House of Pounding Hearts (The Kingdom of Crows #2)(106)

“My target was neither his cock—which would’ve been, I assure you, unmissable—nor his leg. My target was the exit.”

“It’s a much better story that you fell into his lap because you thought falling onto his giant penis was too forward.”

“Forget that friendship manifesto; you should write erotic booklets, Pheebs.”

He blinks, and his eyes acquire a glazed sparkle. “That is a brilliant idea. Almost as brilliant as awakening the Crows. Gods, life was dull before they flapped back into Luce, wasn’t it?”

Life may have been dull, but it was safe. Now nothing is secure, save for this kingdom in the clouds.

“Back to you tumbling onto Lorcan Ríhbiadh’s lap.” Since Phoebus is like a sprite with a coin, I know he will not stop asking me until I tell him everything, so I do, and by the time I’m done, he’s finished doing up my black gown.

As I stare down at my legs that are on full display thanks to the sheer material, I ask, “We are going to dine at the tavern next door, right?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure this is appropriate? The last time I went, everyone was wearing battle armor and pants.”

He points to himself, to the fluid black trousers that sit low on his waist and the soft white shirt that shows off a good portion of his torso. “Am I wearing armor?”

“No, but you’re a Faerie and I’m a Crow.”

“You’re also a Shabbin, and from the book I’m reading about Shabbe that Lore lent me from his private library—you can thank me later for my thorough research—Shabbins favor silken, barely-there gowns. They weave most of their material from the iridescent excretion of a land mollusk. Fascinating, isn’t it?”

Worries that I am underdressed flee my mind. “Incredible.”

Phoebus heads into my bathroom and returns with a block of black clay, the same that Lore rubbed between his palms. “And now for the finishing touch.”

I shake my head. “Pheebs, no. I’m not ready for that.” My reasons for refusing to apply stripes have changed. I used to associate them with picking sides. Tonight, I’ve realized it is a privilege earned, and I haven’t earned it yet.

“Lorcan will appreciate it, and so will your father.”

“He’s here?”

“I heard the guards mention he was flying home.”

Home . . . Is that what this place has become to Phoebus?

“It’s just makeup, Picolina.”

Except, it’s not.

Phoebus settles on darkening my lash line with the black paste stuck to his fingers. After he blackens his own lash line, making the green pop, Phoebus takes my arm, sweeping me out of my bedroom and into the hallway. Although we don’t cross paths with many Crows, the few that we pass gape at the two of us as though we were one serpent short of a den. As I feared, everyone is dressed in battle leathers, while the two of us are dressed for a stroll in Tarecuori.

“Will Lore be joining us at the tavern?” Phoebus asks.

“I don’t know.” I tug on the sides of the plunging V, attempting to stretch the unyielding fabric to cover more of my skin. “He’s meeting with the Siorkahd. Why? Did you want to dine with him?”

“Who wouldn’t want to dine with that man? But no, I’m asking because I’m so looking forward to witnessing his expression when he lays his eyes on my handiwork.”

“Have you taken up a craft I’m not aware of?”

Phoebus snorts. “Although Connor’s son is teaching me to engrave, I meant you, Picolina. You can thank me by bringing me breakfast in bed tomorrow. If, that is, you’re not still tripping and impaling yourself on a certain Crow’s colossal—”

“Say one more word and I will murder you in your sleep.” Between clenched teeth, I add, “That way, I will be spared from lugging a breakfast tray your way.”

He pats my hand as though that were the silliest threat I’d ever issued. “Come. I have a usual table.”

My skimpy dress becomes the least of my concerns as we wind around diners to reach the far wall along which stands the smallest table in the tavern, a little round one right beside the bar.

It’s set for one.

“I thought you said Crows were being friendly.”

He pulls out the chair. “They are. What’s with the bent brows?”

“Your usual table has one chair.” Not even a bench. “One plate. One glass.”

“How observant you are, Signorina Báeinach.” As he tucks me in, he leans in close and murmurs, “Perhaps you will observe that my usual table also has an unobstructed view of the bar.”

Although I understand what he is implying, I cannot shake my concern. “Are you eating alone?”

“No. Sometimes Lazarus joins me. Sometimes, Bronwen.”

“Both Fae!” My exclamation drags many a stare our way. Or maybe they were already staring in our direction.

“Aoife stops by for tea daily. Usually to complain about you.”

I cannot even bring myself to react to what is obviously meant as a taunt.

“And at closing time, Reid will share a drink with me.”

Hearing that he has some Crow company somewhat reassures me. “Reid?”

“Connor’s son. The one teaching me stone engraving. We’ve become unlikely friends,” he explains, just as the man makes his way toward us, holding a chair aloft. “He’s the only half-Crow left in Luce since all the others were either killed or fled to Shabbe.”