Chapter 49

Istare blankly at a fading family portrait in the middle of the powder blue wall, framed by the aged branches of a tree that creeps from a terra-cotta pot perched in the corner of the room—the branches stuck to the walls reminding me of the mark that weaves across my shoulder.

Of the bloom I snipped.

Killed.

Of the men I also killed.

I flinch from the thought, absorbing another stab of sting as Gun dabs at my knuckles with a damp piece of cotton.

Their house is all old-world elegance, filled with houseplants I couldn’t bring myself to appreciate while I was led through the shop, up two sets of stairs, and down a hall into this room. It’s immaculately kept, smelling like freshly baked oat cookies I can’t imagine Gun making.

I study the framed rendition of him—much younger. Looking more like Zane and less like the Captain I know. There’s also a girl, perhaps younger than him, tucked between who I suppose are their parents, her hair twisted into a golden coif.

I stare at her, mesmerized by her petite features, and the regal way she holds herself. At her big, lilac eyes—a little too large for her face—and her lips, thin yet shapely.

There’s another dab to my knuckles, and I feel Gun’s gaze flick across my face.

“That hurt?”

“A little.”

I hear the words rasped in my voice, but barely feel them leave my lips. As though all my feelings, all my emotions, everything just … slipped away.

He gives a small grunt, then, “There’s something in there. Try not to scream while I dig it out.”

I think he’s jesting, but I can’t find it in myself to smile or even peel my eyes from the painting.

I’m still dressed in my gown and cloak, refusing to part with for fear of exposing that vile mark on my shoulder. A thick, fluffy towel is draped over me to soak up some of the wet—the extra weight making the tender nub on my clavicle throb.

There’s a light knock on the door, and Captain mumbles a curt “come in” while digging through my flesh with a pair of tweezers.

The man who answered when I first arrived breezes in with a steaming mug in one hand and a clay bowl in the other that he sets on the rug beside Gun.

“Did you send the sprite?”

Sprite?

“You think so little of my attention span that you think I’d lose sight of my task only moments after you dished it?” Gun stills, glaring over his shoulder at the man who swiftly throws him a wink. “Captain.”

Another grunt, and Gun gets back to digging between my knuckles while the other man offers me a steaming mug of something that smells like vanilla-and-cinnamon cocoa.

My hand tightens around my broken chain.

“I’m Enry.” He offers a warm smile that reaches his eyes. “It’s nice to formally meet you.”

“Same to you,” I say, pulling my injured hand from Gun to take the mug, setting it down on a small table beside the overstuffed upholstered chair I’m seated in. “Thank you.”

He moves toward the couch on the opposite side of the room where he sets a laden basket on his knees, busying his hands peeling garlic bulbs.

“You … sent a sprite?” My voice croaks with the question, heart heavy with the thought that it might have gone to Cainon.

That he could already be on his way here.

“To my sister,” Gun rumbles, and I breathe a sigh of relief, even as he pries a sharp splinter of wood from where it was lodged in the dip between my knuckles. He drops it into the bowl of water, rinsing his cotton before dabbing at my wounds again. “Hopefully she’ll soon be over with a change of clothes.”

I nod, lifting my stare back to the family portrait.

Family.

Something inside me twists.

“What happened, Orlaith?”

Long moments drip by while he continues to dab. I don’t let my stare drift from the painting. Don’t even blink.

What happened …

Her.

Them.

Me.

I want to scream it. But I want to hide it more.

From him. From myself.

I don’t want to think about Gael—about what they would have done to her had they succeeded in whatever it was they set out to do. I don’t want to think about the thrill I got from breaking that man’s face beneath my fist. I don’t want to think about the way my skin mosaicked as that fiery rage busted free—sawing.

Slaughtering.

I certainly don’t want to think about that brief moment right before, when whatever it is that lives inside me sat up and stilled—listened—as though it were asking for permission. As though I could have possibly prevented it had I only known how to say no.

Or perhaps it’s something else …

Perhaps I said yes.

That—

I don’t want to think about that.

I realize Gun’s hands have stilled. “Is there anything you need me to do? Anyone you need me to take care of?”

I blink, letting my gaze drop.

He’s sitting on the backs of his heels, elbows on his knees and brow pinched tight. The fierce look in his bright blue eyes settles something within, like I’ve been drifting down that river for the past few hours and have only now stopped. Like that child deep inside—the one who gifted her brother flowers to be made into a crown—senses the anchor he’s offering me.

