“I have no right to expect anything,” he continues. “And I don’t expect anything.” He marvels at our interlocked hands for a moment, and then he looks up with a crooked smile. “But even in the midst of all of this, I can’t help but think how beautiful you are. To appreciate more than anything that I have another chance to tell you that I love you.”
My eyes sting. I’m not sure if I can cry anymore.
“I love you, too,” I whisper. “Despite everything. Even if I shouldn’t.”
He buries his hand in my hair and leans in to kiss me.
Before he can, I say, “But I have to tell you that I also love Lydea. I’ve been a complete ass, and I don’t know if she loves me anymore—or if she ever did—but that doesn’t change how I feel.”
His grin appears a mere finger’s breadth from my lips. He draws the tip of his nose to mine and rubs it back and forth a couple of times. “You don’t think I already know that? And after all that I’ve seen, I don’t believe love is a finite resource. How could I begrudge something that should be celebrated? As long as she doesn’t mind me, that is.”
I know she won’t—rather, if she cares about me at all anymore, in her anger and disappointment. Like every other painful thing trying to get my attention, I can’t dwell on that right now.
If it’s Ivrilos’s intention to distract me, it’s working.
“Goddess, you’re beautiful,” he whispers.
I stare at him in the same awe with which he’s looking at me. “Now I want to kiss you until I can’t breathe.” I grimace. “I mean—”
He leans the rest of the way forward, his fingers tightening in my hair and sending a thrill through me. “I know what you mean,” he whispers against my lips. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten how.”
And then, oh, he’s kissing me. And he’s using every bit of that focus he usually devotes to stalking and fighting. Maybe it’s better that I don’t need to breathe. The other times our lips have touched felt almost incidental in comparison. A means to an end. This, now, is the end.
Or so I think, until he extracts his hand from my hair. While he kisses me with slow deliberation, his fingertips slide luxuriously down my neck, my arm, my side, until his palm comes to rest on my thigh, which I’ve unconsciously lifted to meet him. He tightens his grip, pulling me into him. My legs part just the right amount. I gasp as I make contact with him and a burst of heat radiates out from my hips, tingling all the way up my scalp.
It occurs to me that my shift is short and it wouldn’t take much for us to fit more completely together.
“Ivrilos,” I murmur between kisses. “I want you.” And then, “Um, can we? Does everything still work?”
He groans into my mouth, shifting his weight. “I haven’t exactly been practicing, but there’s only one way to find out.”
His strong arms close around me, and he drags me on top of him. After that, it doesn’t take much wriggling until I have him where I want him. Part of me can’t believe I’m doing this, and the other can’t wait. There’s a pause: that breath—or lack thereof—before the plunge. And then I sink down onto him just as he surges to meet me.
The look of wonder that crosses his face is beautiful. Almost like it’s his first time.
I guess it has been a while.
We both gasp. And we keep gasping, as if we’re trying not to drown in each other. But as his hips keep lifting to meet mine, wave after wave of him, an ocean of sensation, I’m happy to drown. At the same time, that warm, delicious feeling begins to rise inside me. I guess some things do still work.
But then Ivrilos cries out. Too soon.
“I—I’m sorry,” he stammers when he can form words again. “It’s … uh … been a long time. That was fast.” He looks blissfully disheveled, discomfited.
I grin. “It doesn’t have to be over yet.”
He goes completely still beneath me. His gaze is fixed. Hungry. Giving me the confidence I need.
I lean forward, both to kiss him and to adjust my hips. But then there’s a shout, and the door to whatever room we’re in flies open, making us both freeze. Japha comes charging in, their hands raised to sketch sigils.
Those hands fly immediately to their eyes. “Oh my goddess, what did I even just see? Who is that? Aren’t you supposed to be dead, Rovan? What the hell?”
I’m mortified, but at least they didn’t see much. I’m only sitting on top of Ivrilos, although our clothing is hiked a little high on our thighs. I roll off him and onto the bed, dragging my white shift down. Ivrilos launches to his feet, tugging his own black tunic lower.
