A Poison Dark and Drowning (Kingdom on Fire #2)(68)

As the twelfth and final bell echoed in the night, I closed my eyes. After a while, I began to drift until…

—

ONCE AGAIN, THE WORLD AROUND ME went gray, the mist neither cool nor warm. I waited for a full minute, every second shredding my nerves. Blast everything, where was he?

“You’re back.” That easy tone of his still took getting used to.

R’hlem waited patiently, his blood festooning yet another nice shirt. Instinct screamed at me to wake, but I forced myself to remain calm.

This was likely my only chance.

“I wanted to speak with William Howel,” I said.

His skinned face transformed on the instant, the muscles bunching, the tendons stretching. The lack of flesh, of a face, usually made his expressions difficult to read. But when his mouth split into a grin, it could only be joy.

“My child.” His arms opened to embrace me. I dodged away—when a flayed monster approaches, rational thought deserts you. Would my reaction make him angry? No, he only passed a gloved hand over the stripped and raw crown of his head. God, what a human gesture. “Of course, you’re still unsure. I beg pardon.”

I beg pardon. As though any of this were natural.

“I thought we could talk.” Damn, even I thought that sounded stilted. But R’hlem appeared eager.

“You spoke with the magician, then?” His voice sharpened at the mention of Mickelmas. But after what I’d seen, I completely understood why R’hlem didn’t care for the man.

How should I approach this? Yelling at him, telling him he was a bastard both seemed excellent paths to nowhere. I wanted to know his mind, and to do that, I’d have to create trust.

I’d no experience with parents. How had I watched Magnus with his mother? He had looked safe at home, secure in the love around him.

Make him want to protect me. Make him yearn to indulge me. I’d read of girls in novels who could twirl their fathers about their fingers. How did one accomplish such a thing?

First: be kind, but not too sweet. He’ll suspect something if I suddenly become all milk and honey.

“When did you know about me?” There—my voice was soft, uncertain. I forced myself to toy with the sleeve of my nightgown in what I hoped looked like artless fidgeting. Magnus had taught me to act more skillfully than I ever could have dreamed.

“The night you destroyed Korozoth.” There was no anger in his voice. “When you told me your name, I knew straightaway. Your mother honored my wishes.” He placed a hand over the blood-mottled shirt, right by his heart.

My mother, that long-lost picture on my aunt’s mantel of a woman with golden hair.

“You told her to name me Henrietta?” I asked.

“I wanted my child named after my brother, Henry.” Henry. Yes, Mickelmas had thought that name several times in his vision. R’hlem put a finger to his fleshless lips, and that burning eye, the one that haunted my dreams, shone. “Now I can see the resemblance so clearly. You look like him, tall and dark. You even have his way of holding himself.”

“I thought I looked more like you,” I replied. Misstep. He pulled away, receded from me.

“No, I don’t want to think of you as that fool William Howel.” His words were twisted by bitterness.

“But you’re William Howel.” I disguised my fear with a laugh.

“That man is dead.”

The connection between us snapped. Damn. What should I try next? Ask about my uncle? No, there had to be a reason Aunt Agnes had kept him secret. And I shouldn’t bring up my aunt—God knew what R’hlem thought of her. The one person from our past whom he cared for, unequivocally, was…

“What about my mother?”

Though this was my first step on the journey to gaining his trust—to twisting him about my finger—I couldn’t help how much I wanted that answer. It burned inside me, and the calculating part of me had to admire how well I’d done. R’hlem’s shoulders relaxed.

“There are flashes of her in you.” He drew nearer, and I let him. Slowly, he put the very tip of his fingers onto my cheek. I could feel the ruined texture of the blood-soaked leather. “Only my Helen’s girl would be so bold as to meet me here.”

“I’m not afraid now.” I forced myself to mean it. There, the trembling in his fingers told me I’d hit right. Victory.

“Good.” The word escaped him, quick and hushed. It was born out of deep feeling.

Mickelmas had told me once that my father had been more impulsive and emotional than I. It seemed as though it could be true, though I wasn’t about to become easy with him. Not yet.

“There.” He removed his hand. “That slight furrowing of your brow—that’s your mother through and through.”

“What was she like?” I’d drawn up my picture of her—demure and smiling, the model of a perfect companion.

“Surprising.” He grinned, the skinned gums a bit disorienting. “No one could tell Helena her mind. We eloped, you know, under cover of night, like Shelley and that girl of his had a few years earlier. We even met in a churchyard—my romantic touch.” He spread out his hands, setting the scene. “There I was, standing in the pitch black because I’d sworn there’d be a moon, and of course there was none. I’d a threadbare coat, no hat because I’d forgot it in my excitement, but…” Here he laughed. “But I did remember to bring a copy of Shelley’s ‘Love’s Philosophy’ to read as we eloped. I couldn’t bloody see it with no moon, so I tried reciting from memory as we banged into headstones looking for the gate.”