When I realize his lesson in power plays is, in fact, masked relationship advice, I press my hand against his chest, over that steadfast heart of his that never quits beating. That never gives up.
Phoebus blinks, and then he nods and slingshots himself across the room toward where Connor stands beside the ale stall, filling a stein with the bubbly liquid that Crows make from barley and which tastes just as awful as the human version I drank back in Rax.
That was sweet, Lore.
You sound surprised.
Perhaps because you’re not exactly a softie.
One needs not possess a soft heart to feel empathy; one needs only possess a heart.
I accompany my little headshake with a kiss.Come, my tough-hearted mate. Off to bed we go.
He slides me the most devilish grin as I pull him toward the Market Tavern’s southern entrance. Once outside, he releases my hand to morph into feathers, but a Crow all but barrels into him, not even bothering to land before shifting.
Lore claps Aoife’s heaving shoulder, and it strikes me that I haven’t crossed paths with her in the last two days.
“Dalich, Mórrgaht.” After a deep inhale, she says, “I bring news—from Glace.”
I scour her expression to work out if it will be good or bad, but even after three full circuits around her oval face, I cannot reason what news she brings.
“Justus know where Vladimir keep runestone.”
“Justus?”
“Yes.” She swings her head up and down in a nod, manifestly excited. “He in Glace with Cian.”
I spin toward Lore. “You sent Justus to Glace?”
“Since he accompanied Marco to deliver the runestone to Vladimir two decades back, he suggested the trip.”
Brilliant man.
The tightening of Lore’s pupils tells me he doesn’t share my conviction. He probably won’t change his tune about Justus untilthe stone rests on the war room table. May Justus make quick work of negotiations and may he succeed in unlocking the wards.
I remind myself that he managed to draw the blood to the surface of the stone. There’s no reason he won’t be able to delete the rune . . . is there?
That saying Meriam shared with me, the one about the Cauldron laughing when immortals made plans, punches back my hope, but like proofing dough, it expands anew.
“. . . unreasonable,” Aoife is saying. “Justus asks Fallon to come.” Aoife bites her lip. “To steal stone.”
Sixty-Four
“Steal?” Here I thought we were resorting to revised covenants and not larceny.
Lorcan’s irises blaze like the torches speared into the walls of his kingdom.
“Justus cannot go through wall without rune,” Aoife explains, “and to draw, he needs Shabbin mate’s blood.”
Lore’s shadows tear off his flesh.
He must bark his discontentment into Aoife’s mind because my poor friend sucks in a breath and drops her gaze to the floor with a soft, “Dalich,Mórrgaht.”
I didn’tbarkat her.
Then why did she apologize and is now staring at her feet?
Because I asked her—perhaps a tad too fervidly—not to employ the termmate. It’s too sacred to be used for something so—his eyes scrape across my hand, the one emblazoned with the reminder of my connection to another—profane.
