25. Nora

25

NORA

T hat night, I'm plagued by dreams.

They're nightmares that could be memories or memories that could be nightmares; they all blur together. Even when they're smattered with inconsistencies, they're too close to the truth.

I'm carried across the house, one arm banded around my back and another under my bum. I latch onto my mother's waist with both legs.

Her footsteps change from thuds on the stair-runner to clacks on kitchen tile.

She puts me down, and I'm surprisingly steady on my feet.

"Elenora, darling?"

Hands caress my face; thumbs brush over the plump apples of my cheeks.

"I need you to talk to me, baby. What happened?" My mother's voice is soft but tense. Her hands try to pull my face to meet hers, but my neck is stiff. My gaze is rooted to the ground, where my black Mary Janes and white socks butt up against her knees. "Can you look at me, Nora?"

I blink, and I'm not looking at my shoes, but the blank eyes of my nanny staring up at me. I blink again and the world is back to patent leather, tile, and the fabric of my mother's moss-green dress.

A door slams shut, and wet, heavy footsteps follow.

"What's wrong?" My father's voice rings in the room. "I came as fast as I could."

My mother holds me, cradling my head to her chest.

"I'm sorry. I know I'm not supposed to call the warehouse unless it's an emergency. But I didn't know what to do," my mother whispers. "Her magic came in."

"Is it not the same as ? —"

"No," my mother is quick to cut him off. "Go upstairs. You'll see."

My father curses under his breath. I don't know how long it takes, but soon enough, he's back in the kitchen.

"It'll be fine," he says to my mother. "Don't tell anyone else. I'll take care of the rest."

My father's rough hand strokes my cheek, much like my mother's did moments ago. It's still damp from being out in the storm, but it isn't cold because the warm tickle of his magic spreads from his fingertips. It makes my shoulders un-scrunch and fall away from my ears.

Everything was so loud inside my head, but now it's dulled.

"Nora? Darling, are you okay?"

I look up and into the green eyes of my mother, then to the soft reassuring smile of my father. Suddenly my cheeks are wet, and my father wipes them off.

"I didn't mean to," I squeak. "W—We were playing a game, and when I lost, I got mad and then ? —"

"It's okay, baby girl," he says, and he repeats it to soothe my crying as I'm pulled into his tight embrace. "Take your time and tell me slow."

"I was mad and then I felt weird. In my tummy. And then I touched her and—" The sob gets caught in my throat. "I didn't mean to do it. I didn't mean to."

"I know." My father's large hand strokes from the crown of my head to the nape of my neck. "I know you didn't mean it."

I don't know how long we sit there, on the cold kitchen floor, with my father running his hand over my hair and hugging me. At some point we move to the couch, and I'm pulled into my mother's lap.

They whisper comforts in my ear, trying to soothe me, but I can't pull my stare from my hands.

I am unable to move, frozen with fear. My hands are sticky and red.

Why are they red?

The scene shifts, and I realize it's not fear, but helplessness swelling within me.

A lash of leather slices my forearms. Straining against the iron cuffs around my wrists, I bite back a groan.

I can't show my pain. I can't let my shields fall. That's the only way this ends.

But I can feel her magic in my head; it doesn't hurt, but it's strange. An entity that's other sliding under my skull.

My gaze locks on a ten-year-old Josie; while her stare is perfectly blank, every time the leather strikes my skin, her fingers twitch. It's her tell.

The red welts heal over only to be replaced by two more.

While she hasn't been in the chair, she's been at the mercy of Pride's tests for as long as I. She knows she's lucky she doesn't need to train her mind. She's already powerful enough to break past his shields if she wanted to—though she hasn't told him that.

She told me, though.

We keep each other's secrets, Josie and I.

At night, we sneak into the kitchen and steal leftover bread from supper, toasting it over the hearth in my room. Sometimes, we hide in the room next to Pride's office, and we press our ears to the vents, straining to hear what he says to the other Houses. We're too young to be included—we haven't passed our test of loyalty yet.

And once, even when Pride told us not to, we showed each other our wings. Hers were black as night. The feathers were soft as velvet under my fingertips.

