Chapter Seventeen
We take the stairs up to the Noxbridge Library. Malachi wants to search for the scepter, and I don't argue. I've always been fascinated by this place, though I've only been inside twice. Unlike Veritas University, which the Sages built from nothing, Noxbridge was constructed by the founding family of Tenebris itself, back when they still called Lunaris home.
"You should consider recruiting students here once the curse is lifted," he says, that infuriating lilt in his voice. "You'd be excellent at it."
"If you knew how much effort it takes not to strangle you every time you use that tone, you'd never speak again."
"Or I'd speak more." He winks. "Just to watch you try."
Heat rushes to my cheeks and settles somewhere lower. I look away, hoping to hide my reaction, but his low chuckle tells me I've failed. I sigh and shake my head. When I glance back, his attention has drifted to the decorative wings cascading down my back.
I can't help but laugh. "You can touch them, if you want."
His eyes find mine, searching, as if gauging whether I mean it. I turn my back to him and cross my arms, waiting. The firstbrush of his finger down my spine steals my breath. He does it again, slower this time, tracing the path of the decorative feathers.
A shaky laugh escapes me. "I don't think I've ever met anyone whose fascination with wings rivals my own."
He hums, the sound vibrating through the space between us. "You haven't met anyone who's actually had them, then."
I go still. The words repeat in my head. Had them. Actually had them.
I whirl around. "What?"
I search his face for answers, but he offers none. My mind races through everything I know about winged beings, which is far less than what I know about wings themselves. I devoured books about winged warriors as a girl, but those were romances, fiction dressed up as history. What I know for certain is that in Iredell, wings are a mark of royal blood.
Not every bearer sits on a throne, many are generations removed from power, but the bloodline runs true regardless. Malachi must be one of those distant heirs. He fought in the war alongside Draven and Kage, which tells me enough. The royals I've read about prefer to start wars from the safety of their palaces and let others bleed in their name.
They don't bargain away their freedom to goddesses of death. They don't spend centuries trapped in Noktemore, fighting to break curses they didn't cause. Whatever Malachi is, he's not that kind of royal. When I look at him again, his eyes are bright with amusement. He's enjoying this.
"Your curiosity almost tastes as sweet as your anger," he murmurs, and the low rumble of his voice does something dangerous to my pulse.
"I hope you know I won't be able to focus on anything else until you answer every question I have."
He opens his mouth to respond, then snaps it shut. His head turns sharply toward the front of the library. Before I can ask what's wrong, his hand closes around my arm. He pulls me into a row of towering shelves as footsteps echo through the silence, growing closer with each second.
Another sharp turn, and he's pressing me into a shadowed alcove, my back flat against cold stone, his body blocking the entrance. The footsteps stop somewhere close. Too close.
"Did you hear about the crew they captured?" A gruff voice, unfamiliar.
"The ones who scaled the cliffs near the Keep?" Another voice, higher. "What did they want?"
"They claim to be searching for the heir. Cato's heir."
Silence. Then — "I can't imagine Lord Constantine took that well."
A snort. "He did not. Last time he visited Lyrionne, he had half the kingdom convinced he was the heir. Probably believes it himself by now."
"He probably believes Cato will thank him for taking Tenebris, too."
Malachi goes rigid against me, every muscle coiled. From the corner of my eye, I see a sconce flicker, and without thinking, I fist my hand in his cloak and pull him closer. His nose brushes mine. His breath ghosts across my lips. Neither of us moves.
"That'll never happen. Though I suppose this would be a good place to hide, if the heir even exists."
"The seer saw a son. Twenty years ago. And she saw him arrive here."
"Seers have been wrong before."
"You want to be the one to tell Cato his seer was wrong?"
