And as I look on with disbelieving eyes, the Ghost growls low at Jeran and turns its head away from him. It stares around the ring, growling, twitching its head as if it doesn’t understand why its appetite for us had suddenly vanished.
“Oh hells,” Adena breathes beside me. There’s a glossy sheen in her eyes. Her words tremble. “It’s not attacking. Hells. It’s not attacking.”
I can only stare. My hands feel numb from the shock.
The Ghost has been subdued, by nothing more than a serum made from Red’s blood.
In my numbness, my gaze turns to Aramin. He’s watching Jeran stand unmoving beside the Ghost, who now seems to want nothing to do with him. Who now seems to have lost its purpose. The Firstbladeand Jeran lock eyes, exchanging some unspoken realization between them. In Aramin, I see a glint of fire that mirrors the hope stirring in my own chest.
I thought I knew what kind of weapon Red could be for us. A vicious killing machine, exactly what the Federation wanted him to be. But instead, it is this gift that he has given us. The key to the Federation’s downfall.
Beside me, Red is frozen like a statue. When I reach out to him through our link, I feel a wave of… something.
Not joy. Not relief. Not even vengeance.
Only anguish. Because all this Ghost reminds him of is the moment when he had to stop his own family’s suffering by ending their lives.
I don’t know where Red goes after we’re dismissed.
For a while, he trains in the arena, where maybe he wants to be alone after the demonstration. I think about following him to make sure that he’s okay—but the hollow, haunted look that was on his face stays with me. It’s the kind of expression that begs to be left alone. After all, it won’t be long now until the Federation shows up at the front of the Inner City’s gate. Our training arena will be theirs soon. Might as well use it while we still can.
So I return to the apartment without him, the distance between us making our bond fade until we can no longer send our words back and forth. Even though I miss his constant presence at my side, I decide to head out to the baths. The stench of the Ghost’s blood from the Grid’s yard seems to still hover in the air, as if the strands of my hair had absorbed the smell and made it part of me.
I make my way down the spiral of marble steps that leads to thebaths. Newage had been built near a cluster of hot springs; a circle of Early Ones ruins told us that those ancient people had also used this place as a bathhouse. This particular spring is reserved for the Strikers, and whenever I’m exhausted after a particularly hard rotation at the warfront, I’ll come down here amid a sprinkling of other Strikers to wash away the memories of blood and battle.
The baths are empty today. I’m not surprised. Most of the other Strikers went to the mess hall for lunch. I reach the bottom of the steps and head into the hazy, steam-tinted air. Archways made of creamy marble, restored and polished from the original ruins, are juxtaposed with newer stone pillars, forming paths that lead every which way, each ending in a long, rectangular pool of hot water. Windows cut high into the walls let the late afternoon sun stream in, illuminating patches of the marble floors and pools with golden light. It’s quiet and peaceful down here, so still that I can almost forget about the revelations we’d seen today.
I remove my long Striker coat and toss it onto the floor near one of the steaming pools, then strip off the bandolier for my daggers, the belt and blades at my hips, my vest, and finally my linen shirt. Finally, I let myself sink into one corner of a pool. The steamy water caresses away some of my ache. I let out a quiet breath, closing my eyes and letting myself luxuriate for a moment in the soothing heat.
In the darkness, I sense Red’s bond with me tense up, then sharpen and strengthen as if he’s nearing me. My eyes open in time to see his silhouette approach the bottom of the spiral marble steps.
I stiffen and duck down in the water to my chin. He pauses there at the first archway, blinking in momentary confusion at the sight of the baths, and then turns in my direction.
The Strikers bathe here?he asks me through our link.
I nod toward the pools at the far end of the hall.Usually the men go to a different—I start to reply.
Oh.He hesitates, looking farther down the hall, and starts walking toward the most distant pool. With half of his body in a beam of light and half in the shadows, he looks like a mirage that might melt into the darkness. I listen as his steps lead him away, and for a moment, I feel a strange sense of disappointment.
He pauses.Did you not want me to?he asks, and I curse his ability to sense my moods.
I scowl, blushing.No. Keep going.
He continues on. There’s silence for a while, followed by the faint sound of rippling water as he eases himself into his own steaming pool.
We can’t see each other from opposite ends of the bathhouse, but he’s close enough to talk through our bond, and that means he’s also near enough to send me glimmers of what he sees. I catch a glimpse of him looking over his bare, scarred shoulder at his wings, unfurled, the black steel blades of those feathers slicing down through the water’s surface. A patch of light from a nearby window halos his body in the afternoon’s glow.
My cheeks redden. It’s been too long since I’ve been with a man, and I can’t help but linger on the vision of his bare skin dewed with water. I take a deep breath, trying to still my thoughts. Even though I know he can’t actually see me, I stay ducked low so that all he can potentially see through our link is the bobbing surface of the pool. We stay quietly like this for a while, until I gradually start to relax again.
We can only speak from a certain distance, I tell him.
Yes, he replies.
When we’re far enough apart, I can still sense your emotions and see glimpses of your world. Can you do the same for me?
Yes, he replies again.But it seems the farther we get, the fainter that becomes.
What happens if we’re miles apart?
