He’s harshly chiseled, raw … fiercely beautiful. My lungs pull full of his scent, so deep and drugging, like smelted stone topped with a ladle of cream.
I hold the breath hostage, taking him in, admiring his black hair that falls just past his shoulders. It’s half pulled back off his face that’s partially shadowed by a few loose strands failing to soften his regard, his piercing eyes the rich molten color of fired wood.
His brows are thick, the lower half of his face shaded by a dark beard that adds a rugged texture to his already robust appearance. Like he belongs in one of the renown warrior clans that took root amongst the Boltanic Plains millions of phases ago, wielding an ax and a bloodlusting roar.
His gaze rips from mine, bouncing around our surroundings, searching every shadowed dip. I notice the tapered tip of his right ear is punched through with a small black cuff that encases part of the shell, but no beads.
He’s showcasing as a null—minus the clip—but I know better than to assume he doesn’t hear any of the elemental songs. Especially given the immense energy rolling off him, shoving against me. Making me feel as if he’s so much bigger than the space he’s currently inhabiting. Which is a lot, being a head and a half taller than me, his broad chest and shoulders reminding me of a Sabersythe. The bold, muscular sort of build often found in those with strong roots to The Burn—the hot, ever-sunny northern kingdom.
His condemning stare lands on me again, and it’s like a swift kick to the ribs. Winding.
Chest-deflating.
He’s looking at me like I just shoved a dead elemental off the wall. Or maybe I’m imagining things. I’m certain there was nobody else around …
The line between his brows deepens. “Are you okay?”
His dense voice skims my heart like flint scoured across stone, leaving a residue of sparks that crackle through my icy bloodstream in the strangest way.
Am I … okay?
I mirror his frown. “Are you mad?”
“Possibly,” he rumbles, voice like a spill of warm, rolling rocks.
A flake of snow lands atop my forehead, and my breath hitches as he lifts his spare hand, bringing it toward my face. Like perhaps he’s going to sweep the flake away. I catch myself falling into the motion before I realize he’s reaching for my veil.
The air between us turns stiff and sterile. Even Clode stops her whipping stir.
“I wouldn’t,” I purr, pressing a small iron dagger to his crotch—the dagger always notched just up my sleeve for times such as this.
His brow bumps up. “Quick hands.”
“It’s iron.”
“I can smell that,” he growls, his voice thick with the rich, exotic accent of northerners. “Name. Now. And not the fake one you gave to whoever hired you at the Hungry Hollow.”
Thorough.
Interesting.
I lean more pressure into my little iron blade that suddenly feels vastly inadequate against everything it’s pressed against, though I’m not one to stand down from a challenge. “No. But I’ll serve you your own cock if you don’t let go of my wrist.”
My words are sultry smooth, passed to him like a ballad I’m certain he’s going to appreciate less than the songs I sang all slumber … until the corner of his mouth flicks up the slightest amount.
Surprising me.
He makes a gruff sound, drops my wrist, then steps back, forging a small cleft of space between us that feels like a canyon I’m standing on the edge of—the arches of my feet tingling as a strange flutter takes flight inside my belly.
Confusion scrambles my thoughts.
“Thank you,” I announce, straightening my shoulders. Keeping my blade pointed at his crotch, I crunch the parchment into a tighter ball, then stuff it into my pocket.
Maybe I won’t have to kill him. He didn’t see me kill Tarik, hasn’t seen my face nor the notice I tore off the wall. He certainly hasn’t tried to take liberties with me.
Perhaps he’s not the monster I thought he was while he watched me sing all slumber with an obsessive sort of severity?
Not to mention the time it would take to drag him to the same edge I shoved Tarik over if I were forced to slit his throat where we stand. That’s even if I could drag him. I’d probably have to hack him into smaller bits—a messy task that sponges time. Something I’m swiftly running out of, Tarik’s hand a heavy weight in my pocket.
“If you’ll excuse—”
“There’s a dead male fae speared through the gut down there,” he says, brow arched, jerking his chin toward the wind tunnel’s gaping exit to the unmerciful plummet below—his voice a rough monotone that cleaves an even deeper split between my options.
“I just came from there, and I saw no male.” I keep my dagger steady, muscles poised. “All I saw was a monster.”
I hold his gaze, perched upon the sharp edge of indecision. Waiting for his response to stretch between us before I decide which way I’ll fall. Whether I categorize this male in the same box as Tarik or a different one.
A safer one.
His eyes bore into me like he’s excavating bits of my soul as he says, “On that, I heartily agree.”
I frown, open my mouth, close it.
Safe box it is.
“Don’t follow me,” I bite out, then pull my dagger from his crotch and stalk off down the nearby staircase without looking back.
Idump Tarik’s hand down a scarcely used, predesignated rubbish chute, waiting with my head pushed through the hole until I hear a whistle from another member of Fíur du Ath deep in the Undercity. Confirmation the package was caught. That the others will now work to free the younglings.
Being an Elding Blade, I kill. Nothing more. I certainly don’t rescue—that task left to others not so comfortable getting bloody. But part of me almost … yearns to this time.
This mission has been so personal to me. A large-scale passion project I fought hard to have approved. One that tunneled the Ath’s resources away from our regular missions that focus on implicating The Crown.
I turn, lean against the wall, close my eyes, and smile, a pleasant warmth spreading through my chest as I imagine the light igniting in those younglings’ eyes when they realize they’re free. Truly free—in a way I doubt I’ll ever fully understand.
Make yourself indispensable and folk dig their claws in. Doesn’t matter if they’re good or bad or somewhere in the middle. If there’s anything I’ve learned from this life, it’s that.
Still …
I hope those younglings like it at The Flourish. I’ve never been to the underground safe haven ruled by the Elding, and though I’ve heard it’s somewhere in the south, I don’t think I’ll ever know for certain.
See it with my own two eyes.
That would be considered retirement, and I doubt the leader of the Fíur du Ath has any interest in relinquishing my usefulness, instead plying me with placating missions I’ll happily accept. Especially ones that end like this, filling me with this warm feeling of momentary contentment. Like I’ve just scrubbed one of the many stains from this big, beautiful world I so desperately want to love.
Besides, I’m not so sure retirement would suit me. Not the sort that would undoubtedly come with a one-way trip to The Flourish. I think my fingers would get itchy.
There’s too much trash to take out.
Istep out onto one of the perilous skybridges that stretches between both halves of the wall—the silent city so far beneath me. At thirty-three levels up, this one is the highest, never used by others and crusted in layers of snow that crunch beneath my boots.
Reaching the middle, I lie on my back—as close to the clouds as I can get—letting the cold sink through my gown. Into my flesh and bones.
Deeper.
My eyelids flutter shut.
Fat flakes of snow patter upon my face and the lax scoops of my hands, and I focus on each icy point of contact, loosening the muscles beneath, releasing some of the tension I’d collected throughout the slumber.
Picturing myself as a dragon, wings outstretched, I tip and churn through the puffy pink clouds, so far above the world that all I hear is my heartbeat and the heavy thump of my imaginary wings. All I feel is the flexing strength of my body. Untethered.