“Gabriele, air out the grotto.” Dante juts his head toward the black dome as he shrugs off his jacket. The one he’d lent me when our years of friendship still meant something to him.
Clucking his tongue to force his horse past me, Gabriele holds out a palm webbed by silvery threads of magic. Pale tendrils fluttering around his shoulders, he arcs his arm and sends a bolt of wind so potent it lifts the heavy folds of my dress.
“Here.” Dante rolls his singed shirt off his back and saturates the fabric with water. “Hold this over your mouth and nose.”
I never deemed myself a particularly prideful person, but I refuse his shirt and his help.
I wish he’d never come to Tarespagia.
I wish I hadn’t glimpsed this callous side of him.
Mind whirring with glum thoughts, I march back toward the grotto entrance.
“Fallon!”
My barked name doesn’t magically spring my balled fingers open. If anything, it makes them curl harder.
Dante releases a low growl as he tramples the moss after me.
I stop on the threshold, testing the air for the sulfurous scent of Fae smoke. “Is it safe to enter?”
Gabriele peers down at me from where he sits atop his horse. “I’ll keep fanning it.”
When Morrgot doesn’t yell at me to take Dante’s wet shirt, I step past the threshold. The air is dark and heavy. Although it stings my flaring nostrils and eyes, it doesn’t smother me.
“Will you please take my damn shirt already?” Dante shoves it against my chest.
I don’t reach out for it, so when he removes his hand, it plops to the ground between us.
I step over it, then circle him. “Don’t need it.”
“What happened to you, Fallon?” Dante speaks so close to my ear that I feel the barbed shape of his words. “What made you so bitter?”
Letting my gaze adjust to the darkness to spot the hole Sewell dug, I say, “Since when does refusing some soggy cloth make one bitter?”
“I’m not talking about you snubbing my help. I’m talking about your lies and your attitude. The girl I knew before going to Glace was sweet and soft.” As I scan the dome, I spot him making a vague gesture. “The girl I returned to is calculating and barbed.”
I tilt my head back and hold his gaze. “Tell me, Dante, who has the best odds of survival? A pink, newborn porcupine with lax quills or an adult with hardened ones?” Hoping I’ve made my point, I turn and squint into the darkness, seeking the glimmer of Morrgot’s crow.
The soft brush of feathers along my knuckles carries my attention downward.Hold onto me. I’ll lead you to him.
Should you be in here?
It’s uncomfortable, but I’ll live.
You’re immortal, so that’s a nonissue.
I spread my fingers, expecting to feel Morrgot’s head or talons. Instead, his misty form glides between my fanned digits and enfolds them like a ghostly hand.
That sensation . . .Focus!I chide myself.Now’s not the time to weigh the odds of Morrgot being at the origin of your rubdown.
Crouch.
I do.
The hole isn’t deep.
I sigh in relief. At least, I won’t need to ask anyone for a hand up.
