Chapter Thirteen
I choose something red.
The pavilion is an airy expanse, open both at the front—with a full view of the city—and at the back, where the waterfall shines in spills of cerulean silk. It is a sight to behold, the outside air tinged with blue, the inside glowing with a pink-gold sheen.
I take a moment, dragging in a few deep breaths.
I was supposed to avoid him. I had meant to.
But seeing him in the Abyssal was a shock.
I was flustered, my heart a throbbing, bleeding mess; it had taken all my bravado to hide just how much being around him affected me.
I’d barely conjured the excuse about finding Emilia in time, after seeing that a soul’s lodgings were in each codex.
But of course he wouldn’t believe that searching for her was my only reason for being in Morta’s Lair. He would assume Sadira had sent me, somehow, and so I had to play into that belief, too.
But dancing? That had come out of nowhere. I’d been desperate, needing to pique his curiosity not unlike how I had at the Gathering—enough so that he’d keep me around. Buy myself time.
Though I can’t deny a part of me hopes I might be able to spur his memory before then, too.
But I must still hide my mortality from the other souls, and that means using the same techniques as last night to blend in, treating my preparations as I did cosmetics in the realm of the living.
With the four or so hours I have until evening, I gather a bundle of glowing bulbs, the ones that set my skin aglow, and crush them into something of a cream.
It’s quite the party by the time I enter.
Before the cityscape, a long table is dressed with copious amounts of otherworldly delicacies and flush with rows of tall, ornate chairs.
In the center of the pavilion is an enormous fountain, bubbling in a grand display.
I pause, noticing the way the spray of water pearls into tiny droplets that hang in the air a second before drifting down.
Another show of the strange gravity that exists here.
It’s quite the scene, thanks to the thick, heady atmosphere of Morta’s Lair, as if the water is moving in slow motion.
Columns divvy up the rest of the space, interspersed with lounges—as if this palace doesn’t have enough of them—and serving stations stacked with flutes and decanters.
Servants, all of whom must be from the lower echelons, wander to and fro, serving trays balanced on their shoulders.
Then there are the musicians, arranged all along the balcony at the front.
They play lyres, harps, and something that resembles a flute but is longer, its sound lower and more delicate.
Souls congregate, some writhing against each other, laughing, while others crowd around tables to play games, laze about, and gossip, probably.
Then there’s Anton, who does not notice me, lying back on a luxurious settee.
Tonight he wears yet another dark silk robe and pants, little better than loungewear save for the two winged crescents on either shoulder that match the gold on his ears and neck.
Ishu is nowhere to be seen; rather, two souls curl on the floor at Anton’s feet, neither of whom I recognize.
Others recline around him on their own divans—each more heart-wrenchingly stunning than the last. Behind him, a woman with sleek dark hair and flawless golden-brown skin tousles his hair, while another plucks grapes and sets them on his tongue.
The very image of the man I once thought he was—the one he once pretended to be to hide his true nature. I wonder how long it will take him to realize how hollow the facade is.
No matter how much he wishes it, attention and adoration are no substitutes for love.
Perhaps it would be wise for me to be one of the women hanging off his arm or bent at his knees, but I refuse to beg for a morsel of his affection. Still, neither will I stand around and wait until he gives me the time of day. I stride his way, halt before his settee.
“I am here to fulfill our agreement, Sire.”
Gazing at the simple red dress, he lets his eyes linger where the fabric hugs my waist before running them along the thin veil of gossamer that swishes about my knees. Then he plucks his chalice from the side table and tilts it toward his lips.
Only after he indulges himself does he reply, his lips quirked into the slightest grin. “Go on, then. Do your little dance. While I’ve plenty of entertainers—of the immortal kind—I admit I am curious to see how you might fare.”
He pulls a soul up onto his lap, his hand curved around her bared waist in a way that feels deliberate, like an insult. I resist grinding my molars.
He doesn’t deserve a response, so I pivot and approach the fountain. Spouts arc water in a grand display, but it is maybe ten inches deep at most.
One foot at a time, I step into it.
I feel the gazes of the assembled audience members between my shoulder blades like an itch, but none more keenly than his. Yet I won’t doubt myself—not now.
Tentatively, I dip a finger into the pool, then flick it out.
Droplets disperse in the air like jewels, falling down slowly.