She didn't want to touch mine, but that's okay.

We pinky promised we wouldn't show anyone else. We were sisters then. Not by blood, but by choice.

Josie shakes her head, and Pride sighs. Fatigue weighs me down, my eyelids heavy, but I can't lose consciousness, or this will go on longer.

"I can still get past," Josie says. "They fall as easily as blowing down a tower of cards."

"Nora," Pride scolds. "You must learn to keep your mental shields up and strong."

"I'm trying." My voice is hoarse from screaming.

"Try harder," he says. And strikes again.

Pride thinks that if I can manage blocking Josie while in pain, no one could ever break through my barriers.

Hours later, when it's done and I've passed to his satisfaction, I slump in my bindings. My lids fall closed—I have no strength left to keep them open.

Josie comes closer; I'm lifted from the chair and cradled in tiny arms on the cold floor.

Josie holds me.

I know she thinks that tears will come, but I have no tears left to shed. Especially not for myself. I'll let the sky pity me, cry for me.

I didn't choose to go down this path, but I choose to walk it now.

The scene shifts, the hazy world of memories and dreams tilting around me.

The scars on my back tingle—the phantom pains berate me.

I blink; this time, I'm not in my body. I watch on, a ghost haunting my own memory.

I don't see two ten-year-olds cradling each other in a dank concrete cellar, but two sixteen-year-olds, kneeling side by side. They're too young to be sacrificing such an intimate part of themselves for the trust of one man.

"You wish to pledge yourselves to House Pride?" he asks. His voice echoes through the cellar, an ancient rumble. "Once you do this, your loyalty to this House will be absolute. You will tie yourself to House Pride until death."

Josie's lips move, then mine utter the same pledge, though I can't hear the words. The dream is silent save for Pride's voice, deep and cavernous.

My wings are pierced through with iron. Blood runs down my back, twin rivers bracketing my spine. These are wounds that will scar; the iron blades mark us as survivors.

I scream when he hacks at my back—I don't mean to, but the pain is blinding. I see white, my whole world a blank piece of parchment.

Josie grips my hand, and I grip hers, nails digging divots into her palm.

And when the wounds have clotted and my back is bandaged, I stand on shaky legs. I glance down at Josie, and she stares up at me. She nods and closes her eyes, at peace with her decision, with our promise to each other.

I try to tune out her screams, but their song is carved into me like a record. Trace over the dips of my scars, and you'll hear her cries in harmony with mine. They are the same track, the same haunting melody.

As they bandage Josie, I stare at my hands.

I will never be able to wash the red from under my fingernails.

It's always there, an invisible brand. No matter how many times I soap and scrub, it never disappears.

I toss and turn under sweat-dampened covers. Each wink of sleep is as restless as the last; behind my lids, hours pass, but for my body, it's only minutes between each hellish memory.

At one point, I crack the window, hoping the mountain chill will soothe my heated skin and save me from my nightmares.

It doesn't work.

There are no telephones here, so I bat away the brief thought to ring Imogen—she'd probably still be awake, closing out the Den at this time of night. I opt for the next best thing: a cigarette and a cup of tea. One soothes the body, and one soothes the soul.

The mountain is quiet as I pad through the halls, the smooth stone cold on my bare feet. My steps are near silent but still manage to echo against the rounded ceiling.

When I reach the kitchen door, I pause, hearing soft murmurs and laughs on the other side. Pressing my ear to the door, I try to make out the low mumblings, but their voices are muffled. I don't wish to interrupt anyone, but it is nearly three in the morning.

If they wanted privacy, they could have retired to their rooms.

I push open the door and freeze.

The kitchen is small but still large enough to fit a long wooden prep table with two benches on either side. Silas and Wrath are huddled over two half-empty bottles of whiskey at the head of the table, drunk off their asses.

A wet stain on the wood shines under the warm candlelight, the evidence of one, or both, of them having spilled some of their drink.

They both turn towards me as the door hinges squeak shut; Silas's cheeks are flushed pink, while Wrath's neck flushes a deep tomato red.

