House of Pounding Hearts (The Kingdom of Crows #2)(124)

The Faerie in front of me turns deathly still along with every Crow at the table. “Have you ever been wrong?”

“Never.”

When goosebumps bloom across my skin, Lore slackens his grip and begins to sketch circles on my palm.

“So I’m to leave this mountain in a body bag?” Gabriele’s voice ropes my attention. Everyone’s attention. “I suppose that does ensure that your secrets remain safe.”

Bronwen slides her forearms onto the table as though to get a better line of sight on Gabriele past Aoife. “You will not die at our hands, Gabriele; you will die at the hands of your Faerie general.”





Sixty





Gabriele has not uttered a single word since Bronwen proclaimed Tavo would end his life. I suppose I wouldn’t be all that talkative either if she’d announced that Syb or Phoebus were going to stab me in the back and send me into the overworld. Or the under one. My soul is, after all, not all that pure anymore. Sure, I’ve yet to kill Dargento, but I’ve contemplated it at length.

“What if Gabriele remains here, in the Sky Kingdom?” I suddenly ask.

Gabriele looks up—or rather, cants his head in my direction. He’s still blindfolded.

A few Crows hiss as though I’ve suggested arming the man with obsidian.

“You’d only delay his death,” Bronwen says.

“Would he be welcomed to stay?” I ask Lore.

Lore flicks his citrine gaze over the members of his Siorkahd. “I suppose a cell”—a true one—“could be put at his disposal.” I know you trust the male, but he was Dante’s right hand. Until I’ve ascertained where his loyalties lie, I will keep him behind bars.

Give him salt.

I will. Eventually. Once I’m certain no chemical can linger in his blood.

He said he didn’t take the chemical.

And I should believe him why? Because he gifted you a one-eyed horse?

I drop the subject because I understand his reticence, but then my mind zips to Arina.

“She’s being fed,” he murmurs softly. “Sybille rode up on her.”

My relief that she wasn’t left behind removes a thin layer of the Lucin grime my friends’ arrival has splattered over my mood. I even start to smile until I remember Riccio didn’t make it, Gia’s in Faerie custody, Antoni’s been swallowed by these elusive tunnels I still know nothing about, and Imogen has vanished along with the human rebel leader.

The circles Lore draws on the inside of my hand become tighter. “Cathal, remove his blindfold, but his wrists stay bound.”

Once the cloth is removed, Gabriele blinks and blinks, then stares and stares.

“Not what you expected, Moriati, is it?” Phoebus asks.

Gabriele’s gray eyes land on Phoebus. As he shakes his head, his attention moves to me. I smile, but I’m not certain he catches it because Lore’s shadows coalesce in front of me.

I claw through them, but they linger, a veil between Gabriele and me. What are you doing? He knows I’m alive and well.

Then what need does he have to stare?

I taper my gaze on the dark billows. He’s probably surprised to see me sitting at your side. The same way your people were surprised when you took my hand.

His low harrumph makes me smile until he says, Our people. After shifting back into flesh, Lore hooks a serving bowl filled with a mix of barley and green vegetables and drags it over to us. “Let’s eat!” He spoons some onto my plate, then onto his, then proceeds to heap many more things onto the dark ceramic before me. “Are you hungry, Moriati?”

“Not hungry enough to be spoon-fed.”

“I could have your hands bound in front of you so you can use them.”

Gabriele sighs. “That won’t be necessary. The news of my death has rid me of . . .” His voice dies out as his gaze lands on Bronwen, the woman forged by fire.

“Pretty,” Lore murmurs. “You should tell her this. She’ll like the metaphor.”

I doubt it. My aunt doesn’t like me all that much.

Lore turns fully toward me. “Why do you say that?”

I raise an eyebrow. She talks to me as though I’m a toddler.

Give her time. She’s been without her mate for five centuries. It takes a toll on the kindest of hearts.

“What would happen if the general died, Bronwen?” Phoebus asks. “Would that alter Gabriele’s fate?”

She sets down her glass of water and swallows. “No.” And then her gaze shifts to Gabriele, who seems to cower back in his chair. “You’ll die heroically. I imagine that does not make your fate easier to accept, but know that your last breath won’t be for naught.”

Gabriele lowers his gaze to a wheel of cheese with a rind so purple it’s tinted the creamy flesh a similar color. Has Bronwen’s prophecy begun to color his opinion of Tavo and Dante, or had he already lost faith in their humanity when they rose to power and began to act like despots?

Lore reclines in his chair and crosses his long legs. “I understand your pain, Moriati. My general, Costa Regio, stabbed me in the back five centuries ago. Of course, he had help in the form of his Shabbin mistress. Nonetheless, his treachery left a terrible taste in my mouth.”

If Gabriele finds the parallel unfair considering Lore still has breath in his lungs, he doesn’t contest, merely glares at the Sky cheese sitting in front of him as though it were his executioner’s face.