“Arcturus—” I looked away. “I forgave you for lying to me about the Emim. That was nothing in comparison to what I did to you by not killing Jaxon. And I don’t expect your forgiveness.”
I sensed his gaze on my face, but couldn’t meet it. Suddenly my stomach was tight with shame.
“If our roles were reversed,” I went on, “if you had once been close to the person responsible for my torture, if you had still cared too much about him to be able to hurt him . . . I’m not sure I could forgive you.” I folded my arms. “Jaxon was right. Some deep part of you must resent me for it.”
“No. In truth,” Arcturus said, “I expected it. You are not an executioner, Paige Mahoney.”
“But this is war. I need to have the spine to kill. I left Jaxon alive once before, out of mercy, and I lived to regret it.”
He stepped toward me. For a moment, I thought he would embrace me, but he stopped before our auras could touch.
“Mercy,” he said, “is an undervalued quality. It is what sets you apart from Scion. In any case, Jaxon Hall is either dead or a condemned man. Nashira will kill him for his failure to protect the colony.” His voice was low. “I deceived you because I was loyal to Terebell. You may no longer be loyal to Jaxon, but in your heart, you will always feel you owe him a debt you cannot pay. He opened a world to you. He was father and savior and friend.”
“That was the past. And everything he told me was a lie.”
“And I am an oneiromancer. Of all people, I understand the enduring power of memory.”
Slowly, I looked back at him, finding only candor in his face.
“Forgive me,” I said.
“I already have.”
He closed the space between us then. Cupped his fingers beneath the tips of mine, barely touching me at all. He held me as if our hands were spun from glass, not scarred and hardened by our battles.
Strange how a feeling could blossom where once there had been nothing. Then again, I had never felt nothing for Arcturus Mesarthim. Never been indifferent to him. From the instant our eyes had met, we had reacted, like fire and kindling. First with fear and hatred, then a quiet respect, and then something else. Something that had never stopped burning.
“I wanted to go back for you,” he said. “I tried.”
“I know you did. Nadine said.”
“Hm. As it turns out, you did not need me or anyone. You confronted your fear alone.”
“I did,” I said, my voice almost too soft to hear, “but . . . I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
He was very still. I moved my fingers, tracing the broad mount of his thumb, the burl of bone at the side of his wrist. Except for the size and strength of them, his hands were so human-like. I wanted to know them. I wanted to know the precise slant of his collarbone, the depth of the curve in his back, the way his mouth felt on all of my skin. I wanted to know every inch of his body, and for him to know every inch of mine.
Our gazes locked fast.
“Do you wish to return to the safe house?” he asked.
I thought of the honeyed light through the windows, the place I had started to feel I belonged.
“Yes,” I said. “Let’s go home.”
21
Overture
It was almost nightfall by the time we surfaced on Rue des Eaux. Renelde had arranged for a buck cab to pick us up from a street near the Champ de la Tour. With the dissimulator ruined, I wore a scarf over my face.
The Eiffel Tower smoldered across the river, illumined in lambent orange, as if the wind had showered it with embers. It loomed, its spire half swallowed by fog. Impossibly beautiful.
We crossed the nearest bridge over the Seine. I wanted to look at Arcturus, to break the silence, but I did neither. Whatever we said next had to be said when we were alone. The golden cord was still and taut.
Above, the tower. Emberlight and the pendent dark. Below, the hidden world that sheltered the forsaken. And I walked liminal between them, with a god at my side and the streets like dying coals around us, waiting to be stoked. The fire was in the citadel, in his eyes, in my skin.
The cabbie drove us to the right district. From there, each step lasted far too long. Cloud steamed from my lips, and the air drank away the heat of the spring, but I no longer felt the cold. Every moment, every breath, moved me closer to my end. There was no more time to waste. I had come so close to death again. Now I meant to live with abandon.
