She whispered his name, and his mouth returned to hers. She cupped his face, guiding his lips where she wanted them, taking the lower one for her own. A soft moan escaped him, and he pressed harder into her.
Regret spiraled slowly, starting in her navel and working up to her throat. She wanted all of him, but her script began to itch, reminding her.
She slowed her movements, forcing him to slow as well. When he paused for another breath, she pressed her fingers into his cheeks and said, “Rone . . . Ireth.”
She barely recognized her own voice. It was half air and strangely low. The regret broadened and filtered into her limbs.
Pressing his lips together, Rone rested his forehead against hers for a moment, then kissed her jaw and slid to the side of her, lifting his head so that his chin touched her hairline. He kept her close to him, and Sandis snuggled into the hollow of his throat, kissing the skin there.
She needed to keep her connection to Ireth now more than ever. And a numen could only be summoned into the body of a virgin.
As she lay there, entwined with Rone, her mind finally gave in to fatigue. She curled into his warmth, resting her head on the inside of his bicep, and drifted to sleep.
She dreamed of Anon.
Rain drizzled around her, gray and thick with pollution. Dresberg’s wall was gone, its towering buildings far away. Beneath her feet looped overgrown, trampled grass and mud. But it didn’t smell like rain. It smelled like chloride lime.
Anon lay on a tarp ahead of her, pale and glassy eyed. Soaking wet. Somehow she knew it wasn’t from the rain. It was from canal water. He’d drowned, just as she’d believed for all those lost, lonely years.
Men without faces, little more than shadows, grabbed the corners of the tarp and heaved him upward. They swung him back and forth three times before letting him go. He fell into a giant square-shaped pit behind them. Sandis ran to it, arriving at the crumbling edge too late to stop them.
It was a grave. A mass grave, with bodies strewn together without grace or sentiment. An arm here, a broken leg there. Anon rested at the edge, his lifeless eyes staring up into the storm, unblinking even when raindrops pattered against the whites. The corpse beside him was facedown, but Sandis would know it anywhere. The exposed spine glistened despite the clouds. Kaili, harvested for her golden script. Next to her was Rist, curled around a bloody pile that could only be his brother. Below him, Alys, the bottom half of her body covered by other corpses, her blonde hair matted and stained red.
Sandis tried to pull away from the sight, but she couldn’t. Her eyes locked onto each face, one after another. Triumvir Var, Jachim, Chief Esgar. They were bloated and pale, unmoving. Bastien lay at the far edge, his braid a noose around his pulseless neck. Near him were a little boy and his mother, the strangers who’d offered her help the first night after she’d run from Kazen. And there, half-buried in limbs, was Dar, a great scar cutting through the symbols branded between his shoulder blades.
Then she saw him. At the very center of the pit, at the crest of all that death, lay Rone, on his side as though he were sleeping. Yet his chest didn’t rise and fall, and the faintest trickle of blood flowed from the corner of his mouth.
Sandis awoke with a start, her skin covered in sweat, her heart pounding and head aching. It took her a moment to orient herself, to sit up and recognize the bed and the room, the sleeping form beside her. He was on his side just like he’d been in the pit of horrors. She held her breath, listening for the intake of his. When she heard it, relief cooled her and left her shivering.
Just a dream, just a dream, just a dream. Sandis was accustomed to nightmares. She wasn’t sure why they still affected her so.
But she’d never had a nightmare like that.
She searched the room for Bastien, but he hadn’t joined them. Turning back to Rone—carefully, as he was a light sleeper—she watched his serene face for a long time, as if convincing herself that he really was alive. She lifted a hand to touch his curls, but dropped it again. She didn’t want to wake him.
She couldn’t watch him die, either.
Will the Celestial save us? she wondered, unease snaking through her middle. Does it even have the power to?
Perhaps it had given her that power.
Steeling herself, Sandis carefully slid off the bed, gently tugging her skirt free where Rone’s knee pinned it to the mattress. The faintest light glowed under the door; she turned the knob silently and slipped into the hallway, fingers trembling when she closed the door behind her.
