House of Pounding Hearts (The Kingdom of Crows #2)(21)

“Who lives here then?” Phoebus asks.

I glare at him for engaging Lore.

“The younglings.”

One of Phoebus’s blond eyebrows quirks up. “You separate children from their parents?”

I was about to traipse away but linger to hear the answer.

“No. Chicks, as we call our very young children, reside with their parents until they decide they’re ready to leave the nest. Then they’re given a lodging here or in the north, where they live for free until they pick up a craft and become contributing members of society.”

Phoebus’s other eyebrow pops up. “Any caste member gets access to free housing?”

Lorcan gazes around at his people, eyes gleaming like faceted stones in the darkness. “Crows do not have castes.”

“You have a king,” I toss in, incapable of keeping my mouth shut. My self-control is pitiful, which is probably why Lorcan has such easy access to my brain.

The edge of Lore’s jaw ticks. “So very observant, Behach ?an.”

His sarcasm makes my lips pinch.

Our discussion—or shall I call it what it is?—altercation doesn’t go unnoticed. The noise level has greatly decreased as most Crows stare openly in our direction.

A young boy approaches and extends a stein toward Lore, arms shaking a little. Liquid sloshes out and plops onto the smooth, shiny stone beneath his feet. He inclines his head in a diminutive bow and says something that ends with Morrgot.

“Tapath,” Lorcan says before taking the metal goblet from the boy and drinking.

Unlike our kings, he doesn’t have someone else taste it for poison or salt or the Cauldron only knows what people have tried to slip our rulers.

Believe it or not, Fallon—his golden eyes find mine over the lip of his cup—you are the only Crow who desires me dead.

I don’t respond, neither out loud nor through the mind link. Instead, I steel my spine and walk away.

You never asked about my mother. His words slow my retreat.

Without turning, I say, And you never asked about my chafed nipples, yet I told you all about them. Tell me, will I be meeting your father next?

My father passed before the Shabbins gave our clan magic. His timbre has turned so grave that I regret having asked. I hear him swallow. Mother would like to sup with you.

I’m supping with Phoebus.

The invitation was for the two of you.

We’re not hungry. I mutter at the same time as I hear Phoebus say, “Starving. We’d love to join you and your mother for dinner.”

I glance over my shoulder, hoping my friend was agreeing to dine with someone else’s son, but sure enough, he’s nodding at Lorcan, who must’ve tossed the question out loud at the same time as he tossed it into my head. Never mind. Phoebus can have dinner with every Crow in the kingdom for all I care.

I keep going, exhaustion be damned. Unfortunately, when I swivel my head back around, my escape is cut short. I collide into a woman toting drinks, all of which spill over me before clattering onto the stone, creating a din that echoes against my eardrums long after the last metal goblet has finished rolling about.

Even though the lighting is dim, I don’t miss how the woman blanches.

Since the pileup was my fault, I mumble an apology she may very well not understand and pluck at my shirtdress to unglue it from my drenched skin before attempting to wring some of the reddish juice out.

A heavy bolt of fabric drops over my shoulders, startling me out of my rigorous squeezing. I start to say thank you, but my gratitude withers on my lips, because, of course, who should come to my rescue but the king himself.

I grip the edges of my newfangled cloak.

Please keep it on. It may be dark but Crows have unparalleled sight. I’d prefer to be the only man familiar with the shape of your body.

Too late for that.

His pupils constrict.

Dante is well acquainted with every millimeter of my body.

Lore’s outline flickers as he heaves fumes that thicken to the point where I hold my breath to avoid suffocating on him.

As briskly as it rushed out of him, his smoke retreats and reshapes his too-near and too-large body. I was going to go after your princeling’s throne last, but you’ve convinced me to start with his.

I wheeze out the dwindling air in my lungs, then suck in a fresh lungful. You may gain a throne, but you’d also gain an enemy.

When you have as many enemies as I, one more matters not. Now please, come to the table. Mother is waiting.

I don’t want to dine with you, Lore. I don’t want—

Before I can finish my sentence, Lore shifts into his Crow, snatches me, and carries me into one of the dwellings, startling a half-naked male off his mattress.





Eleven





Lore must tell him to scram because the boy nods, shifts and soars right out of the small grotto-like room that contains one bed, one desk, one chair, and one closet.

I stumble away the second he untalons me. “What is wrong with you?” I screech at the monstrous bird just as a loud bang echoes through the air, followed by flashes of light and a rumble that vibrates the very stone.

Has Lorcan created the storm? It is one of his many powers after all.

He fractures into smoke before knitting back into flesh. “You want your freedom, fine. When the sun rises over Mareluce, I’ll fly you out of my dreadful home and let you get back to your beloved Dante and your beloved profession. Perhaps you’ll even get lucky and receive a visit from your princeling. That is, if he isn’t too busy fucking every female with a pulse. After all, he is king now. Everyone wants to bed a male in a position of such power. I should know,” he adds with a curl of lip that chills my blood. “All I ask in return is for you to put aside your rancor and dine with my mother. Do you think yourself capable of that?”