I ignore the whispers at my back and pose, balancing into an arc, my right leg poised behind my left.
No musician is paying attention to me; there’s no song to cue my dance.
I wait for a beat in the existing one—a slow, artful strumming of an instrument that looks like a cross between a lyre and a lute.
There’s plenty of space for me to move and dance between the spouts.
I lift my back leg, point my toes.
Quick as a lash, I swish it outward, pulling a thread of water into the air. Droplets splay into a radius around me—
I twirl with them, dip, gather more water with a flick of my hands. I fling it up and around me, dispersing the droplets outward.
I don’t dare look at Anton. A part of me is afraid he’s already moved on; this is not a dance I had time to choreograph.
I don’t know how it looks to an observer.
But though I am avoiding his gaze, I can tell from the corner of my eye that two souls are nuzzling against him now, both having crawled into his lap.
My stomach twists, a coil of annoyance tangling between my ribs, but I press on, spinning amid beads of water. They collect in my hair, splatter on my clothes when I come in contact, but I keep as many clusters in the air as I can.
Just when my muscles spasm and I’m about to stop despite the ongoing song, the final beats flutter out like the flapping of wings in a subtle descent. My head pounds and whirls from an emerging headache as I sink into a quick bow, and I keep my gaze averted as I step from the fountain.
Chatter springs up immediately, but I’m so dizzy I can’t grasp what they’re saying. I walk away, leave the hall completely, without a word.
To my dismay, I make it ten feet beyond the doorway before an arm wraps around mine and I’m swept back around.
“Leaving so soon, dancer?” says a male voice—unfamiliar, jovial. Then I’m being dragged back into the fray.
The man gripping me is slender, not much taller than I am, bedecked in a deep purple robe that gapes to reveal a slice of his bronze chest. He offers me a sly grin, lugging me toward a cluster of souls. “Look, friends. She thought she was going to escape after a stunt like that.”
Before I can form a response, Dahlia is there, a vision in pale pink chiffon, her hair loose and long and threaded with pearls.
“Oh, but what a surprise you are,” she says silkily.
She almost reminds me of Queen Aesir, what with her milky complexion, the pouty lips that barely curve even when she smiles.
“We all saw the way you approached His Gloriousness. You simply must tell us how this ‘agreement’ came to be.”
“I—” I start, but she parades on, removing the man’s arm from mine and sliding hers in its place.
“Fates, Sorrell, did you even introduce yourself?” Then to me, “He could hardly contain himself while watching your winsome little performance. Such impatience; it’s a wonder he’s an Exalted.”
“Can you blame me? I was excited,” Sorrell says, offering me a wink. “You’ll find many of us have grown complacent over the years. You, my dear, are a fresh breath of creativity.”
“It wasn’t that innovative, Sorrell,” comes another voice—a woman with deep umber skin that purples under the aurora’s light. Short curls spiral about the straight, unimpressed line of her brows. “She merely tossed some water around. Any of us could have done it.”
“The point,” Sorrell says, “is that we didn’t.” To me, he whispers behind the back of his hand, “Don’t mind Maia. Always in a mood.”
“What, because I am the only one critical of anything that involves His Gloriousness—even his choice of entertainment?”
“A present ruler is better than an absent one, no?” Dahlia says. “And he’s likable, you have to admit.”
Maia knifes Dahlia with a glare. “Oh, he is indeed present for you, isn’t he?”
My breath stutters. Once again, the thought of them on that balcony makes a knot of my insides, and I’m unable to hide it. Luckily, they don’t notice.
“Jealous, Maia?” Dahlia says prettily, setting her chin over her silk-clad shoulder. “You know, you could entice a night out of him if you tried. Though I might fight you for him.”
“Bold of you to assume he’s my type,” Maia says.
My ears ring, and I survey the space for an escape. Not only am I dangerously close to my emotions giving me away, but if they look carefully, if they see my flaws…
“Let us stop quarreling like children,” Sorrell says, sweeping a gesture at the party. “Drink, make merry. We have earned it, after all.”
Have they, though? I can’t help but wonder. The crowd deemed the Exalted are nothing like Emilia. They don’t seem pure of heart to me.
I smile politely and attempt to excuse myself, only for Sorrell to clamp a hand over my shoulder. “Oh, but you must join us for a game! We were about to play a round of bets.”
I long to slink away, but I’ve already provoked their interest.