I’d been in those nail-riddled shoes before. Each step plunging hurt deeper, reenacting terror, on loop. If he could open up, evena little, just for a second . . . it could be ointment on the wound.
Pogue stiffened, turning toward the way out of the cave.
“Neither,” he muttered. “Just sharp pain.”
Quick. Sharp. Avoidant.
Of course. Mr. Prickly had joined us again. Stupid of me to even think he’d let me in. Guess I couldn’t really blame him. It took years of David’s incessant coddling and prodding to get me to open up. Like trying to tend to a feral raccoon’s stitches. But with some chocolate-covered garbage and warm snuggles, I caved.
I huffed out a resigned breath, spinning on my heel to get the hell out of this place. Right before?—
“My mother . . .” Pogue whispered, low and broken.
I stilled mid-step, utterly stunned. Was Iactuallyabout to get an answer?
There was a tremor in his voice, but he continued. “The moment when I was a boy. When she was killed in front of me—becauseof me.” A muscle in his jaw tensed.
The admission had nearly knocked me out. I would’ve bet on the Brownies returning all my stolen jewelry and apologizing before I’d ever imagine Pogue answering truthfully.
His eyes sunk to the floor. Shadowed sorrow pooled at his feel, like a source to drown himself in.
The words were striking.His mother. It felt like an all too familiar blade piercing my heart. My gut sank.
Face crumbling, he continued, “She was a woman of the Craft. Renowned for making volatile potions and poisons. It was how she made her living.” A beat of hesitation. “She gotinvolvedwith one of her frequent clients. A wealthy, manipulative bastard. My father.” The bitterness was palpable. “Eventually, his charm faded and she saw the true kind of devil he was.”
He expelled a slow, weighted breath. “When he found out about my existence, that she’d kept me away—he took his revenge. Took me.”
His eyes shifted up, as if swimming to the surface for air.
“But he’s dead now,” he said. Flat. Final. “So it doesn’t matter.”
So cruel and barbaric. He was only a child . . .
My eyes burned.
“I’m so sorry,” I gently whispered. “That’s terrible.”
The quiet that followed was loud. My breath. His breath. My mind. It all seemed amplified.
His eyes lingered on my face. What was it he was looking for? What was it he saw?
Then, Pogue’s head lifted, back straightening.
“Time to go,” he said, striding past me.
And just like that, the moment was over.Maybe the assmask really was . . .just a mask.
Each step was a potential ankle-breaker. We steadily made our way back through the tunnels. Silently, I might add. Pogue hadn’t spoken a word since his moment of vulnerability. Not even a revisit to the wholeyou just killed an Ancientdilemma.No gratitude for saving him. No,how about you, are you okay?Nothing.
The tight, pussface had returned. If the gears in his head were working overtime, he wasn’t letting it show. But I could tell something was off, not just from the horrible torture, something else. The tension built between us. Uneasy. Something unspoken was brewing.
Barreling water grew louder as we approached the entrance. The cascade shimmered with a light blue hue, moonlight sparkling like stained glass. Mist swept over my skin, hitting my senses like the smell of rain before a storm.
It was a beautiful distraction. But my irritation was still growing.
Was he seriously going to gomutenow? Ignore me? Not even attempt to address the massive elephant—or Gorta—that’d been in the room?
Right as we neared the mouth of the entrance, I couldn’t take it anymore.
