“What? Why is that funny?” The blood in my cheeks begins to burn like wildfire. I should have known better than to tell a half breed anything—let alone something so fanciful and private. I should have never opened my mouth.
“It’s not funny—it’s just kind of ironic,” he says, and I’m surprised to find that there’s not one hint of mocking to his smile. “You’re an Indigo Shade who can quite literally see the future, but you’d rather spend your life reporting on the past.”
Oh.
Right.
That is kind of ironic.
“And I suppose you’d pick something better?” It takes everything I have not to drop the wounded pretense and smile back. When he’s not lecturing me on all the ways Shades are evil, Ezzo’s actually quite easy to talk to.
“I mean, ‘better’ is a pretty subjective term when it comes to daydreaming, but I would probably run some kind of art class.” It’s thevery last thing I expect him to say, and he says it so quietly that it almost feels as though he didn’t intend to say it, either, like he’s admitting to a dark past.
“So you—you’re an artist?” Perhaps the reason that strikes me as so implausible is because I’ve never had to think of Hues as anything other than an illegal act. But Ezzo does have that look about him, I guess. The fine, pretty features; the distant, piercing eyes; the mussed, slightly too long hair that lends him a romantic charm. I can imagine him swanning around an art studio, his clothes stained with paint and his hands creating beauty with a brush. I think that life would suit him.
“What,me? Gods, no—there’s not an artistic bone in my body.” He immediately dispels that notion to dust. “I just miss being surrounded by it, is all. By the joy of creation.”
“Then why did you leave it behind?” Even as I ask the question, I realize the answer might lay with my kind. “Did the trackers drive you out of Isitar?”
“No, it wasn’t the trackers.” The change in him is both instant and abrupt. In the space between heartbeats, his face hardens, the warmth in him chilling to ice. Gone is the spark of humor and the willingness to while away the walk with idle chit-chat. He’s back to being the surly Hue again, his eyes blinking white as a way of announcing that this conversation is done.
And so, the silence stretches between us, growing heavy and loaded as we continue to trail Alara through the shadows. We’ve long since crossed out of Meridian territory, though the streets she’s taking aren’t telling me anything other than that she’s headed towards the slums. It’s only when Ezzo finally blinks out of his mood that I get a sense for what destination she has in mind, since the square we’re in plays host to Sarotuza’s biggest market.
The paupers’ market, we call it in the snobbier parts of town, a sprawling bazaar when it’s open—though at this time of night, it looks more like the carcass of a giant whale, all bones, no blubber, a maze of densely packed stalls that have been shrewdly stripped of their merchandise.
“This is where her trail ends,” Ezzo says, cool and casual, as though he’s not been ignoring me for the best part of half an hour.
“Okay, so then now what?” I shake my wrist at him. “While you were busy brooding, did you figure out how we’re going to phase after her?” If I weren’t so busy brooding myself, I might have thought to ask him that earlier, since this is one hurdle that no amount of discussion can overcome.
“Relax, I’m not an idiot.” Ezzo’s nonchalance fast turns smug. “I had Cemmy give me the key.”
“You—”
Unbelievable. His admission robs me of breath. This whole time—this whole baffling conversation and the sulky silence that came after—my freedom has literally been on his person, mocking me from within arm’s reach. He must thinkI’mthe idiot for not realizing that.
“You are such an ass.”
“Never said I wasn’t.”
No, he didn’t. He just assumed the role ofpleasantfor a brief moment in time.
“Now, do you want to keep insulting me, or do you want to get out of these cuffs?” he asks.
“I’m actually quite capable of doing both.”
“How very impressive of you.” Ezzo turns to show me his back. “The key’s in my pocket.”
“And you want me to . . . what? Watch you get it?”
“No, I needyouto get it,” he says, in a tone which strongly implies that I should already know why.
“Because you’re some kind of pervert? Get it yourself!”
“Raya, Ican’t.” I’m beginning to recognize the different tenors of Ezzo’s sighs. “I’m not a Bronze and the key’s not endowed with magic, that’s why I had to ask Cemmy to uncuff you from the pipe.” He swipes his foot through the nearest stall in demonstration, a reminder that he doesn’t control his physicality like I do. The key would sink right through his fingers.
Colors help me, how is this my life?
“Left or right pocket?” I ask, since I have no intention of groping him more than once.
