Not that I care, but Gods, there just may be more wealth stashed in this cellar than in the vault.
“Please put the bottle back, Fallon.”
I pretend to slot it onto the shelf, but instead, drop it with a perhaps tad too dramatic, “Oops.”
Cato huffs my name and starts toward me. Before he can blow me into the cage, I crouch and stab my finger on a serrated point. A muted hiss snakes past my teeth.
“Move away from the glass.” As the wine gurgles and puddles around my gold satin slippers, tossing the scent of peaty cork into the air, my friend halts and reaches for his sword. “I said move away from the bottle, Fallon.”
I raise my bound hands and do as he asks. “I’m backing up. You can put away your weapon.”
But he doesn’t. And damn if it doesn’t sting more than my flesh wound.
“I would never attack you, Cato.” I make my way toward the cellar door, toward the beveled black stone that frames the whorls of solid metal keeping me enclosed in this dank silo.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m putting some distance between us so you don’t worry that I’ll pounce on you while you pick up my mess.”
He stares at the expensive debris before finally sheathing his sword and squatting to collect the seesawing pieces of umber glass.
Keeping one eye on him, I smoosh my finger on the stone and sketch a circle that turns out a tad lopsided. I add the cross. Satisfied that it resembles Justus’s sigil, I shut my eyes and ram my palm against the stone.
I’m coming, Lore.
Twenty-Four
When after three brisk breaths, my body still hasn’t slipped through the doorframe, I fling my lids up and mutter a slew of curses, and not the magical kind. Wait, do I need to utter magical words?
Did Justus? I cannot recall his lips moving over any spell, but I was so concentrated on his design that I may have missed it. Sighing, I check over my shoulder.
Since Cato is still busy picking up the mess of glass, I attempt a second escape. My hand is so unsteady that my circle and cross end up resembling the symbol for the female gender, but I still press my hand against it and—
Nothing.
Ugh!
Just as I’m about to try a third time, since third times are the charm and all that, the sprites soar through the bars of the door. Heart wedged inside my throat, I spin around and sidle against the smooth stone, then shimmy to wipe away my failed attempts at escaping. I never thought I’d be relieved to wear a dress stained with so much gore, but here I am, relieved.
“We couldn’t find a dress,” the sprite hugging a soap dish as wide as he is announces. The second he spots me beside the door, he jerks several centimeters higher, the soap dish and accompanying hunk of soap clattering on the stone floor.
His friend also flits higher before dropping the wet cloth beside the soap and hammered bronze dish. I take it they’re frightened of me, which is an odd sentiment since I’ve never inspired fright in anyone before. I admittedly like the new vibe I give off.
I can just imagine how proud Lore would be. The thought of my mate sends my heart into a tailspin, wringing beats that clatter against my ribs. I want to go home more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.
“Since you have wings, please dispose of our queen’s mess in the highest stacks.” Cato nods toward the glass he’s piled up so neatly it resembles a modern vase.
“Our queen?” One of the sprites hikes up a hefty blond brow that vanishes behind bluntly-cut bangs.
“Yes. Queen. You would do well not to let her rank slip your mind, Dirk.”
Where Dirk cocks his eyebrow even farther, his ponytailed friend swoops low to grab a wedge of glass. As he carries it up, he swerves under its weight. I rub my thumbnail into the pad of my index finger to keep the cut weeping. I’m not giving up.
I walk over to the washcloth and soap and pick both up, then grab the bronze dish. I move toward one of the walls and begin to scrub at my collarbone. I’m probably making more of a mess, but at least, it’s watering down the scent of blood.
As I scour my skin, I study my reflection in the bronze dish. Although tinted copper, I don’t miss the unhealthy pallor of my skin. Oh, to be outdoors again . . . I will climb onto the stone turrets of the Sky Kingdom and roast my carcass for days when I get home. I can already picture myself sandwiched between Sybille and Phoebus, guzzling down goblets of Sky wine, gossiping about all things Crow, Shabbin, and Fae.
I’ve never been the greatest fan of gossip yet suddenly crave it like a bee craves pollen. I want to have conversations about trivial things and laugh until my lungs ache. I want to gorge onbeinnfrhaland that cheese flecked in salt and herbs that Connor serves at the Sky Tavern.
