Before it can bang against the floor, I catch the bird by its wings, careful not to touch the spikes. “I’m not half-serpent.”
“It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”
I lower the crow so my glower better meets its mark. “My mother didnotmate with an animal.”
“Hmm . . .”
“Stop. Stop picturing it.” I lug the heavy relic toward the door. “Don’t forget the gold coin,” I mutter.
Phoebus strolls over to a shelf, grabs a handful of coins, many gold ones in the mix, and shoves them into his pocket.
“That’s too many. Won’t they realize?”
He gestures to the shelves. “What do you think, picolo serpens?”
“What I think is that your new nickname better not stick.”
“Or what? You’ll whistle for your pappa and ask him to whisk me into the fault?”
Even though I honestly don’t think I’m related to a serpent, I raise my chin and deadpan, “I’ll whistle for my serpent brother and make him drag your ass away.”
He grins, wedging his foot in the door and kicking up the bag. He opens it wide so that I can maneuver the bird in.
“You don’t honestly think I’m part serpent, do you?”
“No. I don’t.”
“So, human?”
He sighs. “Hope not. Life wouldn’t be half as exciting without you.”
“Because your days of pillaging vaults would come to an end too soon?”
His eyes gleam like the statue I’ve managed to squeeze into the bag. “Exactly.” He shoulders the straps, then presses the door wide and holds it for me. “Larceny is much more enjoyableà deux.”
I almost tell him I have four more crows to gather but bite the information off my tongue. I’ve already involved him, and although his pointed ears confirm he’s fully Fae, even purelings can incur bodily harm, and I couldn’t live with myself if anything befell him because of my desire to sit on the throne beside Dante.
“I cannot believe you were ready to chop off my arm,” I tell him as our footsteps click against the buffed floors of his ridiculous mansion.
“Don’t remind me.” Aquiline nose wrinkled, he drops an arm around my shoulders and pulls me into his side. “But I would’ve done it because I care like crazy about you, Fallon Rossi, whatever the underworld you may be.”
What the underworldcouldI be?
Twenty-Three
As we approach the checkpoint between Tarecuori and Tarelexo, Phoebus presses his arm more snugly against the bag to shield what lies inside. Although we’ve arranged the voluminous blue dress over the crow and nestled my boots along its wings to disguise the odd shape, sweat glazes my hairline and dribbles down my nape.
If I’d traversed the bridge alone, weighed down by a bag bursting with pretty fabric, I would’ve been stopped and searched. Phoebus, on the other hand, will probably glide past the Lucin guards like a fish through water.
Or at least, that’s what I’m hoping.
He lowers his mouth to my ear. “Fallon, I know I confessed that I wouldn’t have thought twice about ripping out your arm had you been contaminated, but I’d be much obliged if you didn’t rip off my limb in turn.”
“What?”
“Your grip, Picolina.” He nods to the hand crushing the rolled sleeves of his tunic.
I spring my fingers wide. “Sorry.”
