“You mean since the kiss.”
“Yes.”
I’ve the notion to push back his hood so that I might see whatever reaction has captured his features. That he considered my comfort is unexpectedly sweet. “I appreciate that,” I say, “but the suite is your space, too. It’s not like we’re sh-sharing a—” I fumble the word. “Bed.”
His wings unfold, though only partially, a brilliant canvas of shining black. “Of course we would not share a bed,” he says, but the words are strained, their edges crude. “You are, after all, mortal.”
Should I take offense to that? “Why should that matter—being mortal, I mean?” I move toward the desk, rifle through the stack of documents to busy my hands, which long to peel the East Wind’s cloak from his body so that I might see what lies beneath. There is something wrong with me. How can I look upon my captor and crave deeper intimacy?
“It doesn’t,” he hastily replies, then clears his throat. “Regardless, I’m glad to see you’re all right. You’re still gathering information from Demi, I assume?”
Why does he care so much about the goddess anyway? She is not even competing in the tournament. “I don’t w-want to deceive her anymore. She’s my friend.”
I am fully expecting a scoff or some other adverse reaction to my statement, but no one is more surprised than I am when Eurus captures my hand, offers it a gentle squeeze. I stare at the curl of our fingers, dazed.
“Do not forget that Demi is one of the divine, bird,” he says. “Just… be careful. Do not let yourself be lured into a false sense of security simply because she does not resort to abuse.”
His words give me pause. Is that what I have allowed myself to do? No lasting bruises, so she must be safe, right? But words, too, are weapons. They do not need to be sharpened to cause damage.
“All I know,” I say, “is that Demi has been a friend to me when I have n-never had a single friend in my life. I appreciate that you are trying to protect me, but I trust her.”
“Trust will get you killed,” he mutters.
“Not everyone is an enemy, Eurus, and there is more to life than revenge. You could be happy, too, if you chose. Only you can decide how you wish to expend your energy, whether to avoid the pain, or work through it and let go.”
“And have you?” he presses me. “Let go?”
I cling. I reach. I attach. Lady Clarisse was that person for me. But is she that person still? I’m not sure. Ten years caught beneath her thumb, and only in the last few weeks have I come to realize how little she gave me.
“I don’t know,” I whisper as the battle between mind and heart renews itself. “But I dearly hope to find out soon.”
20
THREE WEEKS AGO, ONE HUNDREDand ten contenders sat at the welcome banquet. Now, a scant twelve competitors remain.
Despite the reduced attendance, the dining table, set beneath one of the garden pergolas twined with night-blooming jasmine, is adorned in brass and shining gold, every utensil having been polished to reflect the haze of candlelight. A rich, olive tablecloth offers a backdrop to the variety of fare served. Some are familiar, like chicken confit and ratatouille. Others are foreign: strange fruits I have never seen, fowl that is neither goose nor duck, quail nor hen. One dish crisps over an open flame.
Eurus and I sit side by side at the table, with Arin to my left. The three Fates are seated across from us, in addition to two other competitors, both burly warriors with scarred faces and shaved heads. Of course, the Council of Gods is present, as are additional guests, including Demi, who sits farther down the line.
Eurus and I spend the majority of the first course making small talk. At least, that is how it begins. Somehow, we navigate deeper, exploring his fondness for oil paintings—the reason so many grace the walls of his manor—and debating what makes the best cup of tea.
As the servants collect our empty plates, Eurus is pulled into conversation with his neighbor, and I turn my attention to Arin, who has kept to himself this evening. That concerns me, for the immortal is usually quite gregarious. “How are you, Arin?” I ask.
He attempts a smile. “I’ve been better, truth be told.”
“Demi mentioned having visited your sister.” I hesitate as the second course is served. It is none of my business, but— “How is she?”
He stirs the charred squash on his plate. The skin around his eyes appears bruised, suggesting lack of sleep. “Her seizures are occurring more frequently. At this point, there is nothing to be done.”
“But she is immortal,” I argue. “Shouldn’t the seizures heal on their own?”
“It is true that our healing capabilities protect us from most wounds, and we are impervious to disease. But she was cursed long ago, and our healing abilities do not protect from dark enchantments. So long as my sister lives, she will suffer.” He drops the fork onto his plate. Its sharp clatter draws the focus of those around him. “I try not to dwell on it.”
It is not right that only one may claim victory. It leaves those like Arin, who wish only to help a loved one, dead, while others like the East Wind claim revenge. My heart aches to think of what Arin and his sister must bear if he is unable to win the council’s favor.
A disturbance at the end of the table begins to draw others’ attention. The Vintner—a malicious deity with yellow hair and a taste for wine—lifts his fourth (fifth?) glass in a toast, while tilting his chair onto its back legs. Unfortunately, the chair overbalances, and he crashes to the ground, his glass shattering. Servants rush forward with a flurry of napkins, which they use to mop his face and clothes.
Eurus snorts beneath his breath. “Damn fool.”
