All my fighting, all my running. All the sacrifices I made in order to survive—it was all worthless.
A large finger fixes under my chin, gently pulling my gaze upward. My vision blurs as I meet Sam’s gaze, but something in the warm brown of his eyes immediately soothes me. My muscles relax and my heartbeat slows, and for a wonderful moment, I can’t remember ever being upset.
His deep voice rumbles through my chest, and the last of my panic evaporates. “I assure you, Willa, you are entirely sane. Letum is as real as your world. The rules are just a bit different.”
I let out a slow breath as his words flow through me, sweeping away my fear and replacing it with a sense of peace. And perhaps it’s the very same peace that gives me leave to be vulnerable for just a moment, in this odd hallway with Sam, without calculating how much it will cost. “Are you sure?”
Sam smiles and it lights up his handsome face. “I promise. There have always been parts of the universe too far and wide to be wholly understood. Letum is one of those places. You are just as sane as you were before the fall.”
I give Sam a grateful smile, and though he returns it with one of his own, the relief of knowing I haven’t lost my mind dissipates as quickly as it arrived.
Because at that moment, a darkness-edged voice says, “I wouldn’t be so quick to declare the woman’s sanity, Sammy. Two murder attempts before breakfast hardly speak to a sound mind.”
I spin so quickly on my heel I nearly lose my balance and tumble down the remaining stairs. My hair, now fully dried, snares in front of my face and I hastily sweep it away, only to find the Carrion King smirking up at me from the entrance hall.
He’s changed into what I can only assume are his traveling clothes, though they’re highly impractical for the occasion. A black ruffled shirt tucked into a tight pair of leather pants, knee high boots, and a black leather cloak that’s buttoned around his throat and sweeps around him so fully, it gives him the impression of wings.
The tiny diamond stud gleams in his nose, the other nostril now adorned with a small gold hoop that matches the embroidery of his eccentric shirt. His tattooed fingers, hidden again inside black leather gloves that stretch up to his elbows, stretch in a flourishing bow, the movement somehow both captivating and mocking.
Truly, the Carrion King’s entire outfit is outlandish. Utterly ridiculous.
But as he peels himself off the banister and takes a challenging step toward me, his ribbons of death wrapped around his wrists like macabre bangles, for some reason, I don’t find it at all funny. The cut of the clothes, the shape of his body, the smudge of makeup around his hateful eyes—all of it screamsdeath.Pain.
And goddammit, if something about it all isn’t twistedly alluring. In the same way watching the beauty of a flame makes you want to touch it, even knowing how it would burn. Something about him calls the same madness to the surface of my skin.
“I hardly think a grown man who throws temper tantrums aboutsandis qualified to make judgments on sanity,” I grit out, pointedly ignoring the fluttering heat at the base of my spine. Hatred, maybe. Or something far worse.
The Carrion King only smirks dismissively, before turning his attention to Sam. “Will you be accompanying us today?”
His tone isn’t sharply edged or cruelly mocking as it is when he addresses me. It’s unfittingly gentle, laced with surprising concern.
Sam shakes his head. “I’ve plenty to keep me busy elsewhere, sir.”
The Carrion King watches Sam for a long moment with a look I can’t quite place, before he dips his head to his servant in deferent acceptance. The small gesture is so at odds with his usual arrogance that I can’t help my stare as I try to determine how, exactly, it has upended the power dynamic I’d been so certain of only a moment ago. Before I can grasp the thought fully, his black gaze flicks back to me and a wave of ice sluices down my spine.
His mouth twists in clear disdain at what he finds—tangled hair, wild eyes, anger that radiates over my skin—but he makes no comment. He only barks, “Let’s go.”
Chapter eight
My mood has soured considerably by the time the carriage finally begins toward the city. The temporary numbness afforded by the tea has already begun to wear off and a fierce ache has settled into every joint and muscle. My death sidles over my wrists in circles, lashing over my skin like broken glass, and though the pain is enough to make me want to crawl back into my bed, it isn’t enough to keep me from watching Willa covetously.
Her lips part and her eyes glint almost greedily, as she stares up at the looming façade of the Lunaedon. In the short time she’s been here, I’ve noticed her rapture whenever she’s faced with even the faintest amount of beauty—like she’s been parched for an eternity and the sight of it is pure, cool water.
And though my castle is ominous with its sharply pointed turrets and looming black battlements, it is also undeniably beautiful. The towers are lined with stonework so finely detailed that from our position on the ground, they appear to be made of lace rather than rock. Iron fences surround theestate, webbed with intricately sculpted designs that curve and undulate, offering an alluring version of the old stories, from this world and others. The hundreds of inlaid windows gleam in the starlight, the black façade of the palace not a shadow looming over Letum’s natural beauty, but a reflection of its multitude of colors.
The carriage door opens, and decorum I’ve no business adhering to has me offering Willa an arm in assistance. She snarls at me like I’ve brandished a sword rather than a hand, before brushing past to haul herself through the door, tripping over her skirts and swatting at her hair in the process. She plops herself onto the seat with an ungraceful huff, yanking further at the swirl of fabric around her ankles with a mutinous look, like the dress has offended her just as grievously as I have.
I climb in, settling on the seat opposite hers. She doesn’t acknowledge me at all, her attention having shifted from her hapless skirts to the carriage itself. She runs her fingers over the satin seat reverently, her cheeks a delicious pink from the apparent exertion of wearing a dress and hating me entirely.
Willa makes a small sound of pleasure as her hands caress the cushions before tracing up the embellished walls—a sound that has me squeezing my eyes shut as my death shudders, digging into my wrists like ragged claws.
I release a slow breath in a futile attempt to soothe the ribbons into submission, but this proves to be a grave mistake, as on the next inhale, I’m inundated by her scent. Something like lilies on clean, warm skin fills my nostrils and then my lungs, causing my death to reach toward her.
The normally roomy interior of the carriage feels absurdly small, and suddenly, I’m certain this trip was a terrible decision. The journey to Caelum, and the city’s harbor beyond, is very short, as the Lunaedon is strategically positioned for me to be able to protect the city and its surrounding areas at a moment’snotice. But with Willa across from me and my death unable to settle, the trip now feels unbearably long.
She traces the curtains reverently, her bare fingers skimming the fabric as the carriage lurches forward. For an absurd moment, I consider jumping out despite its rapidly increasing pace and taking my chances with the fall, rather than whateverthisis. Instead, I twist my lips in disapproval and ask in a gruff voice, “Were the gloves provided not to your liking?”
Willa flicks her eyes from me in dismissal, ignoring the question to tug irritably at her dress again.