My bottom lip wobbles, a lump forming in my throat. “My necklace is broken.”

He nods. “I can fix that.”

He reaches out a hand armored with thick calluses, the lines of his palm telling a story of hard labor.

Another shaky breath.

I swallow, release the necklace. Watch it fall into his awaiting hand with a dense thud.

My mask peels down, freeing me from its soul-crushing embrace, and I watch all the color bleed from his face. Watch his eyes widen so much I can almost see more white than blue.

The basket that was atop Enry’s lap clatters to the ground, garlic bulbs scattering across the faded rug, and Gun stumbles back, gripping hold of a short, wooden stool. Eyes locked on me, he sits upon it as Enry leaps to his feet and dashes the curtains closed on the massive windows lining one wall, blocking out the bold glow of the lanky street lanterns looming over the world outside.

He spins and stares at me through glazed eyes.

“Aeshlian,” Gun whispers, as though the word is a stolen secret.

I blink, sending a tear down my cheek. “I, um … I think so …”

His eyes soften, despite the hard set of his jaw, knuckles clenched around the chain he lifts between us—my pendant and conch both swinging back and forth. “How long have you been wearing this, Orlaith?”

How long have I been hidden?

“For as long as I can remember,” I whisper, voice cracking at the end.

He mutters something that might be a curse word, spoken in a language I don’t understand. “Enry?”

“I’m right here, Gunthar.”

“Not a word to anyone, you hear?”

Enry pats his chest, face aghast. “Do you not know me at all?”

“I know you too well.” Gun studies the broken clasp on my chain. “Your mouth is somehow my least and most favorite thing about you.”

“That’s …” Enry wobbles his head from side to side, deliberating, “actually rather charming.”

I bunch my hands into fists, making the raw wounds smart. “I don’t understand,” I blurt. “Why thesecrets? Why do I have to hide?”

Gun shares a side-eyed look with Enry, who says, “You were never told?”

“I’ve been told nothing. That’s why I’ve been hunting for Madame Strings. I heard she knows a lot of things and I … I just …”

“You don’t hunt for her,” he growls, the color bleeding from his face. “You don’t even breathe her name, do you understand?”

My heart stills, like he’s lumped something heavy on it.

I’m just not sure what it is yet.

“Shit.” He looks to the floor, up again with a stare that plunges through me. “Orlaith, Madame Strings is a member of a cult religion that hangs off every chiseled word of the prophet Maars. A small band of the truly hardcore worshipers have spent years hunting your people in the name of the stones, believing they’re doing the Gods’s work.”

An itch flares across my shoulder, making me want to scratch the tender wound that’s throbbing with newfound life. “Shulák?”

He nods.

“What … what are they doing with us?”

“They believe your kind will hail the world’s end,” he mutters gruffly. “An end that’ll never come … if you’re all extinguished.”

The blood drains from my face as the realization of what he’s saying dawns on me, every sharp word a withering strike.

“They kill us?”

He nods. “You show yourself to the wrong person, and yes, you’ll be put down. Hacked in—”

“Gunthar!” Enry pads the air with his hands. “Stop!You’re scaring the poor thing.”

Thing …

“She needs to hear!” Gun bellows, and there’s a fury in his voice that rips right through me.

He looks at me again, and I want to clap my hands over my ears. Want to crawl under a table and hide from the blows.

“Show yourself to the wrong person,” he repeats, slower this time, “and you’ll be hacked into pieces.” All the breath rushes out of me. “Sold on the black market—”

“Stop!” I scream, and he does, holding my stare for a few stretched moments before hanging his head.

A heavy silence fills the room.

Gun clears his throat, looking up from beneath his bushy brows. “I’m sorry, Orlaith … but I need you to know.”

I nod, swallowing the ache rising up my throat, the bile threatening to spill.

I’ve been looking for answers, now I’m desperate to shove them back in the tomb. To leap back in time and keep the questions raging in my chest, gnawing at their bars.

It hurt much less than this.

“There’s some sick, twisted people out there, Orlaith. You don’t trust anyone, do you understand? Nobody. Not even your promised.”

The words toll in my ears like a warning bell …

“Tell me you understand.”

“I understand,” I rasp, and his shoulders loosen.

“This”—he shakes the necklace at me, held in the clutches of his clenched fist—”I’ll fix this.” Then he’s up, moving toward a desk in the corner, setting a wiry pair of spectacles on his face as he gathers some bits and begins tinkering away beneath the golden glow of a candelabra.

