Lorne fumbles for a reply for a few seconds, then he sighs. “Take today and tomorrow. Overseer Delaney scheduled your aptitude testing for Wednesday.” Viola’s just buried her sister, and the House of Death is already back to business, eager to create more minions of Death.
The door closes, and I count a minute before joining her. She sits on her bed, gazing out the small window overlooking the expansive gardens of the House of Death—it’s a surprise they can keep anything alive. A quick glance around the room brings me pause; it’s small. In fact, it’s not a room at all; it feels like a prison.
“You were returning his coat?” I ask, a hint of jealousy slipping through, catching me off guard. But Viola doesn’t miss it. She gives me a look, then gets up, walks toward her dresser, and starts rummaging through her drawer.
“You could’ve pretended to be asleep when he came to your door.” I even my tone, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. But my mind is stuck on Lorne’s coat, and why it was in Viola’s possession. Paltro should’ve told me this stupid bond would come with all these unwarranted feelings and this insatiable need to be near her.
“He saw the door close. He’s not that stupid.” She raises an eyebrow. “I thought you were the master of stealth.”
“He didn’t find me, did he?” I lower my head, and she pauses, a half-folded shirt hanging over her arm. She turns around and glances up at me. Her eyes are two shades of brown, leaning toward rust at the bottom of her irises. I hate that I notice these things.
She tears her gaze away, lingering on my forearm. “Where are your aspiers?”
“Somewhere in the Poisoned Stairwell with Lyria,” I tell her. The House of Death has magic preventing killer and healer aspiers from crossing into their quarters. Lyria tells me they would’ve blocked the Imortalis, too, but they could never get their hands on Raiek to weave into their spell.
Viola lets out a deep sigh before turning back to the dresser. She furiously pulls out a pair of training pants, stacks it over the shirt on her arm, and slams the drawer shut. Without looking at me, she heads to the bathroom. I don’t move, and a moment later, the door opens, her loose sleepwear traded for her black uniform. She still doesn’t spare me a glance as she walks over to the dresser and places the neatly folded pajamas on top. Finally, she turns around.
“What are you doing here, Archyr?” she asks, leaning against the furniture with her arms crossed. I let out a heavy breath; I don’t remember her uniform fitting sowellbefore.
“I…” What do I tell her? That I’m here because I was wrong, and the catacombs are unavoidable if I want to find Beau’s killer? That DOTS is pressuring Firstline to bury the investigation, so our siblings will never get justice? That I will have to risk her life because it’s the only choice we have?
“I need your help,” I mumble, averting my gaze.
“You tell me to stay out of family matters, and now you storm into my room uninvited and drag me back intoyourproblems?” Her tone gradually lowers as she glances at the door.
I sigh. I’m not above begging for her help. After profusely apologizingto my sister for my earlier outburst, we agreed to speak to Victor before damning Beau to an unimaginable fate. “Can we…”
“What do you want?” She stresses every word. Watching her lips move, I no longer know what I want. “My friend Gryff sent me a letter from Firstline. He was assigned to the case, and they are dismissing the murders as random poacher attacks—”
“I knew it,” Viola exclaims, slamming a hand on the dresser. “So much for trusting the administration to do something right…”
“That’s not all.” I straighten myself. After dropping Viola at Gorhail earlier, Lyria and I argued all the way to Riverview to the Record Collector’s Office. Lucky for us, she was an Arkani who knew our parents and let us in when the office was closed. We pored over records of mage deaths over the last five years, like Viola suggested, and five more before that. Nothing stood out. No gruesome deaths, only regular poacher killings on the field, some relics taken, some not, and a few accidental deaths. I briefly considered they’d been hiding reports, but these are recorded by readers and perjury bears the death penalty. “These animalistic killings haven’t happened in quick succession before, and definitely not coupled with heirloom relic theft. I’m certain DOTS wants to bury the case because they don’t want to fuel Grimm propaganda,” I tell her.
“More reason for me to ask Victor’s ghost about their killer,” she says, then her eyes narrow at me. “You’re here because you can’t go through the catacombs without me. Pathetic.”
That’s not the only reason I’m here, I almost say. But like an idiot, I retort, “You won’t be able togetto the catacombs without our help.”
“So nowIneedyou.” She rolls her eyes, and I press my lips together. She heads to the door, wraps her hand around the doorknob, but doesn’t pull it open. Her head drops, and very quietly, she says, “I am like a spare relic to you—something you use when you need and set aside when you don’t, something you only care about when it serves you, and when it breaks, you’ll just get another one.”
Heat rises to the base of my neck. My mouth goes dry, my mind racing to find my words, therightwords. I shake my head, wanting to correct her, to tell her that Aspieri don’thavespare relics, that our relics are all we have until we die. Before I can say anything, she turns around. “Let’s go, Archyr. I owe you anyway.”
“You owe me nothing,” I reply. In a single stride, I am in front of her.
“You saved my life. That debt can never be repaid.” She meets my eyes with steel, as if it hurt her to say those words.
“I had selfish reasons.” My honesty astounds me. My aspiers were being threatened.
“At least you’re honest.” She lowers her eyes. I hate how she folds into herself, how she puts up this armor to shield herself from the world, how she thinks she deserves nothing. How could she refer to herself as a spare anything?
I don’t think, and my hand lifts her chin before I can pull it back. It’s like our first exchange in Hollow Tree, except this time, I feel the softness of her skin, every smile line, and even the outline of the tiny mole on her left jaw. I want her to look at me when she hears this. “You owe nothing to anyone. In a world where people are driven by their own selfish wants, you will not give them that power over you.”
She takes in a sharp breath, her gaze burning into mine. The confusion in her eyes mirrors my own as I brush my thumb over her cheekbone. I don’t know what’s taken over me; all I know is that I want to lose myself in the depth of her brown eyes, learn every hue of gold, red, and black, and sear it into my memory.
She blinks, and the spell breaks. I drop my hand. That stupid bond is messing with my head again, pulling me toward her.
Viola may be different, but she’s still a Mortemagi. The magic that killed Mom flows in her. Like every disciple of the House of Death, she will choose that magic in the end.
I don’t look at her, and I step over to the wardrobe. I flip through a few sweaters until I land on a thick wool one and push it into her hands. “It’s freezing in the catacombs,” I say, dragging my gaze across her body. She’s wearing tight pants and a plain long-sleeved shirt, a recipe to join the residents of the catacombs by freezing to death. “Wear a warmer shirt, and please, change into combat pants and line them with tights,” I instruct. Her eyebrows flinch, and she searches my eyes; I give her nothing.