And yet, I’m not ashamed. Hell, if I have to be dead, I’m happy I can still make love. I’m only sorry I was slower to arrive than Ivrilos.
Not that I know where to begin explaining to Japha. They look as radiant as the sun-drenched room, in a berry-colored peplos woven with peach-colored birds, a gilt-lined sword belt at their waist. They have a dagger strapped to it, its gold sheath studded in jewels to match their crown of multicolored rose blossoms. They’re a sight for sore eyes, but they obviously don’t feel the same, since they keep their own eyes covered.
I start with, “You can see him?”
“Yes, almost too much of him! Is it safe to look?” Japha asks, peering out between their fingers before getting an answer. “Oh, phew.” They blink. “Where did the strange man go?”
I look over at Ivrilos. He looks back at me, shrugs, and then to my great surprise, he bursts out laughing.
“Very helpful,” I say, but I can’t help grinning. Ivrilos doubles over, shaking, and nearly tips into a rosebush. I’ve never seen him laugh this hard. Or much at all.
“What is going on?” Japha cries.
“Ivrilos is having a fit, and I’m trying not to melt in embarrassment.”
“That was Ivrilos? Why could I see him? I’m so confused.”
“You must be able to when we’re touching.”
“So you have come back to life, somehow?” Japha asks.
My grin falls away. “Not entirely.”
“Okay.” Japha gives me a solemn nod. And then they shrug. “I don’t understand how that’s possible, but we’ll figure it out.”
“You’re not horrified?”
“Please. I’m not going to abandon you just because you’re dead. At least now you don’t smell anymore, thank the goddess. You actually look frighteningly magnificent.”
That wrings a smile from me—until I burst into tears. It’s all been so much: realizing what I am now, making love to Ivrilos, and now Japha’s love and acceptance.
It’s almost enough to give me hope for when I next see Lydea.
Japha comes to me without hesitation, wrapping their arms around me. “Shh, dearest, it’s okay.” They pat my hair but then pause. “I don’t mean to alarm you, but you have blood running down your face and I’d prefer not to get any on me.”
“What?” I wrench away from them, wiping at my cheek. My hand comes away red. “Now that is disgusting. Ivrilos, what is this?” I demand, holding out my palm. “I cry blood?”
He grimaces. “It’s part of being a revenant who thrives on the substance, maybe?”
“Goddess.”
“What did he say?” Japha asks, staring somewhere in the direction of Ivrilos.
“I’ll tell you later,” I mutter. I hope Japha won’t want to rethink staying by my side when they learn I drink blood. “Do you know where we are? Is there any word from Lydea?”
Japha is about to answer when the door bursts open once again. We all spin.
It’s Alldan in the doorway, with a pair of incredibly strange-looking people standing behind him, a man and a woman. Their washed-out hair is something like gray, even though they don’t look that old. Their cheekbones stand out like a skull’s. They have towering crowns woven from dead twigs, what look like mice bones dangling in the branches. Sweeping robes made of myriad fabrics in diaphanous grays hang from their emaciated bodies. Oddest of all, their lips are stained blac
k and their eyes are red. Bloodlines cover the too-pale skin of both.
I can also smell the death magic on them. And yet, I can still hear the faint beating of their hearts, as well. They’re alive.
“Good. You’re awake, Rovan,” Alldan says. But there’s no warmth or even the respect I once knew in his voice. His violet gaze is hard, and his tone is almost disgusted. “And now we will decide if you will live—such that this is living,” he amends, his lip curling, “—or if you need to be destroyed.”
29
Japha and Ivrilos both step between me and Alldan. The strange bloodmages accompanying the Skyllean prince track the movement with their red eyes. They can see Ivrilos, then, even if I’m not touching him. The sunlit, rose-covered room suddenly has the air of a potential battleground.
Ivrilos, surprisingly, gives the man and woman a nod of acknowledgment. They nod back. The woman even smiles, but her teeth are a little too grayish for comfort.
“You never mentioned anything about destroying Rovan,” Japha says dangerously.