Show yourself to the wrong person, and you’ll be hacked into pieces. Sold on the black market.

That’s the reason Baze was hiding. The reason I haven’t seen more of my people around.

They’re either scared to show themselves …

Or they’re dead.

My gaze drops to a nick in my thigh, almost the exact spot as the wound Kai healed with his tongue—directly above the heart-shaped birthmark that’s strangely absent without my mask.

I watch the opaline substance dribble from the hurt, captivated by the liquid shimmering with light of its own, leaving a soft rainbow smear that paints over the red.

That pretty shade of pink I loved so much when I dripped my blood into the water I gifted Rhordyn … it seems even that was a lie.

Enry crouches before me.

I blink, and his gaze chases a rogue tear rolling down my cheek.

“May I?” With my nod, his hand drifts up, catching the bead. The pad of his thumb comes away glistening, and he stirs it through the water blushed from my wounds. After using the cotton cloth to dab at the cut on my leg, he drops that in the bowl of water and stands. “Be right back.”

A chill hits when he swings the door open, and I wait, listening to the shrill metallic taps of Gun fixing my necklace.

When Enry returns, he’s carrying some waxy material, some string, and a small terra-cotta pot the size of a mug, filled to the brim with soil. He kneels, scooping his hand into the blushed water, dribbling some atop the soil before wrapping it into a well-contained package he offers me.

Frowning, I take it, seeing a soft smile touch his lips. “You are light, my love. Light and life and all that is good.” He sets his hands around mine, his touch warm and grounding, palms smooth. “That is what you cling to.”

I nod, even though the words feel like another skin that doesn’t fit right.

Gun casts me in his big shadow, necklace in hand. “May I?”

“Let me just …” I clear my throat and reach for my knapsack, easing the package into it, “put this away.”

I look down at my hands as Gun pushes my hair to the side and threads the chain around my neck, clipping it in place.

My mask suctions to my polished skin, painting me in the lie.

I watch the pearlescent shine drain from my hair, the heavy locks tinting gold. Watch the blood oozing from the hurt in my leg begin to bleed red, blotting the evidence with my cloak.

I look up to see them watching on, Gun rubbing at his stubble while Enry shakes his head, one hand on his hip, the other cupping his mouth.

A distant knock splits the silence, and I look to the door, white-knuckling my towel—feeling just as bare as I did the moment I climbed from that brook, despite the wet layers of clothing and my reconstructed mask.

Gun frowns, speaking to Enry in hushed tones. “Relieve Della of the parcel and send her on her way.”

“That’s going to go down like a bag of horse manure.” Enry snorts. “Do you even know your sister?” He shakes a hand, muttering as he clicks the door shut behind himself.

Gun rubs at the stubble on his jaw again and lets out a deep sigh. “Gonna grab some ointment for your knuckles,” he says, moving toward a cupboard at the back of the room. “I’m sure Enry stashed something in there one time.”

The door shoves open so fast it cracks against the back wall, and Zane spills in like a ray of sunshine and mischief, making my heart lurch into my throat.

“How did you get here so fast?”

“Back window,” Zane boasts, dashing toward me as I tuck my hair behind my ear and try to smooth it down so I don’t look as frightening as I feel.

Shaking his head, Gun pulls the cupboard open, disappearing inside it with a lantern. Zane stands before me, pushing the flop of hair from his worried eyes. His gaze bounces across my split knuckles, down to the bowl of bloody water now stained with a hint of shimmer.

I open my mouth to speak. To ask him how he is; tell him I missed him; that I’ve got something special at the palace I can’t wait to gift him—

“What’s happened?” he blurts before I have the chance, wearing a look that makes him appear so much older than he is. A look that reminds me of my brother—of the way he tucked me against the wall beneath the table after holding me close and saying he’d look after me.

Always.

“It’s …” The word comes out choked. “It’s nothing for you to worry about. I promise.”

“Are you in trouble?” He pulls something from his pocket and holds it out. “Do you need my—”

My heart shatters, tears welling at the sight of the token in his hand. “No, you keep that for yourself.” A smile skims my lips as I reach forward and fold his fingers over the piece of gold. “I’m fine, Zane. Cross my heart.”

His eyes go all stern and stubborn, jaw set, hand still outstretched. “Don’t lie to me. I’m not a kid, you know!”

