"We're going to bring North home," Tex said, his voice ironclad. "No man left behind."
Fly's chest tightened.
Pushing back from the table, the legs of his chair scraped against the stone floor with a sound that seemed too loud in the settling quiet. The others had dispersed, their footsteps fading down the corridor like echoes surrendering to night. He stood for a moment in the empty dining room, the guttering candles casting long, reaching shadows against the ancient walls, and he let his gaze sweep the darkness beyond the archway.
He found her in the kitchen, her silhouette framed against the moonlight pouring through the tall window as she rinsed wine glasses. She didn't turn when he entered, but her shoulders lifted with awareness, her spine straightening as if she could feel his presence like a physical touch.
"Alessia."
She set the glass down with a soft clink and turned, her dark eyes finding his immediately. The weariness in her face shifted into something warmer, something that made his chest ache with an entirely different kind of pressure.
Fly crossed to her in three strides, his boots silent on the tile. He stopped close enough to catch the scent of jasmine in her hair, close enough to see the fine tremor in her hands that she was trying to hide. "Will you meet me in my room?" he asked, his voice rougher than he intended, stripped bare by the day's revelations.
She reached up, her palms cradling his jaw with a tenderness that made his breath hitch. Her thumbs traced the hollows beneath his cheekbones, her touch electric, eager. A smile curved her lips, knowing, wanting, worried all at once. "Yousure?" she asked, her gaze roaming his face as if cataloging every line of exhaustion. "You look so tired."
Fly covered her hands with his own, pressing her palms harder against his skin, grounding himself in her warmth. "I only need six hours of sleep, sweetheart." He forced his voice steady, though his body screamed for rest, for oblivion. "I have a couple of things to gather, then I'll be up."
She studied him for a long moment, searching for the lie, finding none. Then she nodded, the motion small but resolute, her fingers trailing down his neck before she let her hands fall away. "I'll be waiting."
The library was tomb-silent, the shelves looming like sentinels in the darkness. Fly moved through the shadows without turning on the lights, his path memorized, his purpose singular. He stood over the table of all his research. He really didn’t need to review a thing. It was all whirling in his head like a mass of leaves caught in the wind.
What am I missing?
The font had reacted to her the moment Severance had attacked. It recognized her as the keyholder…but…wait. The power she had been given…. had been driven into Flash, and Lechuza had said she hadn’t meant to do it. What if she couldn’t stop herself because there was something between them Fly couldn’t see? That something was driving him nuts. If she were Y, then what part of the equation was Flash?
“What are you doing, boy genius?” He turned toward the door, and for one minute all he saw was the ghostly Jaws. His kite ached for the thermals. “You’re doing the same thing I told you not to do in the gym.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?”
“Sharks can never stop swimming.” He stepped closer, surveyed the clutter of paperwork on the table. “You’re not going to find your answers here.” He tapped Fly’s temple.“They’re here and you know it. Just tangled up with too much information you need to unravel. You need clarity.”
“I did have another plan.”
“I passed that plan in the hallway.”
Fly grinned. “It’s much more fun than pounding a bag.”
Shark chuckled. “And way softer.”
He turned, Shark’s words following him. “Let go. Take to the sky, and let yourself soar.”
Up in his room, Fly closed the door, the latch clicking with finality.
The scent hit him immediately, eucalyptus, sharp and clean, cutting through the must of old stone and older magic. It filled his lungs with unexpected clarity, clearing the fog from his mind even as his body cried out for rest. He followed it like a thread, his boots falling away somewhere in the darkness of the bedroom, his shirt following, until he stood in the doorway of the bathroom.
Steam rose in lazy spirals from the big tub, the water within glimmering like obsidian under candlelight. Alessia knelt beside it, her hair unbound and cascading over one shoulder, her sleeves rolled to her elbows.
She rose when she saw him, her movements liquid and unhurried, and crossed the tile to where he stood. She simply reached for his waistband, her fingers finding the button, stripping away the fabric, the weight, the armor he wore against the world, guiding him, steadying him as he stepped into the water.
The heat was shocking, perfect, enveloping him to his chest as he sank down. He let his head fall back against the porcelain rim, his eyes closing, his muscles surrendering by degrees.
Alessia poured water over his hair, her fingers working shampoo through the strands with gentle thoroughness, her nails scraping against his scalp in a rhythm that bordered onhypnotic. Then her hands moved to his shoulders, kneading the knots there, the tension that had coiled like serpents beneath his skin.
Fly let himself drift, his mind wandering through the corridors of memory and magic.
Again, his mind filtered through that first time at the font when it had given her immense strength, transformative grace, the ability to become the owl, to see through eyes that transcended human limitation. She had become something more than mortal at that moment, something tethered to the old magic, to the Veil itself.
The entire glade had lit up with it, the trees glowing from within, the air thrumming with potential energy, with the promise of completion. For one breathless moment, the font knew her…and him?