I curse under my breath, more to myself than at them, but Silas hears me, his attention turning my way.

"Nora!" Silas says, far too loud for such a late hour. I flinch at the sound, turning my head to see Wrath wince.

Silas murmurs a sorry to Wrath.

I don't linger in my frozen state, deciding it is better to get in and get out as fast as possible. I move towards the gas range stove and grab the kettle from its hook, refocusing on my task.

"I just wanted some tea," I say, lifting the kettle for evidence.

The two men behind me volley back and forth, sounding like chirping birds in the morning.

"Do you want tea?"

"I could go for some tea. Do you want tea?"

"I think I want tea. Nora, can you also make us some tea?"

"Gods, help me," I say under my breath. I don't bother answering their request, simply adding more water to the kettle.

The gas stove ticks on, a small flame flickering into existence. I plop the kettle down on top of it, then I open the cabinets, searching for mugs. They're all miss-matched, which is odd, given this is royal housing. Shouldn't Silas have this stocked with porcelain dishes and matching enchanted cups like his castle in the city?

I go to the pantry, pulling three bags of tea. I drop one cloth bag of bundled leaves into each mug, while the two men behind me— boys, really —whisper to each other. My ears twitch to make out their slurred words.

With nothing left to do but stare at the kettle and wait for it to boil, I turn around and face Silas and Wrath.

Their whispers stop. They both stare at me with strange expressions.

Silas speaks first, eyes flicking over me quickly.

"You're barefoot."

"And you're drunk."

A lazy smile dimples his cheek. "I think that's a matter of opinion."

"Well, I'd say my opinion is that you're smoked. Both of you."

My eyes cut to Wrath, and he bristles, crossing his arms over his chest with a pout.

"Are you judging us?" he says.

I laugh through my nose, shaking my head. "Not in the way you think."

"You're always so judgy," he grumbles under his breath.

"Oh- kay ," I drawl.

So, Wrath is an honest drunk.

An awkward beat passes between the three of us where Wrath avoids my gaze, and Silas gets a devilish gleam in his eyes.

"We were celebrating today's achievement. But then, Robbie here made a bet that he could drink a half liter faster than me," Silas says, rolling his glass between his hands.

" You were the one who made that wager," Wrath says, seething. He points an accusing finger at Silas, so close that I think he's going to poke Silas's eye out. "I had to say yes otherwise you'd pull the king card on me—" He hiccups. "And don't call me that, especially in front of her ."

Silas turns to me with that I told you so smirk plastered across his face. "Robbie's very fun to rile up."

"I can see you enjoy doing that."

Another moment passes in awkward silence. The stove's heat sends warm waves up my back, which has finally cooled from my nightmares. I cross my arms over my chest, matching Wrath. His glare has lessened, but he's still visibly unhappy to have me interrupting.

"So, who won?" I ask.

"What?" Wrath says.

" Who won ?" I raise my brows at the two, head tilting to the bottles.

They share a look, the one that Josie and I share often—the one where two friends have a conversation with nothing but their eyes and a tilt of their head.

And then they break out into laughter. It fills the air; the deep timbre of it matches the warmth of the room. The illustrious Unseelie King and the deadly militia leader, boiled down to giggling boys.

I wait, unblinking, waiting for their laughter to subside.

"Neither, unfortunately," Silas says on a wheezing breath. "I got a smidge animated and knocked our glasses over. They spilled, and we lost our place. We settled for a draw."

"Ah, so he's a cheat too?" I volley to Wrath.

His eyes narrow on me, suspicious, but I can see the agreeing smile twitch at the corner of his lips. I might not like the man, but I can see what Silas is trying to do here. He wants to break the vitriol between Wrath and I. But, to what end?

Isn't that always the question with Silas?

"Yeah, he is," Wrath relents.

"You wound me with such accusations," Silas croons, one hand spreading across his chest. "I'd never cheat."

"Uh-huh," Wrath mutters as he takes a swig straight from the bottle of liquor.

