Something in his chest hollowed. They were taking him home, even though they’d be docked a day’s pay for leaving before their shift was over and he hadn’t asked them for anything.
It would be stupid to protest, and they probably wouldn’t listen anyway, so Carver let them hoist him along between them, grateful for their help even though he wanted to despise them.
In the end, they were just a splotch on his mind. Other than the constant throbbing in his back, all he could think about was holding on to Cleito’s message until he could tell Bellanca.
Chapter 12
Bellanca hung up her apron with more force than necessary. For the first time since she’d begun working at Spiro’s, Carver was late coming to collect her. Maybe he’d gone straight home? He’d wanted her to skip going to work today. She hadn’t said she would, even though the pulsing ache in her wrists told her she probably should’ve, but maybe he’d assumed she’d listened to him and stayed home?
Scoffing, she discarded the thought. Carver was plenty of things, but he wasn’t stupid. He must’ve known she’d go to the taverna. Yes, it was a difficult day for her—and definitely painful—but she didn’t shrug off her responsibilities just because she washurt. She’d have to be incapacitated, especially because her not going to work automatically meant a harder day for Lilika and Theophania.
She didn’t ignore her obligations, and Carver never shirked his duty.
So where was he?
Worry wormed its way under Bellanca’s skin, joining the hot throb of her burns. Who’d have guessed she’d be so eager for Carver’s thundercloud moods, quick smiles, and piercing stares? She walked to the doorway and looked out over the patio, hoping to see him finally appear, but there was only Theophania, singing to herself and wiping down the outdoor tables with a wet, soapy sea sponge.
The longer she waited, the more aggressively unease grew inside her like the big, bright-purple bougainvillea that had practically swallowed up the whole front of the building now. Dimitri was talking about trimming it back, and she wished she could cull her growing panic as easily. She willed Carver to walk through the door, but the gate to the now-closed taverna remained shut, and watching it like a hawk didn’t make it open. Turning away proved impossible, though. She’d spent a lifetime walking on the razor-sharp tips of swords and tiptoeing around monsters that called themselves family, and yet this fear was new. It gripped her heart and twisted it straight from her chest, leaving it beating and vulnerable in front of her.
“What in the Underworld have you got up to?” she muttered under her breath.
Carver was never late. He just wasn’t, which meant he was either locked up, seriously injured, or dead.
Her heart slammed a hard beat.
Or maybe inebriated?
Her nostrils flared. He’d been sober for more than a year. Yesterday and last night hadn’t been easy, but he wouldn’t go down that path again.
Would he?
The possibilities churned inside her, tying her stomach into knots.
Frowning, she watched for several minutes, but the terrace remained empty except for Theophania. Bellanca flexed her hands, trying to get rid of the hot tingle coursing through her fingers. She’d just have to go home on her own. It was unprecedented, but it wasn’t as if anyone could stop her.
Turning around, she stepped back inside as Spiro finished counting the day’s earnings. He glanced up at her and pushed her portion in her direction.
“Your husband’s late.” Scowling, he eyed her as if she had something to do with Carver’s uncharacteristic tardiness.
Bellanca scowled back at him, the wordhusbandstabbing her in the chest in a way it hadn’t just yesterday.
What if it doesn’t have to be fake anymore?
She lifted her chin. “I can go home alone.”
“Hmm.” Spiro narrowed his eyes, glancing past her at the still-empty doorway.
Just wanting to leave and find Carver, Bellanca waved a hand at the coins glinting on the wooden counter. “I’ll just collect double pay tomorrow. I don’t need it this instant.”
Pursing his pink, blubbery lips, Spiro nudged the coins farther down the counter toward her. “You shouldn’t walk around alone at this time of day. Not when we haven’t heard the procession go by yet.”
A wholly unexpected lump rose in Bellanca’s throat. Spiro’s concern wasn’t about giving her wages directly to her instead of to Carver. The evening sacrifice hadn’t happened yet, and until it did, no woman was truly safe on the streets of Atlantapol, especially without a male escort.
She’d seen it a few times already. Atlantians got antsy when Eryx was late with the sacrifice. The more fanatical ancestral Magoi sometimes took it upon themselves to grab a woman and offer her up to the gods, just in case Eryx forgot to sacrifice someone that day. He never did. Bellanca had seen the king glassy-eyed and burning up with fever and still manage to heave someone over the high wall to the stone walkway below. The granite path ringed the harbor at low tide and disappeared under the waves when it was high. Hitting stone ensured death, whereas hitting water might not. Eryx watched the tides and never missed his window.
Standing by and doing nothing made Bellanca want toself-immolate. Letting Eryxmurderhis own people went against every promise she’d made to herself since the day she burned her brother to a crisp in his own throne room, and key or no key to igniting magic in Atlantis, she needed to end this—endEryx—as soon as possible.
“The king’s late tonight,” she agreed. Just like Carver.
