The poker trembles in my hands. I adjust my grip, but my palms are slick with sweat.
“What does that mean?”
A pause. Then, slowly, he rises from the chair. “I was sent to collect a debt.”
The poker slips from my fingers. It clatters against the stone floor, and I don't move to pick it up. I don't move at all. I can't with the Flame's words echoing through my skull, over and over, drowning out everything else:My warrior will arrive soon to collect your end of the bargain.
I stare at my collector.
And he stares back.
Chapter Seven
“Idon’t like to repeat myself.”
There’s no mistaking the quiet demand or the arrogance in his tone. Both of which I immediately don’t like. I’ve dealt with enough arrogant merchants at the clinic and the taverns around Veneficia Alley to know how much of a pain they can be. I take a breath and remind myself that I don’t have to like him. He’s here to collect a bargain, not propose marriage.
“Who are you?”
“Sit and I’ll tell you.”
“I can’t even see your face.”
“What difference does that make?”
“I don’t know. Just humor me.”
His annoyance is unmistakable in my chest, but there’s also a hint of amusement underneath that I’m unsure what to make of. I watch as he pulls the hood away from his face, exposing a dark, unkept beard and a curtain of wavy, unruly dark hair. From the little I can see underneath all of that, he has warm brown skin, full lips, a straight nose, and thick eyebrows that are currently furrowed as he takes in my attire.
I can’t see his eyes since he has them lowered, but from what I can see, I know this man could never walk around hereunnoticed. The Lunarian Council puts a lot of importance on physical beauty. All of their residents — especially their duelers and legion guards — are in top shape and always well-groomed, with cleanly shaved faces. Hairstyles are the only thing they don’t seem to monitor.
Draven has long ropey locs. Arlo has straight blond hair. Casimir and Bastian have short hair. Either way, the man in front of me wouldn’t qualify as good-looking in Lunaris. The Veritas Order, by contrast, teaches that beauty is internal. Beauty lies in the mind, in the heart, and on the tongue. We portray what we feel, and thus, feeling beautiful makes us beautiful. It’s a concept that can get tricky when dealing with delusional, arrogant people, of course, but the Veritas Order has a way of dealing with them as well.
When he finally lifts his gaze to mine, I stop breathing. At first glance, I immediately think of the golden brown memory stones that haunt my waking days and sleepless nights. But then something else comes to mind. I think of the golden sunrises I watched from the cliffs back when I still thought new days meant new opportunities. It’s an oddly comforting thought.
Something akin to surprise flashes in his eyes when I decide to step away from the door and find out what he’s here for. I’m smart enough to know I can’t outrun a debt, especially one owed to a goddess. I pick up the things I dropped, set everything down at the edge of the table, and sit in the chair furthest away from him. Safety may be an illusion, but it’s one I’ll cling to as long as I can.
“What is your name?” he asks once I’m situated.
I clear my throat. “What’s yours?”
The corner of his mouth barely lifts, but I feel a hint of amusement in my chest again. “Malachi. You may call me Mal if you’d like.”
So proper. Maybe not like some of those merchants, after all. I sit with that information for a moment. The majority of the residents don’t keep the names they arrive with. The Veritas Order is very particular about name choices, and I can’t imagine they’d approve of any name that begins withMal.
“Ada. You may call me Ada,” I say after a moment. “What do you want from me, Malachi?”
“What doIwant?” He raises an eyebrow. “What a question to ask a man like me.”
His response gives me pause. I look away quickly. I remind myself that my carelessness with words was what got me into this situation to begin with, so I need to be very careful with what I say and limit my questions. Something bitter flares in my chest, beckoning my attention back to his face.
“I can taste your fear,” he comments.
“I can feel your disgust,” I shoot back and bite my tongue, but it’s too late to take the words back.
Shrewd golden eyes narrow and study me for a long moment. His eyes remind me less of the memory stones and sunrises now and more of an eagle with its sights set on its prey.
His lip curls. “You’re an empath.”