"Did you know Wrath was named after his father?" Silas asks, turning to me, wounded facade gone and replaced with foxlike cunning. "He hated his father. So, he prefers his formal title. Makes me use it even though we grew up together."

"Are you going to tell her my entire life story?" Wrath snaps.

Silas shrugs. "Why not? Don't you know hers?"

"You know my facts, Silas." I roll my eyes. "Not my story."

At least, not the whole one.

Thankfully, the kettle sings: a high-pitched whistle piercing the air.

I busy myself with filling the cups with hot water, watching it leech color from the tea bags and fill my nose with a sweet aroma. I don't bother trying to find sugar or cream; they can have theirs plain or not at all. I bob the tea bags in and out a few times for each mug until it's steeped evenly.

Grabbing two, I walk them to the men and place one in front of each. I get a murmured thank you from Wrath, and I shoot him a tight smile.

When I've got my hot mug tucked between my hands, the hot ceramic nearly burning my palms, I turn towards the door.

"Sit with us," Silas calls from behind me, and I freeze.

Pivoting, I eye Silas through the steam floating from my mug. He tilts his head to the side, motioning to the empty seat beside him and across from Wrath.

"Sit."

The word is devoid of the tipsy-humor I've come to expect from him tonight. I war with the command, weighing the consequences of disobedience that his tone warns against. Then I remember what I have waiting for me beyond the kitchen door —an empty bedroom with only my mind for company—and my decision is easily made.

Without a word, I pad over to the bench and sit, leaving about a foot's distance between me, the end of the bench, and Silas.

Now that I'm sitting with them, I notice their state of dress. Their suit jackets are strewn lazily over the bench at Wrath's side. Both their shirtsleeves are rolled to their elbows, and their collars are unbuttoned, revealing a sliver of dark hair on Wrath's chest and a peak of black tattoos on Silas's.

"So," Silas says, gently blowing on his tea. His rings clink as he taps his fingers on the ceramic mug. "You both killed your fathers. Maybe we could talk about that."

" Adoptive father," I correct.

Wrath groans, his head falling to the table with a thunk .

"Why are you groaning?" Silas says, voice pitching up an octave. "They were both assholes that the Court is better off without. I would have found a reason to get rid of them at some point, but you both beat me to it."

Wrath's hands run through his hair, tugging on the strands as his head lifts. He glares at Silas. Though it conveys more exhaustion than anger.

"Silas wants us to get along," I say to Wrath, taking a sip of my tea. It's too hot to taste and it burns my tongue until it tingles.

"Clearly," Wrath deadpans.

"Why?" I quirk a brow at Silas.

"Because we need to be a team if we want to kill Patience," Silas says, matter-of-fact.

"Are we not a team by nature of cooperating?" I ask.

Silas shakes his head. "I need you two to trust each other in case something goes awry."

"I trust in your desire to kill him and Wrath's desire to follow suit. Is that not enough?"

I place my mug on the table. I pause, and Silas purses his lips. His gaze slides down my arms to my hands, where my ungloved thumbs run small circles on the ceramic.

"I'd prefer it if there was a stronger bond than that," he says.

"Friendship doesn't come easily to me. And I imagine it doesn't for him either," I say. I meet Wrath's eye. "Though I am curious, why don't you like me? I understand why Envy doesn't care for me, but what have I ever done to you?"

Wrath sighs, cheek resting on his forearms. "I see you for what you are, Pride. Someone willing to sacrifice others to get what you want. As I did."

Silas hums over his tea. "That's very insightful, Robs."

"So, that's all? I remind you of yourself?"

"Unfortunately."

I mash my lips together, forming a tight-lipped smile to hold back my laughter. It's such a silly reason, but it gives me the sudden urge to mess with him.

"Well, I don't like you because you always have a frown on your face," I say, leaning forward. "And you seem like a big stick-in-the-mud."

Wrath frowns, deep lines marring each side of his mouth. Silas cackles, loud and uncontrolled. He gets the joke. Wrath doesn't.

"I don't frown that much," Wrath says.

"Yes, you do," Silas and I both say at the same time.

