I swallow.Tempting.
“Melt it into a weapon with which to threaten the handsy commander?”
“Hmm.” I give this actual thought, with chin-stroking and everything, which strengthens the curve of Phoebus’s smile.
For all my amusement, what if that’s how Dante seizes the throne? By melting it into a king-killing weapon? I really wish Bronwen had been more forthcoming with details. An instruction booklet would’ve been welcomed.
“So?”
“I wouldn’t even know where to go to melt iron.” It’s not like I can visit the Isolacuorin forge, or stick the bird in my stove.
“I’m sure there are plenty of blacksmiths in Rax who’d be more than willing to take it off your hands and pay you handsomely for it.” Eyes as shiny as the crow’s, Phoebus says, “You know what? Let’s do it!”
My next exhale wedges itself inside my throat, and I cough.
“It’ll piss off my parents to no end and get rid of the embodiment of my nightmares. Like a cleansing of sorts.” His hands rise to the black peg while I blink like I’ve been slapped in the face by a wave.
He’s going to hand me the bird. This is too easy. Nothing good ever comes this easily. Bronwen must be manipulating this prophetic hunt.
I lift my hands to the other black spike but freeze when Phoebus hisses.
“Obsidian. It’s toxic to humans.”
“Except, I’m not human.”
“You’re half-human, so paws off.” Phoebus has one foot flat on the wall, and from the rising color on his forehead, I take it he needs the leverage.
“When’s your family returning from Tarespagia?”
“Next month.”
Another Cauldronsend.OrBronwensend . . .
“Oh, and the crow is entirely made of iron, so whatever you do, don’t touch it or it’ll singe off your skin. I wouldn’t want your hands to be as ruined as your feet for your upcoming date.”
My upcoming date with my future husband.Unreal.And yet . . . and yet the iron crow exists.
“How deep does this spike go?” Phoebus mutters, sweat dripping down his forehead.
He probably can’t get it out because I’m the designated crow-gatherer. I eye the spike, itching to curl my hand around it. But what if . . . what if it does poison me?
Phoebus grunts and groans.
“You sound like a copulating boar.”
He goes so quiet that I check he hasn’t fainted from exertion. “Copulating boar,” he repeats with a snort.
I smile, and it presses away the shroud of anxiety that fell over me upon entering the vault.
“On the upside, if Gwyneth passes by, she’ll assume we’re getting it on. The perfect cover.”
After another full minute during which I scan the vault for a tool to chop off the spike, Phoebus drones, “Alle-fucking-luiah.”
He’s grown a vine as thick as my forearm, and it’s popped the spike out of the wall like a cork.
The bird that miraculously was neither bent nor broken in the process, swings toward me, ebony dart speared through its splayed wing.
“Watch out!” Phoebus gasps just as the crow’s iron talons collide into my bare forearm and the stake grazes my knuckles.
