chest rises and falls rapidly as soon as the last attendant leaves the oversized space.
I take a measured inhale, reminding myself it’s for my protection.
Although my previous encounter with the sun didn’t have the disastrous outcome I’d expected, the last thing I want to do is expose too much of myself to its mutating light.
Like Kalden said, all I need is a slit in the palms of my gloves.
I lift the headgear from the wrought iron vanity’s glass top, intent on securing the final piece of protection.
But I hesitate when I catch sight of my reflection.
My tawny curls have been subdued into an orderly braided bun near the nape of my neck.
The purple lamplight reveals a tint of color enhancing my small but full lips, and there’s a dewy glow to my normally ashen cheeks.
If it weren’t for my mother’s almond-shaped amber eyes staring back at me, I’d sooner believe the woman in the mirror is a stranger than a true reflection of myself.
She looks too . . . vibrant. Healthy. Ironic, that I’d appear more alive than ever on the brink of death.
I wipe at my mouth with the back of my hand, but the rosy stain doesn’t budge.
So, I tug a few strands loose from my bun, disheveling the too-perfect updo.
Now that the reflection’s more of an acquaintance than a stranger, I ease my head onto the vanity.
Cool glass kisses my forehead as I tilt side to side, letting the solid surface massage away the building tension behind my brow bones.
Metal screeches against the limestone floor as the door to the chamber cracks open. I flinch, nearly tumbling off the stool before catching myself and jumping to my feet.
“Shadows’ mercy,” Gabe whispers as he shoves the door shut. Pressing his back to the wall, he waits, presumably to see if anyone is coming to investigate the disturbance.
Several seconds pass. No one comes knocking, and he peels himself from the stone wall.
He’s swapped his ceremonial cloak for a familiar navy suit that’s impeccably tailored. The silver threads of the crescent moon crest sewn above his heart reflect the lamp’s violet glimmer.
“So much for sneaking in.” He smiles sheepishly, and a shadow of a dimple flashes on one side of his tilted lips for a split second before his face sobers. “I’m so sorry, Elle. This wasn’t supposed to hap—”
I hold up a palm. “You need to leave.”
His apology, his presence, and that sun-damned nickname are not welcome here. His guilty conscience can go piss itself above.
“I know,” he says, ruffling a hand through his auburn hair. “I won’t stay long. I just needed to see you before . . .”
He trails off, so I finish the sentence for him, folding my arms against my chest.
“Before your biggest mistake is gone for good? I thought you’d be happy. You won’t have to alter your commute to avoid running into me anymore. Won’t have to explain to your children why that strange woman has the same surname as them.”
His pinched expression sharpens. “They have nothing to do with why I’m here.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Did I cross a line? Am I supposed to pretend like they don’t exist? Or would you rather I’m the one who disappears?” I laugh, though there’s no mirth in my voice. “Good news: looks like you’re getting your wish.”
“Do you truly believe I want that?” Gabe takes a step forward, and I shift backward. At my silence, he presses softly, “The last thing I want is for you to disappear, Elle.”
I close my eyes. There was a time I would’ve devoured those words, greedy for any breadcrumb of affirmation he deigned to toss my way. Now, I reject them, no longer willing to accept breadcrumbs as sustenance.
I square my jaw and force my eyes back open. “Even if that’s true, it doesn’t matter what you want or what I want. What’s done is done.”
Distant footsteps carry through the crack of the metal doorframe.
Instead of backing away, Gabe draws closer—close enough for the familiar fresh scent of clean linen to scratch at once-blissful memories now buried.
His breath ignites every nerve in my ear as he whispers, “What if it isn’t?”
There’s a gleam in those deep blue irises that’s almost as terrifying as it is baffling.
“What do you mean?”
Gabe’s lips part, ready to explain, when the thud of boots grows closer.
He pulls back, searching for a place to hide.
Though this bathing chamber is generously sized, its furnishings are sparse.
There are only two good options for hiding: behind the partition curtains concealing the iron soaking tub, or beneath the vanity, though the latter is barely large enough to accommodate my frame.
Gabe isn’t much taller, but his broad shoulders give him an added width that may prove too difficult to squeeze beneath the vanity.
He climbs into the tub as the door groans open.
I adjust myself on the stool, spinning around with a sigh as I prepare to face the snooping guards.
But it isn’t a guardsman standing before me with eyes that could freeze the sun itself.
Spine straightening, I lock gazes with my ex-father-in-law.
His suit is much like his son’s, yet with far more embellishments.
Being the elected leader of Caligo, his crest has a star above the crescent moon emblem.
Two silver peace pins with engraved depictions of a handshake—pins he awarded himself at the end of his prior two terms for lowering the number of violent crimes while doubling the birth rate—are fastened beneath his breast pocket.