Ireth? she thought. There was no answering pulse of warmth. He’d been there earlier, however. Not afraid. Warm and resolute. Surely it had been a message. Encouragement.
The house was eerily quiet. The entire city was. Stopping at a window, Sandis drew back a curtain to peer into the night. The faintest orange glow illuminated Dresberg’s center. How many people were fighting that fire at the Innerchord, while the triumvirate snoozed safely in soft beds?
How many had already died?
She closed the curtain and kept a hand on the wall, feeling her way through the darkness. Found the staircase and took it down. The soft glow of lamplight beckoned her to the right, to the study with its door ajar. The politicians, priests, scarlets, and soldiers had left, leaving the makeshift meeting room quiet. Jachim sat at the table, poring over his books, rubbing his neck as he stooped. Bastien sat beside him, studying a ledger. He murmured something to the scholar, who glanced over and nodded.
“Jachim.” Sandis’s voice was quiet, but so was everything else, so both he and Bastien lifted their heads when she spoke. “I need to speak with you.”
Bastien said, “You need to . . . book an appointment?” He picked up a ledger. His voice was strained, but he was at least trying to lighten the mood.
Jachim chuckled. Sandis managed a sliver of a smile. “I do. But . . . alone, if you don’t mind.”
The humor faded from Bastien’s freckled face. He glanced between Sandis and Jachim twice before standing. “I should probably go to bed anyway.” He shrugged.
Sandis stepped aside to let him pass, but before he did, she pinched his shirt sleeve in her hand and, in a hushed voice, said, “In the morning . . . tell Rone I love him.”
Bastien met her eyes, confusion lacing his blue irises. “What do you—”
“In the morning,” she repeated, firm. Turning sideways, she gestured for Bastien to leave. He did, hesitantly, and Sandis closed the door behind him before she could lose her courage.
Nerves pricked her limbs as she crossed the room to Jachim. His eye was still swollen; Rone hadn’t held back when he hit him. She pulled out the chair across from him, but couldn’t bring herself to sit. Jitters danced through her body and stiffened her spine. Anxiety ballooned in her chest as though she were about to confess her greatest secrets. But she supposed everyone already knew those.
“You look worried,” Jachim said.
She nodded. “We all are.”
He rubbed his jaw—it was so smooth Sandis suspected he didn’t grow facial hair. Shaking her head, she brought herself to the present. “I want to do it.”
Jachim blinked. “What?”
“The amarinth,” she specified, toes curling against the carpet. “I want to make a new amarinth.”
Chapter 10
Jachim stared at her a long moment. “You’re . . . willing?”
Pinching her lips together, Sandis nodded.
The scholar removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I’m certain I know how it’s done. I’ve been translating as much as I can . . . but . . . are you sure?”
Sandis filled her lungs with a deep breath and forced herself to study the table between them. “Do you really want me to change my mind?”
Jachim looked at her, his gray eyes so different from her own. After a moment, he shook his head. “No. No, I don’t. I quite like you, Sandis. And that brute of yours is right—you saved my life. But I can’t find any other way to stop Kolosos—”
/> “Neither can I.”
He nodded, stood. “Then we are in agreement.”
“We need to do it now.” Fear began to coil beneath her ribs, but Sandis pushed through it. It’s the only way. Surely an immortal could best an immortal.
“Let me wake—”
“Only who is necessary, please.” The thought of Rone’s tears sent an ache lined with barbs spiking down the center of her being. But it did not banish the lingering image of him in that open grave. “Quickly and quietly.”
Then he could finally see his mother. His family. Rone would still have a happy ending.
The set of Jachim’s brow told her he understood. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
Bastien’s fingers fumbled with the candle at the bottom of the stairs. He dropped it twice before lighting it. He didn’t like walking through dark places without a light. Especially the narrow hallways of this place. He didn’t like not knowing what was there.
