I hunt his mass of light-brown hair for the healing crystal Lazarus gifted him to protect him from the toxicity of iron, but see nothing glint amidst his unwashed locks. Which means that if the metal collar breaks his skin . . .
If the iron comes in contact with his blood . . .
I banish the thought. I will behave so fucking well that no harm will befall my friend.
“Gold suits you.” Dante’s low tone makes its way to my ears but not to my heart.
I’ve worn the same horrid gown for days on end. Between the corset’s boning and the skirt’s scratchiness, I amsodone with Faerie frocks.
“Shall we begin, Maezza?” Meriam’s voice skips across the jewels in the vault.
Dante shoves me into a chair, then twists my arm over a glass bowl. He removes a dagger from a pouch at his waist and incises my wrist. “Not yet.” He clicks his fingers.
One of his soldiers peels himself away from the wall and approaches us, a bolt of black velvet dangling from his fingers. I fathom it’s a bandage for my wound but I’m wrong. Dante cares not about hampering my blood flow, only my sight.
I stare at Meriam in anguish. Her skin is so wan that it makes the color of her irises pop. I silently beg her to intercede . . . to remind Dante that my blood holds no power so the blindfold is unnecessary.
“I’ll gladly spell her eyelids.” Meriam’s murmur almost gets lost under the hefty thrashing of my heart.
“No need to waste your magic when I have perfectly suitable cloth at my disposal.”
The soldier wraps the soft fabric over my eyes and knots it until the darkness is so complete that I begin to perspire.
“I assure you—” she continues.
“Until Fallon’s been unbound, you’re not to waste your magic, strega.” Dante’s breath skates over my clammy forehead like those foul gusts that lift off the Racoccin canals at the peak of summer.
“Perhaps my husband could—”
“He’s busy weighing the sailor’s fate. Now stop wasting my time and begin, Meriam.”
I try to steal back my arm but Dante doesn’t loosen his grip on my wrist, which is wet and warm with my gushing blood. My stomach soars and plummets, soars and—
I toss up my breakfast, as well as last night’s supper. Even though I don’t see Dante, I make sure to aim for the fingers he’s got clamped around my arm.
“Fuck,” he growls. “Get me a basin of soapy water now.” He sounds utterly disgusted.
Good.
“Make a note to stop feeding Fallon before she’s bled.”
“Don’t you intend to bleed me daily?” I croak, my throat feeling scraped raw by the acidity of the bile.
“I do, so either you learn to stifle your squeamishness, or you go back to being fed intravenously.”
“Back to?”
“How do you think we kept you alive during the journey?” He lifts my arm and dips it into a sudsy bowl, then dries it. He must settle my wrist over a new bowl because he thumbs my wound to strengthen the gush.
My eyes sting from the white-hot burn of split flesh, and though my stomach spasms, it doesn’t eject anything more. Probably because it’s empty. “May I get some water to rinse out my mouth?”
“After we’re done. I wouldn’t want to risk diluting my ink.”
One day, I will make you hurt and I will make you bleed, Dante Fucking Regio.
“Start with the handiest sigils, strega.”
“Very well.” Although only fabric separates me from the world, I feel like Meriam stands on the other end of the kingdom. “The most important one is the lock. It’ll allow you to slip through walls. You must draw a square—”