“There was no cause to alarm anybody before we knew if she would wake up or not.” Alldan raises a hand, forestalling any objection. “Don’t forget, we helped you. We’ve sheltered you, Delphia, and Rovan.”
“How?” I manage. Everything is changing so quickly. “Where are we?”
“We’re in the quarters of the Skyllean delegation in the city, where we’ve been staying when not in the palace. Your body was smuggled here from the necropolis, where it was taken for your death rites,” Alldan says with a disapproving twist to his mouth. His distaste for Thanopolis’s rituals is plainer than ever. I suppose he’s not worried about diplomacy anymore.
“I was hiding in the necropolis,” Japha elaborates, “after you freed me from my guardian. Delphia, Crisea, and your, uh, friend, Bethea, helped me. It wasn’t pleasant, but I didn’t know where else to go. Back to the palace wasn’t an option. I didn’t want to be given another shadow to suck the life out of me. No offense,” they add in the general direction of Ivrilos.
“None taken,” Ivrilos says, even though Japha can’t hear him.
“Meanwhile, your guardian”—Alldan’s mouth gives the same twist as he turns to me—“found Princess Delphia and told her you might not be truly dead. She couldn’t speak with him clearly, but it was enough for Japha to sneak out of the necropolis and find me here.”
“Because Rovan said you might be willing to help us escape.” Japha’s tone is biting as they glare at Alldan. They cross their arms, fingers drumming over their elbows, as if still ready to sketch sigils.
“I am helping.” Alldan looks back at me. “We got your body and Delphia out under cover of darkness, and have offered both her and Japha asylum in Skyllea.”
But not me. Not anymore.
“We haven’t yet accepted,” Japha says.
I shoot them a grateful glance. They’ve proven time and again to be the best of friends.
I still have questions. “Let me guess, you also had help. From them?” I nod at the strange bloodmages. “If it was so easy to skip in and out of the necropolis, their acolytes would be escaping all the time.”
Alldan frowns. “Yes.”
“They’re the ones who helped create the veil around Skyllea, aren’t they? Bloodmages infected with death magic? And that’s how they could sneak undetected through this veil. You’ve had bloodmages here with you all this time.” He nods reluctantly, and I say, “And yet you’re so disdainful of the magic they wield.”
“I’m not fond of it, no,” Alldan says coldly, “especially when it’s allowed to fester and spread unchecked until the entire world is at risk. But we keep it strictly under control in Skyllea.” He pauses. “Which is why creatures like you are problematic. You upset the natural order.”
I scoff. “Oh, so green hair and purple eyes are so natural? Just because you’ve been altering yourselves with magic for longer doesn’t make you the arbiters of magical purity.”
“You’re not alive,” Alldan insists.
“I’m not the first to become like this,” I burst out. “And you’re toying with the same power.” I toss my hand at the infected bloodmages. “Aren’t you worried about them becoming exactly like me? If they die—”
“If we die, we return, yes,” the woman says, her voice as thin and dry as paper. “But it is without thought or emotion. Only hunger.”
“We are not bound to a shade that will keep us focused in death, like you,” the man adds, his red eyes flickering to Ivrilos. “We have only the blight inside us, which is mindless. We struggle against losing ourselves to it in life, and we succumb in death. And so we are swiftly destroyed when our time comes.”
Thinking of an undead bloodmage with no mind of their own, only a bottomless need for blood, makes me shudder.
“In Skyllea, we have dealt with such creatures more than you have,” Alldan adds, “as we battled to keep out the blight. Whole communities were consumed until we belatedly created a barrier—but not before some of those very people, no longer human, went on to consume other communities. We call them bloodfiends.”
Maybe that’s why I heard stories of ghouls and fiends as a child, and so many warnings against mixing blood and death magic. And yet we’ve forgotten what the blight is, what it can do to people. We’re so safe behind our veil here, sheltered from the ruins of those destroyed towns and cities. From the truth. And that’s exactly how the king wants us. Blindfolded.
Especially since he’s the cause of the blight.