Clutching the candleholder in one hand and the stair rail in the other, he began to ascend into the darkness, but stopped halfway up. Not because his candle went out or because he’d forgotten where his bedroll was, but because of Sandis. The tension around her eyes and the sadness to her voice. In the morning. Why in the morning? And why should Bastien be the one to tell Rone? Did the two have a fight or something?
He took two more stairs. Paused. Something gnawed in his gut, like he was hungry but not. His candle shook. He was holding it too tightly. One by one, he forced his fingers to relax. Then his arm, his shoulders, his neck.
He wasn’t athletic like Rone or brave like Sandis, but he was a good thinker. Oz had always told him so. That’s why his old master had confided in him so often. And something wasn’t right.
Rone would be mad if he woke him for nothing.
But the last time Bastien had failed to act, Rist had stolen the amarinth and their worst nightmare had stepped into the mortal realm. Continued to step into it. Trample it. In a way, that was Bastien’s fault, wasn’t it?
Glancing back down the stairs, Bastien thought. Hard. Reached for his braid and gave it a good tug. He was glad Kazen had never gotten around to cutting it off.
Footsteps upstairs. Chewing on his lip, Bastien returned to the main floor and tucked himself beside a closet. Steeling himself, he blew out his candle.
And listened.
Should she have said goodbye first?
Jachim, General Istrude, and Triumvirs Peterus, Var, and Holwig stood with her in the basement of Triumvir Var’s home. Unlike the rest of the house, it was unfurnished, its walls and floor made of smooth concrete. The wooden beams of its ceiling were exposed. A large, plain rug took up the middle of the room, and a stack of carpet squares sat beneath the stairs.
For a moment, Sandis wondered where the man’s family was. Not here. Surely he had one. Were they already outside the city walls, running for safety?
The floor was cold beneath Sandis’s bare feet. She hugged herself against the chill, against the fear. But alongside the fear was hope. We’ll make it better, Ireth. Their power could be turned into something great.
Closing her eyes, she sought confirmation from the numen, but felt none. Where are you?
Would they give her time to write a note? She didn’t write often, and her penmanship was poor, but she knew how. Would it be better for Rone if she wrote him a letter?
Would he understand if she did?
Her heart ached. From the beginning, she’d only wanted him. She’d always feared that he would leave her, but now it was the other way around, wasn’t it?
But Anon. Anon. Her brother was alive and being brutalized by that demon. She could save him, too. All of them. Right, Ireth?
“Just . . . cut it out?” General Istrude gave her a sympathetic glance.
“The body changes,” Jachim explained. “In the moment between forms, it should be . . . soft. I don’t think a weapon will be necessary.”
Sandis touched her chest. They were talking about removing her heart. They’d already sent for a smith to form the gold loops of the amaranth. Sandis didn’t know if they needed to be gold, but both Rone’s amarinth and the prototype were gold. They couldn’t make any mistakes. Sandis would not die in vain.
Neither would Ireth. Again she felt for him. His presence was always fleeting and seemingly random, but if there was ever a time for him to make himself known, this was it. So why hadn’t he?
“Sandis.” It was Jachim. “Do you want . . . some opium or something? For the pain?”
Sandis shook her head. It wasn’t the loss of her heart that would hurt. Summoning itself was the worst physical pain a person could experience, and nothing tempered that.
“You’re sure that’s it?” asked Triumvir Holwig. Dark circles framed his eyes.
Jachim nodded.
Sandis lifted her head. “Then let’s proceed.” Before her own fears made her condemn the entire city. Then, to Jachim, she added, “Don’t let the Angelic stop you from saving the others.”
Closing her eyes, she thought of Rone and Anon, of Bastien and Rist, of the people in this room and in this house. She thought of Sherig and the Riggers, of the bankers, of all of the strangers she’d never met. She’d failed to save Kaili and Alys and Heath, but Sandis could save the others. She would save them.
Taking a deep breath, she pressed her palm to her forehead.
“Rone.”
Someone jabbed him in the ribs.
