Chapter 18

They rode through the night—under a crescent moon, the golden star blazing on the horizon—before stopping to set up camp. Sorcha was surprised that the small tent she’d shared with Adrian so far expanded to create a much larger space. The walls were thinner, not doubled over to keep the cold at bay. And with fabric stretched as tight as it could go, the interior was large enough for them both to stand comfortably.

The bites throbbed and were painful and swollen, but they weren’t as bad as the fear had been. Watching those creatures come out of the walls, as if they hadn’t been solid stone only moments before, had been a waking nightmare. She could live with the pain of the bites—and the scarring—as long as she didn’t see those creatures again.

Sorcha stayed with Epona long after Adrian had overseen the camp being set up—it looked as all the others had. A central campfire with tents gathered around it in two circles. Adrian’s tent was in the inner circle, but with enough room all around to give Sorcha an illusion of privacy.

The Tomeis ignored her for the most part. Occasionally, she felt the pressure of observation, but no one would ever meet her gaze except for Revenant. He watched her with that unnerving silent malice. Sorcha could never hold his gaze for long.

“Your tent is up.” Ivo reached out to pat Epona’s flank. “Adrian is looking for you.”

Sorcha turned to him, surprised he was addressing her at all. But then, maybe Adrian had sent him to find her. Ivo had been a kind of personal guard in the moments when Adrian left her alone. But he’d never spoken to her. Epona’s ears pricked in his direction, and she turned a curious eye toward him.

He was a short man with pale eyes and a weatherworn face. Burn scars marred his hands, the flesh deep red and gnarled. But she felt no warmth or comradery with him beside her. Would he protect her because Prince Eine demanded it? Or because Adrian expected it? Toren’s warning surfaced: These men would kill you if they could.

“Why don’t you address each other with titles?”

The question was out before she could stop herself. Epona snorted, bumping Sorcha with her nose as if even she knew it was stupid to ask such personal questions. To her surprise, Ivo remained, watching her thoughtfully. She raised her hand to apologize, to tell him he didn’t have to share any kind of information when he spoke.

“Adrian has never demanded it. He knows who he is. We know who we are. To those outside our circle, he is the Wolf, and we are the Black Tomeis.” Ivo shrugged as if this had all been settled long ago and her questions were ignorant.

“Thank you,” she said with a nod, giving Epona one last affectionate pat before heading for her tent.

* * *

The pressure of the relics—their nearness, the expectation—was almost overwhelming. The tent housing them was set up near Domenico again. The man sat before them as if on guard. But from whom? Were they worried she’d try to ride off with them? Or that someone would appear to claim them?

Sorcha wanted to touch them again, to search for that connection she’d felt fleetingly at times. It had ebbed and flowed, a voice growing louder, a whisper becoming a shout—a command—demanding things she could not yet understand. But a large part of herself, the one growing stronger day by day, never wanted to speak the Saint’s name again.

To her surprise, Adrian was waiting for her at their tent, holding the flap open so she could pass beneath it. She did so, brushing past him, so aware of him she couldn’t breathe.

“You need to clean and dress those bites,” Adrian said, pausing at the tent flap. “I’ll be back with hot water.”

Sorcha nodded and pulled at the high neck of her dress, ready to peel it off and get clean. She turned to her pack, where a change of clothes was beside her rolled furs. Adrian had placed them there, opposite his own things. As he always did. Thoughtfully, Sorcha removed her gloves and boots and placed them beside the items.

Slowly, she began to remove the layers of clothing, wincing with pain. The bites hurt, but they were only a part of the whole—each muscle and bone was sore from riding for weeks on end. The last time she’d seen a real bed was the Traveling City. And a true bath. Sorcha would have crossed hot coals if there were a real tub on the other side.

