“It doesn’t hurt.” Santorina shrugged, but her round eyes glinted. “You know we’re always here, no matter how dark things become. And we know you were afraid, but think of how you felt when things were hidden from you.”
“We know you thought Damien said not to,” Cyph elaborated. “But if the threat wasn’t explicit, there was a way around it. Next time, let us help.”
“No matter what that damn Angel says,” Santorina finished.
I swallowed that truth, my skin tingling with premonition.
“We’re honored to follow you, Revered.” Cyph’s sly smile tilted one corner of his lips at my title. “Just don’t make us do so blindly.”
The only resemblance I saw to the young boy who questioned his worth in our world was in the soft flicker of his eyes. He had grown exponentially, and I thought maybe I had an inkling of what the fates held in his future.
“Now, get back to the ball,” I said, spotting a pair of familiar green eyes across the room. “I have a few more conversations to have.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Malakai
The Sunquist Ballwas an image born of myth, worthy of the presence of an Angel. Fitting, given the purpose of the day. With our current predicament with their curses and blood, though, I didn’t really want to revere any Angels tonight. They’d fucked up a lot of things for us.
Personally, while I was upset about Ophelia’s lying, it had only clarified things for me. It was exactly what I did—hiding a truth about myself because I thought it would hurt others. Although, if she’d have asked, we’d have known Damien’s threat wasn’t complete. That was only rumors. But I had a feeling that wasn’t really why she’d lied. It had been denial.
And in that, I understood her completely.
I think, based on the way she’d looked at me as she confessed, she understood me now, too.
Despite all of that, it was more proof that we couldn’t be together. If we were, we’d continue to feed into each other’s unhealthy behaviors instead of healing them. Perhaps we were too alike, sharing vices that only wanted to tear us down. What we both needed was a counter. Someone to pry those bad habits from us in the face of ancient curses plaguing us now. Not that I had any room left in me for that. Emotions only resulted in pain, a tool to be used against you.
But no matter how I felt about the Angels and their involvement in our lives, on our most sacred holiday, the concerns of mere warriors were obsolete.
Instead, we donned our finest clothes, jewels, and weapons—the most ostentatious we owned—and fluttered beneath the shining rays that symbolized Damien’s almighty ascension from warrior to Angel. I’d considered wearing the sash my mother had given me, but I couldn’t bring myself to.
Despite the festival’s ridiculousness, I claimed a spot against the wall to watch the levity unfold before me. I held a glass of honeyed liquor in one hand, while the other rested on the pommel of my newly forged sword. Though its grip was slowly forming to me, its blade earning a few nicks between polishings, the weapon was still foreign. Absently, I trailed my fingers over the simple engravings and observed the crowd.
Members of the highest-ranking Mystique families had been twirling across the floor for nearly an hour now, since the doors first opened. Danya, Alvaron, and Larcen departed from the ballroom with boisterous waves, off to prepare the Sacra Temple.
My presence was required at Sunquist, but my participation was not. With Ophelia back, I was allowed to fall into the background as before, handing control back to her. My chest loosened with the prospect as I spotted her across the room, talking to Cypherion and Santorina.
Tolek still hadn’t arrived, saying he’d needed a moment after our discussion. An unnamed conflict warred behind his eyes as we descended the staircase from the turret. He’d likely returned to his room to divulge the thoughts in his journal before sealing away whatever pain he was feeling and providing the celebratory side of himself for the evening.
The realization soured in my stomach, blending with the alcohol I downed.
Across the room, Cypherion hugged Ophelia and left their circle to join Vale. Santorina went next, and their expressions were all heavy. Tonight was meant to be revelrous. What had they been discussing?
I shook away the thought. It was likely nothing. Best if I stayed out of it.
Barrett and Dax were in attendance tonight, catching questioning looks from Mystiques around the floor, but I hovered at the edge, aghost walking among the living. Isolating myself—punishing myself—it was instinct.
I inhaled, my head tipping back against the wall, squeezing my eyes shut against the influx of emotions tonight threatened to stir within me.
But when a soft laugh cut through the fog, my eyes snapped opened.
Not twenty feet in front of me, Mila and Lyria had entered the ballroom, the former laughing at something the Vincienzo heir whispered to her. Many eyes lingered on the pair. Lyria’s skintight black velvet dress was a statement for the Sunquist Ball, but more stares rested on her friend. On the gold corset laced tightly to her body, etched with ivy to match her wrist braces and binding a sheer turquoise gown that rippled with each step, exposing long, lean legs and?—
My heart thudded against its cage.
Scars.
Mila’s skin—normally covered with leathers and boots—was peppered with scars. Some large, some small, all pale and shining in the mystlight. They carved a history of warfare and pain.
