The fantasy that she could fix him.
But that’s all it was—a fantasy.
Even if she wanted to shackle herself to a broken male, he’d still have his father to contend with.
He knew he’d have to let Xenia go.
Maybe tomorrow.
Or tomorrow.
Or tomorrow.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-FOUR
Hella’s incessant singing drifted through the walls of Cassandra’s bedroom as she dressed for the night ahead, her lips quirking up at the sound.
Whenever Hella wasn’t forced into silence for the sake of public decency, the red-winged Windrider croaked out tune after tune. Cassandra marveled that anyone could memorize that many song lyrics in so many different languages.
And what Hella lacked in pitch, she made up for in sheer volume.
The wall of sound had frayed Cassandra’s nerves during those first few days of her stay, but by now, Hella’s off-key warbling had become something of a comfort.
Cassandra pulled on a pair of navy leggings and a flowy, peach-colored top—stylish pieces appropriate for live music night at the Fang and Claw, but still comfortable enough for her to work in after. She studied herself in the mirror, questioning her sartorial choices. She wasn’t used to having options, her dress robes having been her uniform for so long. She wasn’t sure if she wanted the privilege. Disliked having to worry that she wasn’t dressed correctly, or hadn’t chosen the appropriate outfit for the appropriate event.
She tugged at the open hem of her sleeve, grateful that she no longer had to hide her Letha tattoo.
Earlier today, Cassandra had decided it was time to get a cover-up, lest she start getting questions about why it hadn’t faded. She’d dragged Hella to a tattoo parlor on the northern outskirts of Dienses Square. Pockets of darkness peppered her familiarity with the quaint, vibrant neighborhood filled with charming boutiques and artist’s shops. She felt certain she’d been there before. Perhaps researching the potential value of treasures stolen during her previous life, any specific details torn from her mind by Xenia in their quest for caution.
Cassandra had paused at an ivy-covered art gallery, snared by the striking piece displayed in the window.
A gilded frame bordered a portrait of a female Windrider, her head thrown back, her ebony arms and butter-yellow wings reaching for the twilight sky. Silvery, shining liquid clung to the female’s shapely body, cresting just above her breasts. She stood atop a pile of human skulls that crumbled to ash beneath her feet. The female’s sharp features were twisted into an expression that, viewed from one angle, could be interpreted as the height of ecstasy, and from another appeared to be gut-wrenching torment. Cassandra shivered at the title, etched in bleeding letters along with the artist’s initials onto a gold plaque at the bottom of the frame.
Delirium-SM.
A bold, dangerous piece to be displayed so prominently.
Cassandra had searched the painting for hidden Teles symbols, but hadn’t found any.
Shaking off the titillating, terrifying hope the painting had birthed in her heart, Cassandra crossed the square and entered the tattoo parlor. Hella had kept watch outside, her crimson wings blocking a majority of the view, while Cassandra approached the tattoo artist, a curvy Deathstalker female with purple-streaked hair and arms filled with colorful designs. Cassandra had gnawed at her lip, nervous to erase this central symbol of her identity.
As the first pricks of the needle had bitten into her wrist, Cassandra’s anxiety transformed into excitement.
A few hours later, Cassandra was a Shrouded Sister no longer. Joyful tears had misted her cheeks as the tattooist rubbed a soothing balm across the fresh new ink.
Cassandra fingered the bandage wrapped around her wrist as she left her bedroom and crossed the hall to knock on Hella’s door.
“I’m ready, Hella.”
“Be down soon, tiny human,” Hella sang back and Cassandra chuckled as she descended the stairs and plopped onto the couch to await her escort for the evening.
No sooner had she settled her head against the cushion than a knock sounded at the bungalow’s door.
Cassandra’s head perked up, instantly wary. She’d not received a single visitor this week. Was it someone looking for Tristan?
She padded to the door and peered through the peephole, startled by the shock of familiar flaxen hair poking out from underneath a dark hood.
She ripped the door open. “Aneka?”