“But I’m not a … bloodfiend,” I say, trying out the word uncomfortably.
Alldan regards me, unblinking. “No. But maybe you’re something worse. Intelligence does not equate to virtue. Or humanity.”
“So why go to all that trouble of getting my body out of the necropolis if you’re just going to kill me again? How will you, anyway?”
“A wooden stake through the heart,” the creepy man hisses, “or one of bone. What was once alive interrupts undeath. The stake cannot be removed, and then the body must be burned.”
“Great,” I say. At least now I know why a steel dagger had no effect on the king’s heart.
Ivrilos takes my hand. Japha can’t help starting away from us, and Alldan’s eyes immediately go to Ivrilos.
“Prince Alldan,” Ivrilos says politely. “My name is Ivrilos, son of Athanatos, as much as I rue my lineage. You and I are not enemies. But if you threaten Rovan again or try to make good on such a threat, we most assuredly will be.” His tone is as calm as ever, but it’s that dangerous calm that once made my skin prickle. “And trust me when I say you don’t want to be our enemy.” His dark eyes flash to mine, and then back to Alldan. “You’ll find we make much better friends.”
My grip tightens on his.
“Like I said,” Alldan says, looking a little disconcerted, “we didn’t wish to be hasty. Before any steps were taken, we wanted to see what Rovan would become.”
I gesture down at myself, though I keep hold of Ivrilos. “A monster? Well, here I am. What do you want with me?”
“Have you seen yourself yet, girl?” the woman asks. She whispers a few words, waving a bony, colorless hand—blood and death magic intertwined—and the air shimmers between us. Suddenly it’s like I’m looking into a reflective pool.
In it, I can’t see Ivrilos even though I’m holding his hand, but I can definitely see myself. I’m standing in a simple white shift. My skin is abnormally pale, so my bloodline’s scarlet sigils stand out all the more vividly—and I still have blood smeared on my hands and face. But that’s not the weirdest thing. My eyes are bright red, like the two bloodmages’—or the king’s, after his disguise dropped. My hair, unlike theirs, is lustrous, a midnight blue that shines like a tumble of water. My lips are fuller, and almost as red as my eyes.
I’m more beautiful than I ever was before. But mine is the beauty of a predator: eerie, sharp, lethal-looking.
“You might be a monster,” Alldan says as my refl
ection ripples and fades away. “Even one that deserves to be destroyed. But it’s not for me to decide. Come.”
He gestures the way out the door. There are guards waiting outside. They’ve brought armor and steel, as well as blood and death magic to protect against me. I have little choice but to follow, unless I want to prove right here and now that I am a monster and fight my way through them.
“At least let me put on a damn robe,” I say.
Alldan points to where a square of plain white material is folded on a small table under the window. I thought it was a towel.
Japha makes a face. “No way will she be caught dead in … Never mind, I have something better.”
* * *
I leave the room wrapped in a luxurious plum shawl woven with butterflies. Fitting, I think.
I grow amazed as I walk barefoot through a series of rooms, perhaps part of a whole building, that Skyllea has claimed as their own. While the bones of it belong to Thanopolis’s architects, everything else is Skyllean. They prefer greenery over flowers, unlike Thanopolis—sustained life instead of a brief pop of color and then death. They have more greenery than the greenest places in the polis. The interior walls are a profusion of life, from tiny, lacelike fronds to glossy leaves as wide as my head. One wall has an entire tree growing against it, flattened out along the marble. There are also whole surfaces, even columns, with thin sheets of water running over them. The actual curtains, covering windows and various archways, are just as sheer and liquidy. I can’t help but envy their rugs especially, the fibers seemingly spun with sunlight or moonlight in silvery blacks and rich warm browns. They cover the floors in a rippling, velvety glow that’s plush beneath my toes.
But the most remarkable thing is the woodwork. Wood must be like clay to their artisans. Columns that aren’t covered in water or greenery are braided with wood. The simplest table, desk, or screen is a work of flowing art, one practically blending into the next. It’s almost like they’re trying to cover up the stone.
In the Ravenous Dark Page 29