* * *

Adrian paused as he entered the tent. Sorcha stood with her back to him, showing an expanse of bare skin dotted with purple bruises. Her rich brown hair hung over her shoulder and swept across her bare shoulders, the rest of it clutched to her chest. He could see several bites, but none of them looked serious—puncture wounds that were no longer bleeding. Painful, yes, but not infected that he could see. She hadn’t been clear about what had been in the cave. What kind of creature would leave a mark like that? He’d ask her again when she was clean and had eaten.

“There will be food soon,” he said, setting the small pail of warm water near the brazier. “I don’t know whose turn it is to cook.”

Sorcha snorted.

Everyone disliked Bran’s cooking, but it didn’t matter. They would all eat it. The Black Tomeis lived their whole lives at the behest of Prince Eine. That meant rarely staying in one place, with most meals thrown together while they conquered cities or beheaded kings. None of the group enjoyed cooking, so they all took turns.

“Thank you for the water,” she said, glancing at him.

Adrian watched as Sorcha turned to him, drinking in the sight of her. Even worn out and tired with several frightening bite marks, she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He vividly remembered the empress when the empire claimed she was the most beautiful woman alive or dead. He’d been in the court when a princess from the Biser Islands to the east had been presented, the most famous beauty in her father’s court. There had been others. Prince Eine’s court was full of women revered for their looks—pretty faces and cunning eyes.

He’d felt nothing for anyone for so long.

Until Sorcha.

His hands felt white-hot at the idea of touching her, and he wanted to place his bare hands on her skin, wanted to feel her against him. He watched as she carefully moved the skirt of her riding dress to reveal a pale thigh.

The tattoo he’d seen before was gone.

“When did that happen?” he asked.

Sorcha hesitated and then shrugged. “As soon as I touched the relic.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t,” she admitted with a sigh. She cocked her head to the side, staring into the middle distance. “I thought—” But she stopped and shook her head.

“What?” Adrian prompted.

“Maybe there was a tingle? Or burn? But maybe I’m imagining it now that I know what the result is.” Sorcha shrugged, seeming disappointed with her inability to answer definitively.

“And no one told you it would happen?”

“Maybe they didn’t know. Maybe they didn’t think it was relevant. Maybe I would have found out later.” She dropped her skirt and smoothed it down, running her hands across the fabric.

He wanted to lift her skirt over her thighs, watch her face to see if she would refuse or encourage him. He wanted to bury his face in her soft flesh, feel her tremble and weave her fingers into his hair. He wanted to know what sounds she made when she came.

His mouth went dry.

“None of the books talked about this. None of the books I’ve seen, at least. I think that as we collect the pieces of the Saint, as it comes together, the tattoos will continue to vanish. There’s no reason for them to stay, for me to have them, once he’s alive.”

* * *

The paintings in the cave flashed before Sorcha—blood and gold, rubies and sharp knives. An army of skeletal vampires was coming for her, mouths agape, bare bony fingers clutching. Sorcha shivered. The Saint would live, but she would not. That much had been clear. A blood sacrifice must be made—an exchange.

There was one tattoo on her hip—where the bones connected femur to hip—that she’d kept hidden from the Mapmaker. No one had seen it, and she didn’t intend to share it. She was struggling to accept the only thing she’d been raised to do. But what if there were a different way? What if it just required blood and not her life? Could there be somebody else who could lie down beside the Saint and accept the blade? Could there be someone else who could give the Saint the humanity he desired?

She didn’t know.

She wished there had been more lessons. She wished she’d been more determined and curious, had pushed to know more. There had been so many days spent frivolously going to the perfumer’s market and spending time with her friends, nights running through the city, sipping wine, and laughing. There had been so much time for her to go to the library or sit in the inner temple, time to seek out Kahina Kira or Rohan and beg for the answers to the questions now lodged in her chest like arrows.

But she hadn’t.

A few months ago, she would have said she knew everything necessary for her position in the Aureum Sanctus. Every piece of history attached to the vessel. Sorcha had made too many assumptions. Now she understood she was merely the sacrificial lamb.

