Cal curled his lip. “Slimy.”
“At least he was taking a bath in water that’s … clean, even if it’s filled with table salt. He won’t be, uh, briny. You don’t think he’ll try to climb in bed with me, right?”
The revenant shook his head. “I’ll take care of it,” he replied shortly, and nudged her shoulder with the butt of his beer bottle. “Go to bed. You almost died twice today.”
“Surprisingly, not a new record.” She sighed as she pushed off the couch and retreated to her room with more energy in her movements—probably genuinely excited to finally sleep in her bed. Even from the other room, behind a closed door, Cal could feel her relax and eventually drift off.
Yeah, he’d run. If he had to—if she turned out to be just as bad as her father—he’d leave her behind in a heartbeat. Before she could stop him.
He was surer of that than of anything else.
When Edie woke up, it was light out, and there was shouting coming from somewhere in the apartment.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit! She tossed her comforter off and bolted out of bed, almost tripping over her guitar case on her way out of her room. With a groan, she kicked it under her bed and flung open the door, looking down the hall.
Sure enough, there was Mercy—in her patterned shorts and fishnets, a crop top, and her black sun hat—cussing Cal out. He stood in front of the bathroom door with his arms crossed tightly, mouth pressed into a harsh line.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” Mercy was demanding. “This is my apartment! If you don’t leave right now, I’m calling the fucking— the police!”
Oh, god. This was bad news. Mercy would never make a scene like this unless she was really pissed off.
“Call the cops, see if I care,” Cal growled, taking his lighter from his back pocket and starting to light a cigarette.
Mercy straight-up smacked it out of his hand. “That is it! You— you asshole! I’m getting Edie.”
She spun on her heel, probably barely refraining from trying to physically throw Cal out of the apartment, and came face to face with Edie. Her round sunset glasses slipped down her nose as she looked Edie over, thick brows drawing inward and lips pursing
“You look awful,” she said, her voice filled with anger, but also sincere concern. No doubt she was wondering what sort of drugs Edie had been getting into, if their last conversation was any indication.
Edie sighed and smoothed back her hair. “I know. What’s going on here?”
“Your new friend”—Mercy flung an arm in Cal’s direction—“says I can’t go into the bathroom. What the heck are you doing in there? Edie….” Her voice became strained, and she reached forward and took Edie’s hand. Her grip was tight. “Edie, what’s going on? What’s happening? Did something happen?”
Edie tried to laugh it off, smiling. “I’m fine, Mercy. Seriously. How was your night? You weren’t around when I came home.”
“I was at Drake’s.” She shook her head. “What’s going on? Why can’t I, y’know, go in my bathroom?”
There was a slippy squeaking sound from the tub, very audible from the hall. Both Edie and Mercy turned to look in that direction. Cal sighed in frustration.
“What— Is there someone in there?” Mercy let go of Edie’s hands and tried, once again, to push past Cal.
It was about as effective as trying to shove a brick wall. He hip-checked her and managed to get her at arms’ length, though he didn’t touch her. “Take a walk, sweetheart.”
Mercy’s mouth hung open. She turned back to Edie and took off her glasses. “Aren’t you going to tell him to stop?”
Silence fell between them.
When Edie didn’t answer, Mercy continued, “Or is this just you now? You meet a new guy and two days later you’re letting him cook meth or whatever in our bathtub?”
Edie tried not to gag at the “new guy” part—ew—and shook her head. “Mercy, it’s just … complicated.”
It wasn’t all that complicated, just weird, really. Unbelievable. Not something a sane person could or should tell their sane friends. But her heart was aching, lying like this. Mercy didn’t deserve to be so worried about her all the time.
Astrid had mentioned that Edie might lose things now that she knew about the truth all around her. She had never guessed one of those things would be a long-standing friendship.
Mercy looked at her for a long time before putting her glasses back on and grabbing her purse from the couch. “Fine. Whatever. It’s none of my business, anyway.”
She started for the door. It took everything in Edie’s power not to go after her.
“I’ll see you whenever,” she heard Mercy say before slamming the door.
Edie stood still for a while after Mercy left. The apartment was silent. Her face felt numb all over; she didn’t realize she was crying until she heard the tears pattering on the carpet below her.
When she started sniffling, Cal uncrossed his arms and came to her.
“Hey … kid. It’s all right.” He laid a heavy hand on her shoulder and steered her to the couch, sitting her down. “She’ll come back.”
“You have to go after her,” Edie said, taking his shoulders and squeezing hard.
He looked uncomfortable—probably both from being touched and her vulnerable state. “Don’t think she’ll come back if I ask her.”
“No, I mean follow her. Please? What if she goes to the police? What if, I don’t know, one of the Gloaming find her?”
Cal snorted. “They’d probably just think she was one of them. The Gloaming is full of goth chicks.”
“Cal! Please, god, just stop and be serious for, like, two seconds, okay?” Edie threw her hands up. “Please, just do what I say.”
He threw up his hands right back, standing straight and glaring at her. “Fine! Jesus, no one can do anything for themselves around here.” He turned and picked up the cigarette Mercy had smacked out of his hand, then lit it as he stomped toward the door. “Fine. Just send Cal to do your errands. That’s what he’s for, anyway.”
