The divine purchase hot chocolate, mulled wine, roasted nuts. A few strangers glance curiously at Eurus in passing, unable to recognize him without his hood, his cloak open at the front. Most, I’m pleased to note, do not spare his scars significant attention.
Eventually, we reach a tavern called A Thousand Ships, its porch illuminated by the glow of oil lamps. From inside, a percussive drumbeat accompanies a string ensemble, and the lively jig calls for a toe-tapping good time.
The door swings open. Out stumbles a three-eyed god, who narrowly avoids crashing into Eurus. Catching the porch railing, theman straightens, squinting at this newcomer for a long, uncomfortable moment.
“Something you want to say?” the East Wind growls.
The man opens his mouth, then clamps it shut, perhaps having come to the conclusion that speaking would not bode well for him. He shakes his head and shoves past us, staggering down the street.
I look to Eurus. “Ready?”
But he is not looking at me. He is peering through the front windows of the tavern, its every chair and booth occupied, its tables packed, few places to hide.
“Do you want to turn back?” I venture.
He brushes a finger across the scarring puckering his left eye, his grimace all the more frightening in the dim. “I don’t know, bird.” Inside, a glass shatters. The barkeep releases a string of expletives while the ensemble churns out its melodious merriment. “They will see.”
“We all have our scars,” I say softly. “There is no shame in them. Some just happen to be more prominently displayed.”
“It is not so easy, bird.”
“Isn’t it?”
I see you, I think.I am not afraid. “Will you hide away in the shadows?” I challenge him. “Or will you finally face the light?”
A low rumble of frustration emanates from his chest. But when I say, “You are not alone,” some of the tension leaves him, and the skin around his eyes smooths. With a deep breath, Eurus reaches for the door handle and pushes inside.
21
IT TAKES LESS THAN Aheartbeat for conversation to cease. As one, heads turn. I sense the desire to flee coiling in Eurus’ limbs. Centuries he has hidden his face, yet tonight, the veil is lifted, his every brutal scar on display. It means something that he is here, exposed to the world. It means a great deal.
With what seems to be the entire tavern watching, I tuck my hand alongside his wide, callused palm. I have nothing to be ashamed of. I am no immortal, but I am dressed appropriately for the evening, as are all who occupy the establishment, a place of gleaming wood and glossy brass and old leather booths.
“Whatever happens,” I whisper to Eurus, “remember that it takes strength of heart to show yourself in this manner. They cannot take that away from you.”
A subtle quiver shimmers down his arm, through his wrist and fingers. The East Wind is resilient, but he is not unfeeling. He has closed himself off for so long he has forgotten what it means to form deep connections with others.
“Well, well, well, look who it is!” someone crows.
I startle, reality rushing forth to fill the gaps in our surroundings, as a man dashes toward us, his features somehow magnified: bulging eyes and a wide, slitted mouth, and red corkscrew curls flopping across his brow.
“Could it be?” the immortal exclaims. “Eurus himself? Why, I haven’t seen you in centuries!”
He lunges toward the East Wind, who blasts the stranger clear across the room. The man crashes into a table, and playing cards explode in countless directions. Those whose gambling has been disturbed turn to glare at Eurus. Thankfully, a kind-hearted goddess helps the fallen man to his feet—then picks his pockets.
Her victim fails to notice, too busy brushing himself off with a good-natured grin. “Not one for affection, I see. But you do remember me, right?” He taps his chest with both hands. “Jem? We lived across the street from one another as boys?”
Patrons return to their gambling, their drinking, their conversations, the sight of the East Wind’s bared face already forgotten behind the haze of ale and wine.
Meanwhile, Eurus considers the newcomer, head cocked. “You wore blue sweaters. Every day, even in summer.”
“You remember!” He plucks at his—yes, blue—sweater before shifting his attention onto me. “And this must be the mortal woman everyone is talking about.”
As I remove my coat, Eurus slides a hand across my lower back. The shock of his touch whitens my thoughts momentarily. “This is—”
“Min, there you are.” Demi materializes as if from thin air. She is striking in a crimson gown. The gossamer material clings to every generous curve, and slender black heels place her a head taller than most. “Oh, Jem, I believe someone is calling for you.” She flits her fingers toward the bar, which is so swarmed with clients I cannot see the barkeep. The immortal skips off, much to our relief.
“That’ll keep him occupied,” Demi murmurs conspiratorially, taking a sip from her wineglass. “I’m so glad you could make it. Min, you look radiant. Doesn’t she look radiant, Eurus?”
