“You named a cactus?” I blurt out.
“An Eve’s Needle,” Slate says, as though it somehow makes his plant baptism more normal.
Again, I ask, “You named a cactus?”
“Yes. I named my cactus.”
“Do you name a lot of inanimate things, Slate?” Alma asks.
Bastian snickers, but Slate doesn’t.
Very seriously, he says, “Spike’s very animate. As are all the other things I name.”
Alma tosses her head back and laughs, which makes Bastian crack up. I find myself grinning. And not just at that moment, but throughout the rest of dinner. Even though today was one of the worst days of my life, tonight is one of the best nights.
I squeeze Slate’s hand, and the ring’s shape and heat remind me of how he walked into my life. Every bit of the anger and hatred I felt for him a few days ago has disappeared.
I lean toward him but not to kiss him . . . to whisper, “I hate the reason you stayed, but I can’t imagine you gone.”
He releases my hand to tuck another lock of hair behind my ear. “Cadence de Morel, if I survive—”
“You will.” I flatten my palm against his chest, drinking in the steady pulses of his heart. “You will.”
His gaze softens. I don’t like it soft; I want it firm and resolute.
“Just because the last generation failed doesn’t mean we will,” I add quietly but not gently. “We are so much more prepared than they were.”
Slate heaves a deep sigh, and then he gathers me against him and nestles his chin in the crook of my neck.
And he holds me.
Just holds me.
I slip my arms around his back, hoping not to graze any bruises.
It’s crazy, but I don’t want him to ever let go. I don’t want him to get on a train and leave.
For now, a ring keeps him in Brume but what happens once it comes off?
Because itwill.
It has to.
31
Slate
Ionly have to insist once that Bastian take the bed. The second we’re home, he kicks off his boots, drops his coat on the floor, and flops about on the mattress, snoring like a freaking Harley-Davidson. I’ll have to limit his alcohol intake from now on. He only makes so much noise when he’s inebriated.
The floorboards are hard and cold as rock, but knowing Bastian is comfortable relaxes me. After an eyeball joust with a scuttling roach that ends in a lug-sole full of smashed shell, I finally drift off.
And wake up to Bastian shouting my name.
My body jerks to attention andwham!my forehead slams into wood. I rolled partially under the bedframe during the night. I scoot out, sit up, and put my hand to my head.Putain.I’m going to have a lump on top of my lump.
“I hate this fucking place,” I mutter.
“Slate! Did you . . .?” Bastian lurches off the bed and onto his feet with the nimbleness of someone used to being fully alert and ready to run at the merest creak of a floorboard.