Edie sighed, holding her head as he, too, slammed the door behind him.
Great. Now everyone was mad at her.
She sat there for a while, trying to calm herself down, until the bathroom door creaked open. Fisk crept out, wrapped in Mercy’s fluffy purple bathrobe. He looked almost as exhausted as she did.
Edie raised her head. “Hi.”
“I heard someone bellowing at Cal. I wanted to come express my appreciation, but they left.” He smirked, and promptly slammed the bathroom door behind him.
“Yeah, that was Mercy. My human friend. Can you not slam the door? I’ve had enough of that for one day.” She watched as he moved to sit in the armchair across from her.
“My apologies. I’m still getting used to … what is this word? Door.”
He said the word with such distaste that Edie managed a little laugh. To be fair, the last two people who had used a door in this house had slammed it shut; he probably just thought that was how normal, rational people shut them.
Fisk leaned forward in his seat. “Cal made me spend a couple of hours in your bedchamber last night. There was a strange item. When I inspected it, I realized it was a stringed instrument.”
She smiled a little. “It’s called a guitar.”
Fisk sat up straighter, his spines bristling. “All my kind delight in music. You’re very accomplished … for a mortal.”
Edie snorted. “Thanks, I guess. I mean, I want to do it for a career, but I know better bassists—”
“A career? You’re a skald, then?”
Skald was kind of a ridiculous word to use to describe what she did; it brought to mind images of a traveling bard covered in animal skins and colorful beads, someone revered as a person who knew all the lore of the land and sang about it. Really, she was just in a band—but she supposed it was close enough. Amused and a bit puzzled, she answered, “Uh, yeah, I guess.”
Fisk looked like he was wrestli
ng with something, wringing his hands so his markings shimmered in the late morning light filtering through the window. Finally, he took a deep breath—kind of a creepy, shuddering sound—and gave a sharp smile. “Will you play something for me?”
Edie raised her brows, pleasantly surprised. If Astrid decided Fisk had to go back to Thor’s Hole, she might actually miss the big fish stick. If nothing else, his attitude was good for a laugh.
“All right. I hope you like The Cure.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Marius let the heavy door of his father’s library slam behind him.
Disappointing. Despite having delivered the sorceress on time, unharmed, and in good spirits, his work had been “disappointing.” He’d been “indiscreet.”
Were you hoping for glory? the Radiant had asked.
The Radiant—no, his father—was infuriating as ever.
Marius had always excelled in his skills, mastering light magic early and always following Auroran laws and observing formalities. Still, for as long as he could remember, there had been whispers of nepotism among the ranks of the Rising Aurora. From the beginning, his father had tried to quash them immediately … by adding to Marius’s workload, by inhibiting him and handing him work the other apprentices didn’t want.
And still, Marius had answered the call of duty. He’d done his best to make his gods and his people proud.
Yet it wasn’t enough.
This life, these people, were all he had ever known; their approval, and the approval of his father, was what he lived for. His father knew that, and as Marius got older, it was almost as if he used it as a weapon against him—as a short blade, concealed, dressed in fatherly concern and impossible standards. His jabs were short and casual: “I don’t have the time if I’m going behind you to check your work,” or, “This apprentice would benefit more from a teacher with more patience than you; frustration inhibits talent.” “You would already have advanced if you showed more dedication,” or, “I need you to really try this time….”
How could he not know how deep his words cut?
His father had become Radiant years ago because, frankly, he’d neglected all else; he barely slept, he often forgot to eat, he did nothing but work. It was a wonder he hadn’t dropped down dead from exhaustion. Was that what he expected from Marius? If that was the case, Marius would never be good enough.
He descended the circular staircase of the tower until he came to a corridor that ran behind the temple, leading to the annexed monastery where his and the other warriors’ dormitories were. Across a field, behind the temple and monastery, was another, plainer building. Some Aurorans—acolytes, scholars, even some civilians—lived there, though most lived within the city. But the adherents, those who fought in the name of Tyr, kept close to the hub of their order.
Marius descended another flight of stone steps, which opened onto the cloister garden. Many adherents, most of junior rank, sat at the stone tables and benches or walked the gravel paths which ran through the courtyard in a uniform grid. At one of the far corners, a few circled each other within a dirt sparring ring flanked by racks of training weapons and burlap-sack dummies marked with red paint. The old limestone walls of the temple, covered in lattices of vines and white flowers, encircled them like a parent with a child. The ancient stone cradled the monastery, overshadowing it.
One familiar face caught his eye: Ynga. The adherent was sitting at one of the round stone tables, wearing her armor but relaxing. She was eating lunch—a sandwich and soup in a cup—from a wooden tray, a book in her other hand. Marius glanced around to see if anyone had noticed him, but they all seemed to be going about their business.
As if sensing his thoughts, Ynga looked up and spotted him, then nodded. He went to her after a moment, hesitating before sitting at the other end of the curved bench.
“Afternoon, Vivid Marius,” she said, not putting her book or her sandwich down.
“Good afternoon.”