Oh, Zane …

Gun shuts the cupboard door and spins, carrying a tin tub, and I squeeze Zane’s hand, urging him to put his token away with a pleading look.

Finally, he does—stepping back, allowing Gun to get to work smearing an ointment on my knuckles under his intense scrutiny.

“No, I will not just hand you the clothes, you daft oaf!” A female’s voice, shrill and stern, accompanies a chorus of thundering steps.

Cap stills, stare stabbed at the doorway. “Dammit. Should’ve gone myself.” He sighs, popping the lid back on the tub as the woman continues her piercing scald from somewhere down the hall.

“A female turns up bruised and bloody and, I’m sorry, the last person she’s going to want to talk to is my rough and tumble brother!”

“I assure you, Della, we have everything under contr—”

“Codswallop.” The woman bursts through the door in a flutter of blue silk sodden from hem to knee—an explosion of fiery energy that fills the room.

The woman from the portrait.

Though she’s older now, she still holds the same lithe beauty.

She takes one look at me and halts, dropping a soft package to the floor at her feet, every ounce of determination slipping from her elegant face.

I still beneath the power of her slack-faced stare, blood icing in my veins. Perhaps the necklace isn’t properly fixed? Perhaps she’s seeing through the cracks to the real me shining through?

Her gaze drops, landing on my bare thigh, on the cut that’s yet to be bandaged.

Hand flying to her mouth, she releases an anguished sob.

“Della?” There’s a sharp edge of concern in Gun’s tone as he steps toward his sister, and then she’s on her knees, hands cupping her crumbling face, rattling off words in a different language—one word rolling into another. Gun kneels before her, holding her by the wrists.

Shaking his head.

She babbles, sobs, points … Zane’s eyes widen as he watches his mother break apart on the floor.

Cap looks at me over his shoulder, then shakes his head, hard and fierce. “Sheil de nah pa. Gahs ke, Viola! Sheil de nah pa …”

Della snarls, shoves him back, and pushes to a stand. She snatches a lantern and dashes to the cupboard, pulling containers off the shelves she starts to dig through.

Enry studies me from the door—really studies me—as though he’s seeing me for the first time.

I frown. “Is everything okay?”

Silence.

Della emerges from the cupboard with a book clutched against her chest, hands trembling as she walks to me, kneels at my feet, and splits it open, pointing at the first page.

The painting.

Della’s there—a perfect depiction of her much younger self, cradling a small child no older than one with big, lilac eyes and a mop of curly hair the color of straw, her chubby face struck with a smile that lights her up. She’s wearing a blue tunic trimmed in gold, her otherwise bare legs capped in little bootees with a lace frill.

“I don’t understand,” I admit, and she points to the child’s leg. To the birthmark—a love heart.

Same color.

Same spot.

Mybirthmark …

My heart lurches, breath hollows.

Her warm, soft hand comes up to cup my cheek. “Viola …” It’s whispered. The word such a gentle thing passed to me in a shaken voice.

“Viola,” she repeats, and I let my eyes lift, landing in the wide, hopeful, lilac pools of hers.

“Her daughter—” Gun starts, voice cracking. He clears his throat as my focus shifts past Della to his troubled stare. “My niece. She, ahh, contracted the Blight as an infant. Della was only eighteen at the time.” A long beat, then, “We buried her in the backyard with her grandparents.”

My throat tightens, stare sliding back to Della. “I’m so sorry for your loss …”

She shoves the painting in my face, shaking it so much I flinch. “Viola!”

Realization knifes into me, and my heart drops, splits, shatters …

She thinks I’m her daughter.

I’m not. I have a mommy. A family.

Had.

Though I can’t deny the resemblance between myself and her daughter, I’m something very different beneath this skin she thinks she knows.

I can’t look at the painting. Can’t look in her eyes and tell her this is nothing more than a tragic coincidence. That her little girl’s not here, not coming back, because I know the burn of that hopeful flame, even when you know it’s useless.

Sometimes, it’s the only thing that keeps you warm.

“I’m so sorry, I have to go …”

Her sobs attack me as I slip my towel off my shoulders and stand, easing past. I grab my knapsack, give a slack-faced Zane a kiss on the head, and make for the door. Barrel down the stairs on feet that won’t move fast enough.

It’s only once I’m outside, backed into a large cleft between the big rocks the fishermen use as seats, that I stare across the angry ocean, press the back of my hand to my mouth, and break.