Adrian studied her. They stood close together—she could have reached out and touched him. Sorcha was so aware of him, his nearness in the space, and how badly she wanted to bridge the gap between them. If her time was limited—if the whole world was going to end—would it really matter if she took something for herself? Something she desperately wanted?

Without hesitation, moving before she could second-guess herself, she threw her arms around Adrian’s neck and pulled his face down to her.

His hands remained at his sides, his eyes locked on her face.

“Kiss me,” she whispered, watching his mouth. Then louder. “Kiss me.”

Adrian’s face was blank, his dark eyes giving nothing away. He didn’t lift a hand to touch her.

Each breath came quicker as she waited for him to make a choice. Kiss me. She willed him to move, to place his hands on her body, to engulf her senses.

But he remained motionless.

Sorcha laughed, releasing him—returning the borrowed moment of intimacy. Embarrassment burned in her cheeks but left her insides cold. Of course he wasn’t going to kiss her. He’d turned her down once already at the edge of the lake—tried to scare her into never touching him again. Nothing had changed. She closed her eyes, shivering with the memory of his black-gloved hand on her throat.

Do you want a monster in your bed?

Yes.

She shook the thought away, but it was replaced with the flash of Adrian in the dark at the ruined temple when he’d held her so close and promised to protect her from all the other monsters in the world. Each dream, each nightmare, held his shadowy figure, his hand outstretched and waiting. But she couldn’t force him to take something he didn’t want. Because of duty. Loyalty.

Adrian’s hand clamped on her shoulder, and he jerked her back against his chest. Sorcha yelped in surprise. He brought his hand over her mouth—bare palm to mouth—as his other hand slid around her waist. His lips brushed her ear, and she shivered, nipples tightening, stomach dropping away in a rush.

“Sorcha.” Adrian’s voice was rough—full of tension. “Be quiet.”

A rush of blood filled her ears, leaving a buzz and throb as the hand over her mouth slid down. He took his time, pressed against her, following the curve of her throat. She gripped his arm and squeezed her eyes shut as he paused, praying to everything holy and unholy in the world that he wouldn’t stop.

He spun her around, leaving her dizzy with movement, eyes still shut. The night sounds beyond the canvas disappeared. Nothing mattered more than his hands on her and the way she melted into him, ready and willing to accept damnation.

“Open your eyes.”

Sorcha did, but couldn’t bring herself to meet his gaze, afraid suddenly that she would see rejection there despite the desire radiating from him. She trembled, longing and anticipation warming her veins. Adrian slid a hand into her hair and jerked her head back, forcing her to meet his gaze.

She gasped, and the moment she opened her mouth, he kissed her.

The world narrowed down to his mouth on hers, with one hand on her backside and the other still in her hair. His tongue swept across her bottom lip and into her mouth, forcing her to open for him. A whimper escaped her throat, and he groaned, tightening his grip on her.

The world stopped as she clung to him. Everything in her body screamed yes. The last few weeks vanished from her mind. None of it mattered. The only thing that made any sense was his mouth claiming hers.

His hands wove deeper into her hair and tilted her head, deepening the kiss. She pressed her body against his, holding tight. She gripped his shoulders, gasping as he ground against her. Adrian kissed her as if the world were ending and death would take them at any moment. Sorcha tipped her head back as his lips moved along her jaw, mouth brushing her ear.

“We have to stop,” he whispered.

“Why?”

Her heart beat frantically in her chest—rapid, running away from what was coming next. Gently she placed a hand against his cheek, rough with a few days of stubble, and closed her eyes.

Adrian didn’t move, keeping his face pressed into her hair and one hand fisted in the fabric of her dress.

Sorcha froze, hands falling from his shoulders even as he held her tight. When she moved, he released her instantly, leaving her cold as she stepped away and kept her back to him. The little fire in the brazier flickered, low and deeply orange, on the verge of plunging them into the dim shadows of early night.

“Because you don’t want me?” she asked softly.

“Because you are the vessel and I am the Wolf.”