A black ribbon encircling his right bicep denotes his oath to serve the shadows first, the people second.
And those are just the badges I recognize.
Chancellor Bren is a well-decorated man.
It’s why many continue re-electing him, although the elections themselves are hardly representative of what the city as a whole truly wants, since Tier Threes aren’t permitted to vote.
It doesn’t matter that he over-promises and under-delivers on most of his campaign objectives.
As long as he continues delivering on his primary focus of lowering crime, increasing birth rates, and upholding tradition, his loyal purists will keep voting him in while overlooking the rest.
“It’s good to see you again, Chancellor.” I rise from the stool to dip into a bow, hoping to distract from my too-high voice.
The chancellor smiles softly, heeled boots clacking against the floor as he stalks forward to sit halfway on the ledge of the vanity, gesturing for me to retake my seat. “Come now, Orelle. I was hoping we could be honest with each other. Would it be all right with you if I went first?”
Lowering back on the stool, I nod, though the question’s rhetorical. Chancellor Bren doesn’t require my permission, or anyone else’s. “Of course, sir.”
“Seeing your hair like this takes me back.” His eyes crinkle at the sides. “They even wove in a black ribbon.”
I raise a hand to touch the braided bun, eyelids fluttering as my fingertips brush against a sliver of silken fabric I hadn’t noticed before. “They did.”
“You look years younger.”
“Thank you,” I say, dipping my chin as if the backhanded compliment has made me bashful. “Is this what you wanted to have an honest conversation about? My hair?”
“Oh, sweet shadows, no.” The chancellor chuckles before his smile sobers. “No, dear. I came to ask what you know about the woman who was spotted in the western transport tunnel during the daylight hours prior to the selection ceremony.”
My legs spasm with the ache to run, like cornered prey.
I stave it off. Not only would I not make it far, I need to stay and glean how much he knows. The chancellor mentioned that a woman was spotted, not two. It’s possible he doesn’t know Gem was with me. If there’s a way I can protect her from being implicated as an accomplice, I’ll find it.
Contrary to my escalating pulse, my brows arch in vague interest. “A deserter?”
He leans further back on the vanity’s top. “Perhaps. My shadows described her as well endowed, with graying untamed hair and a limping gait. One of our elderly, they presumed.”
The assumption almost makes me laugh. Though the limp was unintentional, I can admit in hindsight that it paired nicely with my soot-drenched curls, casting the illusion of a much older woman.
Chancellor Bren continues, “It would be odd, though, for a woman of advanced age to travel alone while the city slumbers. Odder still for a senior female to fear the Hunt enough to desert, since the oldest eligible this year was in her mid-thirties. I couldn’t make sense of it .
. . until my men found this among the rubble. ”
The chancellor’s hand disappears behind the navy lapel of his suit, procuring a small object from a hidden pocket. His palm unfolds, revealing a miniature sand clock.
Recognition hits me in the chest. My heart beats like a frantic bird pining to escape its cage, escalating the pressure behind my right eye.
“One more truth, my dear. Do you recognize this?”
Pocket-sized sand clocks aren’t uncommon.
In fact, almost every working adult carries one to track the time for their shifts.
Most are a simple design—frameless curved glass with black sand and a small plug in the bottom.
This hourglass, however, has an aged bronze frame and grains the deep color of plum.
And if the chancellor flips it over, I suspect we’ll see the compass my father etched into the bronze base along with the words, In case you lose your Way.
A cheeky wedding present for his bride, Mrs. Way, turned heirloom on their daughter’s wedding day—my wedding day.
Chancellor Bren places the hourglass upside down on the vanity, confirming my suspicion. “Tell me, why does this bear your maiden surname?”
I remember noting the sand clock’s absence from our belongings organized on the table, but hunger had distracted me from looking further into it. Gem must’ve dropped it in the tunnel when she was pummeled by the falling debris.
The chancellor rotates the hourglass and points at a smudge of crimson streaking down the side. “Is this your blood? Curious that I see no injuries marking your flesh. Your friend, however—”
“Yes,” I rush to say, “it’s mine. I tried to leave for Deor before the Hunt. When the earthquake hit, I fell onto some glass and sliced my backside. I must’ve dripped blood on my sand clock after dropping my satchel.”
The chancellor lifts a single gray brow. “That was almost believable, dear.”
“It’s the truth.”
His lips tug downward. “Unfortunately, you have no evidence to support your claims.”
Blood rushes to my face as I realize what I must do. If it’ll absolve his implied suspicion of Gem, I’ll show him proof.
“I do have evidence,” I say, standing to undo the buttoned flap between my legs that allows for necessary bodily functions.
Chancellor Bren’s silvery blue eyes widen, but he makes no effort to move or stop me.
The last button snaps apart, and I turn, preparing to show him the jagged cut across my right ass cheek.
“Father, enough!”