"And I can be fun!"

"He can be," Silas says. "He wasn't always so grumpy and responsible."

"I'll believe it when I see it," I say.

"Don't tease him with a good time," Wrath groans, head hitting the table again. At this rate, he's going to have a bruise blooming on his forehead. "The man loves a challenge."

Silas and I share a conspiratorial look, finding a strange kind of common ground in teasing Wrath.

"Unfortunately, Wrath," I say. "So do I."

"Here," Silas says, pushing the bottle of whiskey towards me. "You need to catch up. I have an idea."

We come to a stop at a large metal door, so simple compared to the intricately carved wooden ones around the rest of Mt. Bramble. The hinges squeak as Silas opens it, and freezing midnight air rushes past us, ruffling our hair.

He swings his arm out to let Wrath and me pass; I take a tentative step out and the boots I had grabbed from my room crunch on a dusting of snow. I tug my long wool coat tighter over my pajamas, thankful for the whiskey flush providing me an extra layer of warmth underneath it. The air is sharp and dry, and my tongue darts out to lick my lips against the chill.

It's dark, but the stars and moon are bright, casting us in soft, cool-toned light.

The door swings shut behind us, the boom of metal-on-metal echoes in the small valley we stand in. On either side, jagged rock juts up into the mountainside. It's a long, natural alleyway with snow-covered targets set up along the length of the gorge.

It's a makeshift target range.

"Is this when you kill me?" I ask, turning to Silas.

He barks a laugh, making his way to an overhang against the back wall of our little carved-out spot in the mountainside. Shadows curl in his hand, forming a key that he uses to unlock a tall and thin cabinet.

"You're known to be a good shot," he says.

"Yes." I stretch out the word with suspicion. "And?"

He pulls out two rifles, a wild grin stretched over his teeth as he holds them up.

"I'd like to make a bet," he says.

"A bet," I scoff, peering up at the mountains around us.

Wrath groans, raising his hand like a grade-school student. "Can I not participate? I want to go sleep."

"No, you having fun is the whole point," Silas says. "You and me versus Nora. The loser has to make the rest of us dinner tomorrow."

"What's the point of having a cook if you're just going to do it yourself?" I ask.

"Humor me."

Silas hits me with puppy-dog eyes so wide, they could convince the gods to open the gate to their realm.

I look to Wrath for help in turning Silas down, but he shakes his head in miserable solidarity.

"It's very hard to tell him no," Wrath says, taking a direct swig from the whiskey bottle he brought up for us. "He'll keep pushing until you cave."

"Hey—some would call that determination," Silas chirps.

I sigh.

Fuck it. We're already out here.

"Fine."

I walk forward and grab one of the rifles from Silas.

"Attagirl," he croons.

Rolling my eyes, I walk away, going through movements I know by heart. I check the gun for ammo, peer through the scope —rubbing it clean with my trousers since it's covered in dust—and unlock the safety.

Silas uses his shadows to clear off all the targets; the strange wisps of night dance along the valley in stark contrast to the snow, much like Silas's own visage.

We take our places at a low wall that divides the space, settling over a faded marking on the ground. Wrath stands to my right and Silas sidles up to the other side of him.

I click my tongue at Wrath, holding out my hand.

"What?" he says.

I nod my head at the whiskey. "Gimme some of that. I'm fucking cold."

Wrath stares down at his hand, as if he forgot what he was holding.

"Oh."

He hands it over and I go to take a swig.

"Wait!"

I pause. "What?"

"Waterfall it."

"What?"

"Her spit won't kill you," Silas groans. Then he stiffens, curious concern slacking his features. "Wait, can it?"

"No," I say. "Are you stupid?"

"I don't like other people's germs," Wrath says, wincing. "Please waterfall it."

"Gods help me," I murmur, tipping the bottle back without it touching my lips. I don't pour too much down my throat, but it still makes me cough as I swallow it down. I hand the bottle back to Wrath and then wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. "Happy?"

He nods genuinely.

Asshole.

