“There are other possible allies no one’s mentioned,” Rhonin says, raising his brows at Fleurie. “There are immortal godlings still living in hiding. If we could locate and convince them to help us stop Thamaos, we could certainly take the upper hand. The prince has kept the territories cut off from the world. The people are easier to manipulate that way. But it does limit the East’s ability to replenish supplies and food, and it means he has no foreign friends in place to bolster defenses. That might not matter if Neri is right, and we end up battling wraiths wearing the skins of our people. But if that’s just a nightmare Thamaos can’t make come true, then we could wear down his fleets and possibly even figure out a way inside Min-Thuret where we can cut the head from the serpent. We have Neri and Fleurie after all.”
“Yes, but we must be careful and not walk them into a trap,” Thibault adds. “We can’t lose them to the enemy.”
“True.” The spy turns his attention back on Fleurie. “How much time do you think your father will require to return to his full power?”
She lifts one shoulder. “I cannot possibly say. It took me several weeks to heal, but I wasn’t dead, and my soul was in this realm and intact. The humanity in me probably slowed the process, so at most, if you’re looking for a window of time, I would expect no longer than a month or two. It’s impossible to know.”
Thibault drags his finger over the place on the map that marks Min-Thuret’s temple. “Nothing’s to say he can’t cause damage before he’s whole again.”
“Then we need to act quickly,” Hel says. “If Fleurie is willing, Rhonin and I will go with her to search for the other godlings. She should be able to sense them if we can get her close enough, and Rhonin has read all the books on their supposed whereabouts.”
Nephele leans in to look down the table at her friend. “Hel, what about your father? And Saira?”
The girl just shakes her head. Her big brown eyes are glassy, her brow drawn so tight that a crease forms. “I can’t face them yet,” she answers. “I can’t deliver the news about Finn. I just can’t. Father won’t forgive me, and he will try to stop me from fighting for the North. I’m not where I can handle that battle right now.” Her voice wavers, her words carved by anger and heartbreak. “I need to keep moving. Helping.Breathing.”
Rhonin cups the back of Hel’s neck, his thumb stroking the sharp line of her jaw, and bends to kiss her temple. “It’s okay,” he says softly.
Silence falls over the room until Fleurie raps her knuckles on the table in a one-two tap. The sound quickly dismantles the somber pall beginning to form at the mention of the young blacksmith’s death.
“Sounds perfect,” she says, though the way she glances up at Thibault makes it clear she isn’t keen on leaving his side again. “I agree that this search is a worthwhile effort, and I would appreciate the company.”
Thibault looks at Fleurie, then at me. His eyes darken with animosity every time he meets my stare. “We need fast travel. With Fleurie portaling Hel and Rhonin around the world, you will have to get the rest of us where we’re going. I don’t care which one of you takes me, but I need to visit Itunnan before we leave. I have business to attend on Terrowin’s ship if he’s still docked there. Then we can move onward to our respective destinations.”
I clench my teeth. How many times did I watch from within his eyes as he scribbled and sketched in those damn journals? That’s what he’s returning for, I have no doubt. But what really infuriates me is that my former captor is now the one delivering orders instead of the lovely lady at my side. Worse still, given what happened earlier today, commanded or not, I might not be sifting anybody anywhere.
“Fine,” I say, hoping my godly ass doesn’t end up failing like a fool. “I just need the day to recoup first.”
Fleurie nods in understanding and agreement. “Me too.”
Thibault shoves both hands into his trouser pockets and looks everyone in the eyes. “That’s it, then. Feed your bellies, get some rest, and say your goodbyes. Because tomorrow morning, it appears we go our separate ways.”
II
AN EYE FOR AN EYE
9
NEPHELE
That evening, I stay downstairs with everyone in a cozy, book-filled study Zahira found while wandering the palace. Though Fia has the kitchen send trays of various meats, cheeses, and fruits, I still haven’t felt like eating, and this time, I’m not the only one. The food, arranged on fancy gilded platters, sits on a tall, round table in the middle of the room where starlight pours in from the observatory dome above. It’s barely been touched, but the nine of us have gone through six bottles of the palace’s red in a couple of hours, much of that effort belonging to me.
As I pour another glass to the rim, I glance around at these people I now call friends. Zahira and Rhonin stand over a small desk, studying an old book of maps under the light of a brass oil lamp that hangs from the wall. Callan and Hel are sharing a tender moment near the arched window with Keth and Jaega sitting on a reading bench nearby, listening to what I’m sure is more of Callan’s sage advice. Across the room are Alexus and Fleurie. They sit close together on an umber velvet divan, Fleurie telling stories about Raina and Elias.
I listened for a while, to how my sister taught Alexi of Ghent to sign so he could speak with her, knowledge that made Alexus’s fast learning of the language when I decided to teach him more understandable. The memory of that skill might’ve been stolen with all recollection of my sister, but the mind is a fascinating thing, and the body has a sort of memory of its own.
Though it eased my soul to hear that Raina’s time in the past, while difficult, held moments of happiness too, I had to step away and give Alexus and Fleurie time to talk. Alexus needs to hear about that missing year of his life alone. He will share it with me when he’s ready.
Discreetly, I slip from the study and hobble my way upstairs. The worry for Colden and Raina that gnawed at my heart and mind all day has calmed some thanks to the wine and Fleurie’s stories of a time long past with my sister and a decent man named Elias Gherahn. But by the time I make it to the landing of the corridor that leads to our rooms, I’m facing another concern. My ankle is throbbing. The pressure of the swelling presses firmly against the sides of my boot. I have to walk a little and then rest a little just to get to my door.
Once inside, I work my foot out of my boot and undress, happy to slip into my sleeping gown, a garment made of pretty dark green silk. A copper bin that held ice for compresses earlier sits by my bed. There’s nothing inside but cool water now. Still, I soak my offended ankle for a little while.
Just when I’m ready to put out the lights, crawl into bed, and finish off my wine, a soft knock sounds at my door. With an inward groan, I tug on my robe and answer, expecting to see Hel or Alexus on the other side. Instead, I find a tall, wolfish god staring back at me.
Neri leans in the doorway, filling every inch. His hands are tucked into the pockets of a pair of tan linen trousers, loose and low-slung on his waist, and his hair is down around his shoulders, thick, white locks framing his brutally handsome face. The sleeves of his white shirt are rolled to his elbows, drawing attention to his sinewy forearms.
But the most distracting part of this ensemble is that his shirt is unbuttoned, revealing a sleek sliver of his smoothly muscled torso, a sliver that travels from the hollow of his throat to a dark trail of hair that leads somewhere I don’t need to think about.
Perhaps this is the curse. That I have to admire his physical beauty all while loathing him, for the rest of my godsdamn life.
