I don’t think his intent is to guilt me, yet that is the emotion that wells behind my thumping breastbone.I wish I could’ve been the mate you deserve, Lore.
He doesn’t respond to that. I suppose there isn’t much of a response to give.
Nevertheless, his silence irks me, and however much I try to concentrate fully on Arin and the questions she asks about my childhood and passions, questions that Lorcan translates, my mind wanders to other places.
To my little blue house in Tarelexo with its frescoed walls and fragrant wisteria.
To my loyal pink serpent with his rings of scarred flesh.
To the gloomy Racoccin woods steeped in mist.
To the white barracks where I spent one afternoon with Dante, convinced it’d be the first of many.
To the mountain pass I scaled on the back of my beautiful stallion.
To my first awed glimpse of the Sky Kingdom.
To the pureling tribe that attacked me for sacks of gold.
To Selvati and the man who sacrificed his life to help Lore and me.
To Tarespagia and the horrible Rossi women.
And to that final horseback ride the day my world tipped and changed forever.
Over and over, I shepherd my straying mind back to the here and now. To this woman intent on getting to know me even though I’ve chosen to abandon her son and his people. Soon, like the Fae, the Crows will consider me a defector. The girl who reneged on her heritage for one that doesn’t even belong to her.
Maybe I should sail to Shabbe.
Don’t.
I jump at the sharpness of Lorcan’s voice. At the fervency limning that one word.
Not until I’ve destroyed the wards.
I study the harsh angles of his face made even harsher by his dismal mood.I swear not to cross the wards until you’ve killed Meriam, Lorcan Reebyaw.
He doesn’t look at me again for the duration of the meal, nor does he look at me after he flies me back through the hallways of his kingdom toward mycellbedchamber, and departs with his mother, who carried Phoebus.
Phoebus who shuts the door so hard, it all but splinters the wood and shatters the stone frame.
Phoebus who yells until his voice goes hoarse and we both have tears running down our faces because leaving is a risk. But I cannot hide inside a mountain while the world crumbles. Only cowards hide, and I may be many things, but not a coward.
“Leave the fighting to people who enjoy it, Picolina. Please. You’re not immortal.”
“But I could be.” I gaze up at the ceiling from where I lay sprawled on the bed, my head cocooned in the crook of Phoebus’s arm, my left hand intertwined with his right one over his gurgling stomach. “If I found Meriam and made her unbind my magic, I could be.”
“You could also be dead.”
My intent, when bartering for my freedom, wasn’t to partake in this fight between Shabbins, Crows, and Fae, but the more Phoebus and I talked—after he was done with his heated monologue—the more I realized that I could make a difference.
If she dies, so does her evil magic.
My mother will be free.
Shabbins will be free.
Perhaps Meriam wants me dead, but to kill me she needs to find me, which makes me the perfect bait.