"Alright. Every round, we'll each get one shot. Start at the closer targets then move our way back. Best of five wins," Silas says. "You get the five on the left and we get the five on the right."

"You each get five, or are you sharing the five between both of you?"

"Each of us."

"So, your team gets ten shots? Hardly fair."

"I really don't have to participate," Wrath says, but we ignore him.

"Fine, we'll both shoot but only count the best of both of our shots."

"That's still not quite fair, but fine," I say. "No using your shadows to help guide your bullets."

"I wouldn't dare to cheat like that."

"Wrath would argue differently." I point at the man.

"I would," Wrath agrees with me.

"That's because I would cheat against him—it gets him all frustrated," Silas says.

"And you wouldn't cheat with me because?"

"I already make you frustrated by existing."

To that, I have no response. He is right.

"Fine. Let's do this."

I pull the gun to my shoulder and set my eye to the scope. Locking on the target, I take a steadying breath before pulling the trigger—the pop echoes through the small valley.

It's hard to see the target, but I know that I hit the bullseye.

I roll my shoulders back, tucking the gun at my side and cocking a brow at Silas.

"Your turn."

He chuckles, shaking his head as he brings his own rifle to his shoulder. His stance is stable, strong; he's familiar with a gun. It's not surprising, given most fae use modern weapons, though I'm off-put by his casual demeanor about it.

His shot rings out, echoing between the mountains.

I hope we don't cause an avalanche.

But no snow comes crashing down over us as we continue. Wrath holds his own, despite his drunk grumblings every time he pulls the gun to his shoulder. We go back and forth, taking our time, until Wrath and Silas's final shot rings out.

I smile when we make our way to each of the targets, tallying who got a closer shot for each round. It's close—closer than I would have liked. Three-two, with me coming out on top. And while I know I have the skill to beat them, I can't help but wonder if Silas went easy on me. As if he knew I needed a win.

"I hope you didn't let me win to be nice."

"Gods no," Silas scoffs, setting his gun down. He leans back on the wall, putting his arm around Wrath, who sits on top of it with the whiskey on his lap. Wrath winces when Silas jostles him. "I let you win so I could force you to socialize with us."

I huff a laugh, joining them on the ledge and letting my feet dangle. My soul feels playful in the moonlight, my body lighter than before, the lingering shadow of my nightmares nowhere to be found under the stars.

"The wager was that the loser had to cook . You didn't say anything about the winner needing to stay for the meal," I say.

Wrath cackles at my technical retort, the deep timbre filling the gorge.

"It seems I might win you over yet," I say, bumping my shoulder into Wrath's.

"Say that again when I'm of clearer mind."

"Yeah, I'm sure you'll be frowning at me again before sunrise," I say. "But that's okay. I'll still be a bitch in the morning too."

Silas gives us a suspicious side-eye while reaching into his jacket pocket. He pulls out a pack of smokes and a lighter, reaching over Wrath to offer me both. I pluck a cigarette from the pack, but shake my head at the lighter, pulling my own from where it lives in my jacket pocket. He shakes his head with amusement before sticking a cigarette between his lips.

"I didn't know you smoked," I say.

Clicking open the lighter, I ignite the flame and hold it close, shielding it from the wind with my free hand. When it's back in my pocket, I shake out my hands, the cold having made the joints stiff and numb.

"It's a new habit," he says begrudgingly. "I recently found myself craving the taste of smoke on my tongue."

Smoke curls around us in silence, mixing with the cloudy puffs of our breath.

I close my eyes, letting the burning embers warm my face—such an honorable little war the cigarette rages against the chilly mountain air. It's unexpected, the stillness we linger in. It's what three friends would do, not three strangers-turned-colleagues-turned-co-conspirators.

It doesn't last more than a few minutes before the itch to leave twitches through me. The one that warns me that the quiet is getting too loud.

I flick the half-smoked cigarette onto the ground and stand, smashing it into the snow with my boot.

"Well. This has been less than pleasant, but better than terrible," I say, retreating towards the metal door. "Goodnight."

"Night," Wrath parrots back to me.

"Sweet dreams, Nora," Silas says to my back.