In the hallway, I took off my coat. He did the same. I tried not to wonder what would happen if I kept undressing until there was nothing to keep me from his sight. I imagined him taking me in his arms, hunger overcoming his eternal self-possession. And I imagined him just standing there, silent and arcane, his gaze as sensual as a touch.
Without looking at him, I went up to the apartment. A minute later, he followed.
There was no one else there. In the parlor, I switched on a lamp, which gave just enough warm light for us to see by. A note was folded on the mantelpiece, dated from Thursday the nineteenth. That was yesterday. I read the neat handwriting.
I will try again on Sunday. When you return, stay indoors. I have news for you.
“Paige.”
His voice stilled me. I caught sight of myself in the nearby mirror. Hair curling thickly, wet at the ends. Cheeks flushed by the cold. Eyes dark with want, their pupils bottomless.
“In Versailles, you asked if I still wanted you.”
As I became aware of his silhouette in the mirror, I wondered how I had ever thought that I could stop myself from falling. Just the sight of him made me shiver like a stricken bell.
“Yes,” I said. “I realized how I felt. About you. How I never stopped feeling. And because—” My courage almost failed me. “Because I hoped you might still feel the same way about me.”
There was a furnace in his eyes. We had all but acknowledged it, yet it remained unspoken.
I had denied it for too long. Smothered and stifled it, buried it deep—yet still the song was rising. I had precious little knowledge of desire, but I knew it now. I knew its name.
The shutters were halfway open, letting in the glow of a newly lit streetlamp. It struck a high contrast to the heat of his eyes. We regarded one another in silence.
“Liss read my cards,” I finally said. “The fourth was the Lovers. The Spaewife told me to stay close to that person, to be certain of who it was. And I am.” My throat felt small. “Jaxon tried to make me doubt you. He failed. Now he wants you to doubt yourself. He’s afraid of what we are together. Afraid of what we represent, and everything we could become.”
My skin was too cold and too warm at once. I walked into the light from outside, toward him.
“I called you a coward once. I was a hypocrite,” I said, softer. “I was wrong to break it off with you. I thought it was necessary. That I had to feed every inch of myself to this war to keep it burning.”
My palm found his sturdy chest.
“I know I’m mortal. I know it can’t last,” I said, “but I can’t stop feeling this way. I’ve tried. It’s too strong.” I looked deep into his eyes. “I need you with me. I want us to try.”
“We did try.” He held my gaze. “You need no one, Paige. You saw the sense in our separation before I did.”
“What?”
Under my fingers, his heart was a war drum. Where mine hammered, his was slow, set on its never-ending course.
“I give no credence to the doctrine of flesh-treachery. Too many Rephaim do.” His voice was hardly there. “If what has passed between us was ever proven beyond doubt, your life would forfeit.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“I am.” His thumb brushed from my cheek to my temple. “I am afraid.”
I reached up to hold his wrist. “You said your fear wasn’t my cage.”
“But it is mine. This time, I must keep to its bars.” His eyes burned low. “I wanted you, Paige. I still do.”
His affirmation of it sent a chill across my abdomen.
“But to place you in greater danger than you have already faced —to prize that desire above your life—is more than I can justify,” he said. “It was selfish to take you in my arms, knowing what that touch could bring.”
“No.” I touched his face. “That night, in the Guildhall—I felt so afraid, and so alone. And despite everything you had been told to believe about humans, you held me. It showed me who you really were. Someone who would put everything in his world at risk to do the right thing.”
“Everything. And everyone,” he said. “Including you.” He lowered his hand. “If I had cared enough for your life, I would never have held you again.”
I closed my eyes as he walked toward his room. This was not how I thought this night would end.
“I’m not the Mothallath.” My voice snapped the quiet. “You were never duty-bound to guard me.” He stopped. “My life is mine to risk as I choose. I choose to risk being with you.”
Still he remained on the threshold of the room.