“I see you’re back from your secret mission of glory.”
Marius grimaced. And though he knew he shouldn’t be talking to her about it without clearance, he couldn’t stop himself: “It was hardly a glory mission. I had to deliver some hermit from the coast.”
She took a bite of her sandwich. “A hermit? For judgment?”
“No, to aid us.” He paused, considering before divulging more information. Ynga looked so uninterested that he supposed there was no harm in it. “Some vættr. A seidr-woman.”
Finally, she lowered her book. “What on earth would we need an outsider sorceress for? We have plenty of people here for whatever it is the Radiant needs.”
Marius shrugged, though he knew full well why they needed her. Though his father would never say it outright, something was coming. Marius didn’t have the gift of sight, but he could feel it, too. True, the Aurora and their allies had increased in number in the past decade … but so had the Gloaming. And since the Aurora’s triumph over Lord Fahraad, things had been heating up. He knew that his father wanted to move against the Gloaming again, before they could strike first. Whatever the Radiant had seen, he wanted to stop it before it started. That was the only reason Marius could figure he now wanted outside help, and from such powerful strangers.
And Tiralda was powerful. Edith Holloway and her friends had stumbled their way to her home so unceremoniously that he doubted they even grasped just how ancient and important the sorceress was. That was why the Reach would never rebuild, at least not without proper leadership: the younger members had no idea what they were doing, and the older ones were stuck in the past.
Ynga looked him over before tilting her head back and finishing the soup in her cup in one long gulp. Then she closed her book and scooted it and her tray away from her, folding her thick arms on the stone table in front of her. She smiled at him and asked, haltingly, “You want to spar?”
Did he? He looked from her to the sparring ring across the yard. He hadn’t gotten any practice in yesterday, busy with having to fetch the sorceress, nor had he had time today. And he needed the workout. Perhaps it would help blow off steam.
He couldn’t think of anyone better to spar with. Ynga seemed … different from the others. She didn’t seem to care either way who his father was. She wanted nothing from him, asked nothing of him; she wasn’t frightened of him and didn’t look on him with disdain.
Marius looked back at her. She was easily a decade older than him, but he could see himself calling her a friend … the only friend he’d had in years.
Eventually, he answered with a shrug and swung a leg over the stone bench, standing.
Ynga smiled and left her things behind, keeping pace with him as they crossed the cloister garden. Heads turned as they did, and once they reached the hard-packed dirt of the training area, the two adherents sparring there turned. The one closest to them—a huge, leather-clad man with a carefully-plaited red beard—regarded Marius for a moment before looking to Ynga with a nod.
“You might want to clear out, brother,” she said, hands on her hips. “I need enough space to kick the vivid around a bit.”
Marius kept his mouth clamped shut.
The man glanced at Marius again before grunting and pacing over to the nearest weapon rack. He returned his training axe before gesturing for his partner to follow him, and they made their way across the green, joining a couple other Auroran adherents.
Ynga smiled. “After you.”
Marius paused for a moment, looking down at the hard-packed dirt before stepping onto it and moving to inspect the available weapons: swords, axes, spears. An adjacent rack held shields of varying sizes. He was silent as he looked them over, trying to ignore the stares on him.
He was silent for long enough that Ynga broke her respectful distance and came to him, picking up an axe and testing the weight. She glanced at him. “Having trouble deciding?”
“I don’t usually do combat with corporeal weapons.”
“No, but you train with them, d
on’t you?” She quirked a brow.
“I try to hone my abilities as a vivid, not just combat skill.”
“Without meaning to offend, Vivid, I don’t really want to get hit with pure plasma.” She smirked, discarded the axe, and instead went for a spear, holding it surely in both hands. “If you remember how to hold a sword and shield, pick them up and let’s do this.”
Her challenge held just enough edge to heat his blood—enough that he picked up the nearest shield with renewed surety and turned to her. Her mail glinted just so in the sunlight as she backed up and took position, facing him and planting her feet in the dirt.
Marius took a breath as he fixed the shield to his right arm and selected a sword, focusing. He could see her do the same. Stares burned into the back of his neck, but he ignored them, adjusting his stance.
Without warning, she lunged forward, jabbing at him with the dull spear. He had just enough time to react, deflecting the blow and whipping the spear to one side with his shield. She hadn’t asked if he was ready, or bowed to him. She grinned wickedly at him and lunged again.
He parried with the sword, brows drawn. “Rather opportunistic of you.”
“Forgive me for saying, Vivid”—she lined herself up again—“but the enemy isn’t going to wait politely for us. And they certainly aren’t going to fight fair.”
She was right, but sparring, especially with a superior, was different. “Wouldn’t you rather fight me fairly?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” she asked, and feinted to the right before striking his left side. Their weapons were so dull that there was no worry of her ever piercing his chainmail, but he staggered back a step, and she tipped her chin up. “You’re getting so wrapped up in what you must do that you’ve forgotten what you should do.”
Marius wrinkled his nose and adjusted himself so he held his shield fully in front of him, peering over the top at her. “Where are you from?” he asked through a huff as he deflected another blow.
Rune Awakening Page 17
