House of Pounding Hearts (The Kingdom of Crows #2)(90)

I’d have preferred to fall with anyone else—well, almost anyone else—but I’ve neither the energy nor the willpower to press this perplexing man away.





Raised voices rouse me.

My head hurts. My muscles ache. My veins burn. Every part of me is sore.

I feel as though I’ve been strapped to a writhing serpent and set on Fae-fire by a dozen purelings while rabid beasts feast on my entrails, and humans use me as a dartboard.

“You said the poison was out! It’s been days! Fucking days!” Lore.

“The poison is out, Mórrgaht. I’ve drained it.” Lazarus.

“Then why the fuck is she still bleeding?”

Even though darkness is towing me under, I force my lids to open. A candle shivers on the nightstand beside me, beads of wax gliding down its creamy stalk like teardrops.

A knock sounds, followed by Imogen’s voice saying something about Cathal, and Lore shouting back something about Daya and Nebba.

Is that where my mother is? My eyebrows bend, but that hurts my head, so I level them out.

Silence.

Then footfalls pad toward me, leather creaks, and a pair of golden eyes snare mine.

Under the faded streaks of his makeup, I catch shadows bruising Lorcan’s eyes. How do you feel?

Like I got shot with a poisoned dart, then healed by knife-wielding barbarians who then, for good measure, decided to roast me in a hot cauldron. Am I close?

One corner of his mouth twitches.

More importantly though, do I look as horrid as I feel?

His shadows stream over my cheek. You look beautiful.

My heart misses a beat because . . . what? But then I roll my gummy eyes, because, of course, he’d find my flesh attractive at the moment. I forget birds of prey have a thing for carrion.

His eyes spark. I assure you, you do not resemble carrion.

I twist my head to peer over my shoulder and see for myself, but his smoke grows denser, obscuring the sight of my body. If I don’t resemble rotted meat, then why are you blocking my view?

Although the candle flame still shivers over his face, it no longer casts him in light. Then again, he’s pooled so much smoke over me, there isn’t much of him left to illuminate. You still need to heal.

How bad is it? And please don’t lie.

Try to sleep.

The spectral version of Lore unfurls.

How bad, Lore?

When he doesn’t answer me, I grit my teeth and then I pull them apart to call out Lazarus’s name. He may be gone, but in case he isn’t, I’m hoping the healer will offer me a straight answer.

“Yes, Fallon?”

I start with the more pressing question, “Will I live?”

“Yes.” I appreciate his lack of hesitation, even though I’d appreciate it even more if he stepped into my line of sight so I can scrutinize his expression.

The pounding between my temples resonates through the rest of my body and rattles my bones, and although I’m surely imagining the oozing sound, I cannot help but wonder whether my wound—wounds?—are hemorrhaging. “Am I bleeding?”

A slow beat of silence rolls through the room. I can only imagine Lazarus is looking at Lorcan to figure out how to answer my question.

“The truth, please.”

“We had to make a couple incisions to release the pressure that built beneath your skin, then pack the wounds with crystals.” The room is so quiet that I hear him swallow. “Your body is still fighting the infection.”

I feel he is keeping something from me, but I’m not sure what. “Have the crystals ceased working?”

Again, the room—which I still don’t recognize—grows deathly quiet.

“They’ve all absorbed. We’re trying to gather more crystals.”

I let the information settle.

“Nebbans don’t possess Shabbin crystals,” Lazarus goes on. “And Glacins have turned over what little stock they had.”

“And the Lucins?” I wonder out loud.

“The Lucin supply, which I diligently kept track of until I left, has mysteriously vanished.”

Thoughts fester. Has it really vanished or does Dante not want me healed? I dislike this theory almost as much as the wildling who shot arrows at me.

I wonder if she lives, but then remember Lore mentioning something about bringing her back to life. I wonder who killed her.

Imogen. After the savage confessed to the identity of the man with whom she had dealings.

It wasn’t Gabriele, right?

It was not.

Although relief seizes my body, so does a fresh wave of anger and murderous intent. As soon as I’m healed, I will unalive Dargento. Unless—

He still breathes. The smoke around me thickens as whichever remaining crow of Lore’s dissolves.

I slide my chapped lips from side to side, ambivalent as to whether I’m glad or annoyed by the news.

Not for long, though. I’ve sicced my best trackers on him.

“It’s just a matter of time before the Lucin hoard is located.” Lazarus finally steps into my line of sight. “After all, our Majesty has offered Dante the assistance of his people in the recovery of these missing crystals.”

I imagine that assistance isn’t quite what Lorcan offered.

My teeth begin to chatter. Although my skin is feverish, I feel as though I’ve slipped into a canal in the middle of Yuletide. “La-La-Lazarus?”