“I can’t give all of myself to this war. I’ll lose my mind,” I whispered. “I am ready to fight to the end, but I need one thing—just one—that the revolution doesn’t touch. That is not meant to further it. Not a scheme, or a tactic.” A tremor raided my voice. “I want to show one person my true face. I want . . . just one place, one safe place, where I don’t have to be Black Moth. Otherwise she will consume me.”
It was some time before he moved again. Only when his door closed did I grasp that he was saying no.
****
There was always sound in this district of Paris. Music from the coffeehouse on the corner. Snatches of laughter from nearby Rue des Arcs. And blue tone. The endless breath of the citadel. Tonight, it all seemed so much quieter, as if Paris had at last fallen asleep.
In the safe house, there was silence. For want of a distraction, I took a proper shower, only shivering a little, before I brushed my teeth and found a nightshirt. In my room, I changed the sheets.
A snow moon tipped its light over Paris. Wrapped in a blanket, I opened the windows and huddled on the ledge behind the balustrade.
Underneath his armor, he was losing a long battle with himself. I saw that now, as I had failed to truly see before. I nearly went into the parlor—except I had already made my confession. I had told him, in no uncertain terms, what I wanted. Now it was his choice.
When the cold set in, I knew. I had been a fool to hope it would ever work between us. I was mortal. He was as ageless and distant as his namesake. I would be his mayfly lover, dead after a day. It was over. I returned to bed and tried to fade into sleep, but my heart kept drumming me awake.
Just before midnight, I sensed movement. Arcturus was no longer in his room. Little by little, I sat up, all my attention fixed on the æther. And then he was at my open door.
Time clotted, slow as honey dripping from a comb. He came to sit on my bed, and for a long time, neither of us moved.
“It is a splendid and terrible thing,” he said, gaze on the wall, “to be Rephaite, and to feel so acutely for a human. It has brought wonder to my existence to learn the deepest truths of yours. To find that, though we are different, we are also alike.” His voice was a long shadow. “And yet it has also brought fear. Fear of everything that could curtail your life—even time, which never touched me. Even my own arms around you.”
Slowly, I turned his face.
“Fear is a constant for us mortals,” I murmured, “but so is the knowledge that no matter what happens, no matter how careful and afraid we are, life does end. So you might as well take every shot you get.” I looked up at him. “You said I didn’t need you. Maybe neither of us needs the other. We both know how to be alone. Is it not enough that we want each other?”
Smokeless heat rose in his eyes.
Our meeting was quiet. Guarded, as if he really was afraid I would shatter at the slightest touch. He let me guide his brow against mine, and I felt myself be kindled by his aura.
“Paige.”
That was all he had left. Just my name. I touched my lips to his.
It was hardly a kiss. Just a whisper of my mouth on his, a give and take of breath. Tilting back, I idled my fingertips along his jaw, then his lower lip—full and smooth, curved like the limb of a bow. Calling my courage, I stroked the tip of my tongue across that lip before I drew it into my mouth.
Deep in his chest, resonance. The taste of him woke a dream of red drapes. I held his nape, exploring his mouth with a tender slowness that could only stem from certainty. I could touch him now. I meant to savor it.
“I can offer you nothing,” he said. “Only a song in the shadows.”
“Sing it to me,” I whispered back.
One of his hands cradled my leg. He traced the same wound that had set me on fire.
He gathered me into his arms—gently, carefully, so I could breathe. My hands were on his sarx, his lips hot and sure on mine. Our kiss deepened as his fingers strayed into my hair.
All seven of my senses were in freefall. I broke the kiss and started to unbutton my shirt. At first, he only watched—and just that, the watching, it set me alight—before he abetted its fall from my shoulders, and his hands moved up the bare skin of my arms.
Before, we had been grasping at stolen moments, always in the limen. This was different. Every look, every touch, was a piece of a promise. Commitment to our crime.
His gaze seared over me. He stroked his thumb over my lips, soft and reverent. For the first time, I was aware of a new power. Not possession. Not the crown. Something else.
