A knock forces me to drop the matter.For now.
“Come in.” My pulse, which beat with dread and then with guilt, now beats with an oxymoron of an emotion—glum anticipation. I want to leave, and yet I don’t.
I’m expecting our escorts to have arrived, but the male who stands in the doorjamb is not equipped with wings.
“I heard you were leaving.” Lazarus, the fire-Fae who worked as a healer beneath two Faerie kings, looks between Phoebus and me. The Crows’ passion for face-paint has rubbed off on the mammoth male, who’s adorned his amber gaze with black stripes that make him look like a seasoned warrior.
“We are. Shortly. Will you be coming home with us?”
He steps over the threshold without closing the door behind him. “My home was killed two decades ago, Fallon. I’ve nothing left in Luce.”
Hishomewas Dante’s father, Andrea Regio, who was murdered by his own son, even though Marco blamed the Crow King to sway the public opinion against the shifters. Andrea, like Dante, was willing to broker a peace treaty to end the age-old feud; Marco wasn’t.
“I’ll be staying here until the wards fall, in case Lorcan has need of me.” Lazarus plays with a sapphire brooch pinned to the stand-up collar of his midnight-blue tunic. It’s only when he lowers his fingers that I notice the two entwined letters—L and A. Is the A for Andrea, or does Lazarus’s family name begin with an A? “Then I’ll head to Shabbe.”
His destination makes my gaze spring off the shimmering sapphires.
“Shabbe, huh?” Phoebus crosses one outstretched leg over the other and stretches his arms, which makes the black blouse he borrowed from my closet yesterday rip at the seams.
I briefly wonder what Lorcan will do with all these clothes once I’m gone. Gift them to all those girls who throw themselves at him because he runs a kingdom? Girls like Imogen?
Instead of dragging the shirt off his head, Phoebus tears off what remains of the sleeves until he’s left with a chemise that displays the rounded knobs of his shoulders. “I’ve heard your healing crystals come from there. Is that hearsay?”
“No. It’s accurate.” Lazarus raises his hand to the thirty hoops that line the shell of his right ear as though to ascertain that the little colored beads, which contain magic, are still speared through. He doesn’t check the other ear which is fringed with just as much hardware. “That’s the reason for my visit, actually. Phoebus, I brought you an earring that will counter the effect of iron on your blood and help you heal, as long as the injury isn’t to your heart.”
As Lazarus approaches, Phoebus sits up straighter, swinging his legs off the side of the bed.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you for one.” My friend presses his hair aside to give Lazarus access to one of the many holes he’s kept free of the baubles worn by the moneyed Fae.
Back in school, his ears dripped with expensive gewgaws, but ever since he rebelled against the Lucin caste system by cutting off his ties with his family, along with his waist-long hair, he’s barely ever worn anything other than the occasional gold stud.
“How does the gem work, Lazarus?”
“You rub it between your fingertips, then smear the salve on your injury.”
I wonder why he’s equipping Phoebus with one only now. Why not when we were transported into the Sky Kingdom where more iron exists in a square meter than in the whole of Luce?
Lazarus flicks his gaze my way. “I have a crystal for you as well, Fallon.”
I cross my arms. “I’m immune to iron.”
“Not to counteract iron. Merely to heal your injuries in case anyone hurts you.” The silver-haired Fae strides toward me, his silken blue pants and fluid shirt snapping around his limbs like seawater.
“You make it sound as though our return to Luce will be met with violence.”
“I don’t know how you’ll be received, Fallon. I’d hope Dante will prove fair, like his father”—his throat dips with a jagged swallow—“and protect you and your friends, but he’s young and eager to be popular, and most rise by stepping atop others.”
I want to defend Dante but I’m no longer the naïve girl who thought him incapable of wrongdoing. All I can do is take care not to stand in his way for I’d prefer not to be used as a stepping stone—again.
The healer inspects my ears which are on full display since I’ve bound my hair back. It strikes me that I’ve stopped being preoccupied with their shape, what with being surrounded by people with similar ears.
“My lobes aren’t pierced, Lazarus.”
“By choice?” he asks.
“Yes.” Why adorn something you prefer not to attract attention to?
“The crystal cannot rest on your skin or its magic will wear off.”