“Rone.”
Rone startled awake, shooting up to sitting, only to have his forehead collide with another’s. He cussed and winced, his hand flying to the bruising spot.
“Ow,” Bastien whined.
“The hell?” he asked, blinking. Only a single candle illuminated the room. It took him a second to recognize his surroundings. Var’s place. Sandis? She wasn’t there.
Rubbing the side of his head, Bastien said, “I think something’s wrong. The others . . . they’re with Sandis. In the basement.”
Rone’s hand dropped. “What? Why?”
Ice crystalized sharp in his belly as he recalled what Sandis had said before they fell asleep.
“Sh-She didn’t want me to hear,” the Godobian went on. “She told me to tell you she loved you. Only . . . in the morning.”
Terror seized Rone’s chest.
He pushed past Bastien and bolted for the door, flinging it open hard enough for the handle to break through the wall behind it. He tripped on a table, and something ceramic crashed at his feet. It bit into his big toe, but he kept running. Took the turn in the hallway. Sailed down the first flight of stairs and nearly fell to his knees when he reached the bottom. Basement. Where the hell was the basement?
His heart thundered as he turned around in the darkness, the only light coming from a lamp left in Var’s empty study. He raced down the hallway behind the stairs, only to find a privy and startle awake Chief Esgar. Whipping around, he flashed the other way. Through the kitchen. Yanked open a door—a mop fell onto him. He hit his hip on the edge of the dining table as he soared for another door. Locked.
Rone backed up and kicked it right beside the handle, sending all his weight and strength down his leg and into his heel. The thing splintered and flung open, and the momentum nearly sent him headfirst down a set of wooden stairs.
He descended them in two leaps.
“Ii mem entre I amar.”
God, no. That was Sandis’s voice. No, no, no, no—
He ran into the room, shoving Triumvir Peterus aside. General Istrude’s big body blocked her, only a foot away, his right hand lifted and clawed in anticipation, his left clutching a knife.
“Ireth.”
Rone flew toward her.
“Epsi.”
Shoved Istrude aside with strength born of desperation.
“Gradenid.”
White light filled his vision, then snuffed out all at once. He fell hard to the ground, scraping palms and knees, blinded. Cold.
“Sandis!” he s
houted, whirling around, blinking spots from his vision. But she wasn’t there. Neither were the general, the triumvirate, the scholar.
The basement.
Rone stared at the blackness around him, hovering like a shadowy fog. Indigo like an empty night sky loomed high overhead. Where were the stars?
There. He saw one, then another as his vision adjusted. Dozens of stars. Hundreds . . . thousands of them.
Beneath him.
Wide eyed, Rone rolled onto his hands and knees and looked down into the heavens. Gooseflesh rose on every inch of skin he had.
He heard three things. The first was his breathing grating up and down his throat. The second was a growl, low and feral, somewhere behind him.
The third was a voice in his head, one that was decidedly not his own, pushing out a single word.
Run.
Chapter 11
Sandis blinked, the memory of pain raising the hairs on her arms. She knelt in the basement on the cold cement floor, staring straight ahead. Her heart beat heavily in her chest. Still there. As was she.
Still alive, and still dressed.
Ireth hadn’t come.
“Good God,” Jachim uttered.
Triumvir Peterus picked himself off the floor. “Where did he go?”
“What happened?” asked General Istrude. The knife in his hand dropped to the floor.
Sandis searched inside herself, trying to orient her thoughts. Ireth had been right there. Right there, and then—
Celestial, save me, what have I done?
But before her panic could mount, she felt a familiar pressure inside her head. Ireth. Relief consumed her until she felt a pulse of fear that was not her own.
A hand appeared before her face—the general’s. Sandis took it, and he helped her to her feet. Her body trembled—she couldn’t help it. She had begun a summons, and then . . . it had stopped. Snapped her out of the transformation before it’d even happened.
All five men stared at her. Sandis glanced at each of them before settling on Jachim. “What happened?”
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