As he dipped his lips to my collarbone, tasted the hollow of my throat, I took him by the hand and led it to my breast. When he cupped it, a fractured sound came, unwilled, from my lips. I was lost to the discovery of pleasure, unable to do anything but let myself be touched.
For so long, I had treated my body like a burden, a weight to be cast off. Forgotten its potential for softness. My skin was still tender from the heat. Every touch was heightened, shivering. He kissed my neck and each of my ribs, and when I was taut with frustration, he drew the delicate tip of my breast into his mouth. My mind drifted to a day when I had found a smoked-glass shew stone at the black market. Claiming its polished beauty, knowing I would be executed if I was ever found with it in my possession. I had kept it because it was beautiful. Because holding it was an act of defiance.
At last, I found the clarity to return his touches. The divot at the base of his throat. His broad shoulders and the ledge of his collarbone. I smoothed my hands around his sides, to the scars on his back, and he lifted his gaze back to mine. He watched my face as I ran my fingertips over the mutilation, letting him know where I was and where I meant to go.
After a moment, his tension dissolved, and he lowered his head to me again. I was intensely aware of his mouth on my other breast, the warmth of it ribboning to my abdomen. Breathing hard, I unbuckled his belt. He raised his head, and our lips came together. I slid off my underwear—his hands joined mine—and then it was only me in his arms.
He looked at my face for a long time. Even as I tensed in expectation, I almost lost my nerve. I was so different from what he knew.
His gaze moved down my body. I held still. A human might have whispered in my ear, told me I was beautiful or perfect, but not him. For a long time, all he did was look, opaque, eyes on fire. When I was sure the silence would last forever, when the tension of waiting would snap me in two, he drew me against him, into the moonlight. It illuminated my hair, transfigured it to flame, and ousted the few shadows that had draped me.
He could see every part of me. Every inch, down to the last scar and freckle. Another chill of reserve almost made me glance away. To counter it, I placed my hands on his chest.
“What are you thinking?”
Speaking eased my nerves. His calloused palms came to rest on my waist first, then the fingers he had almost lost.
“That if wanting you is treachery,” he said, “then let me always bear the
se scars.” My arms circled his neck, and his lips grazed my jaw. “Let them be a badge of pride, not shame.”
I thought it would undo me, hearing his voice that deep, that close. When we melted onto the bed, he was careful not to trap me, never holding me too hard. Before long, there was nothing human-made left on him. Just long contours of limb and muscle. I had been so lost in his embrace that the æther had almost faded from my notice, but now I reached out to it, and it magnified every touch, every breath. The golden cord seemed to surround us.
This could not be wrong. Every instinct in me spoke of rightness, of balance, of synchrony.
As his breath warmed my ribs, I tilted my head back and exhaled. Doing this—crossing this line—might snap the constant pull between us. I yearned for that pull. It steadied me.
And yet I wanted more. I had waited enough.
His kiss made the skin of my abdomen shiver. His hands cradled the backs of my knees.
“This,” he said, “is an overture.”
His voice was little more than a tremor in his throat. I felt it everywhere.
“Learning a duet entails time. And patience. Calls for us to move as one.” He found a sensitive place at the back of my thigh, and I breathed his name. “I want you to show me where to touch you. I want to know—” he rolled a thumb over the wing of my hipbone “—how to make your body sing.”
He already did. I couldn’t remember how to breathe, or what it was to not be burning.
His hands returned to my knees. I trembled as he guided them apart, my head tilting back in anticipation.
“Do you want this?”
“Yes,” I whispered. “Yes.”
Arcturus pressed a kiss to my thigh. I breathed in as the powerful muscles of his back shifted, and then I was lost in a new and exhilarating language. A song that only we could share.
He knew what he was doing. Rephaim must not be so different from humans in some respects. Heart pounding, with his hands on my hips, I threaded my fingers into his hair. All reserve had disappeared at the first touch, transforming into want, into vastness. It seemed impossible that my body could feel this much, be this much, and somehow not break into pieces.
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