Strange and Ever After (Something Strange and Deadly #3)(29)

“This is a masterpiece, Daniel.” I shook my head, awe taking over all emotion, and caressed the small, curved fingernails. “You should patent it.”

“Maybe. Plenty of time for that later.”

Something about his voice made me lift my eyes . . . and I found his face had gone very still. As if he had stopped breathing.

I swallowed.

He took a step toward me. “Empress. I need you to know something.” Then a long inhale, and he closed the space between us. I did not move. Not even when I had to hold the mechanical hand to my chest because he stood so near. Not even when I had to roll my head back to see his face. And not even when his fingers reached up to brush my hair lightly from my eyes . . . and then linger down my jaw.

“A few years ago,” he said, lowering his hand, “when I first met Joseph, I made a promise to myself. I swore I would live my life unflinching. Unafraid. Just like Joseph does. No matter how hard I try, though, I never seem to do that with you. Whenever you’re near, I flinch. Whenever I want you most, I always pull away. But . . . no more.” He shook his head once. “I’m going to tell you exactly how I feel—right now—and you can take it or you can leave it. I just want you to know. . . . I need you to know.”

My fingers tightened around the mechanical hand, squeezing it until the gears cut into my palm. I knew what was about to come. I had wanted it to come for so long, and now would be the perfect moment if not for everything else.

Yet before I could open my mouth, Daniel forged ahead.

“I don’t know what’s coming,” he went on, “but I do know what’s behind us. We go back and forth all the time—me and you. Saving each other, fighting, flirtin’ . . . and then saving each other again. But this time, in Marseille, it was too close.”

“I . . . don’t follow,” I said. This wasn’t what I had expected him to say.

“I barely got to you in time, Empress. You almost didn’t get out of that city alive, and . . .” He inhaled sharply—as if he was imagining what would have happened if I hadn’t made it out of Marseille. “I never could’ve forgiven myself if I’d lost you—don’t you see that?” His eyes captured mine once more. “Especially if you never knew how I feel about you. So, unflinching and . . .” He swallowed. “And unafraid, I . . . am . . . in love with you.”

Now the sob did come—I could not stifle it. For months these were the words I had dreamed Daniel would say to me. Even after he broke my heart in Philadelphia, I had wanted these three words: “I love you.”

Yet now that he was saying them, my chest felt like it might crush beneath the weight of it. I’m in love with you too, I wanted to say. I have been since Philadelphia.

But the words would not come—they seemed trapped inside, and all I could manage was a shuddering exhale. A pitiful nod. This one desire—a taut strand among many—had finally been released, and it felt all . . . wrong.

Wrong to speak of love with Mama’s death fresh on my heart.

Wrong to feel happy when Jie’s vacant eyes burned in my brain.

I finally had Daniel’s love, yet I could not summon the voice to say it back.

And sweet Daniel did not move. He did not press me; he did not breathe. He simply watched me and waited.

My lips parted; his eyes lit up.

Nothing came. Though my brain shrieked You must say you love him too! You will lose him if you don’t! my mouth closed and nothing came.

Daniel’s face slowly hardened with each passing second—not angrily but . . . acceptingly. He was fighting whatever roiled inside, and with a slight bob of his head, he murmured, “I should check on Jie.” Then he walked stiffly from the room.

My breath writhed up my throat as if to call after him—yet still I could summon nothing. I gaped down at the mechanical hand, wondering what the hell was wrong with me. I had wanted his love for months, and now I suddenly couldn’t speak it aloud?

Tears blurred my vision, cutting and deserved, and through them I could just make out the small grease spot. On the back of the hand, right above the wrist and the various tendons trickling out, there was a black smudge.

Halfheartedly, I rubbed at it with my thumb. It did not move. I rubbed harder . . . then scratched with a fingernail. But the grease would be stuck there forever.

But I supposed that was all right.

I opened my eyelids groggily . . . and started. Wood creaked beneath my feet; waves lapped gently around me; the air was motionless and thick.

No-man’s-land.

I had gone to bed after Daniel gave me the mechanical hand—and I had cast a dream ward as Oliver had ordered. So this shouldn’t be possible. I should not be standing on this gray dock that vanished off into darkness. And yet here I was with the jackal beside me, his ears erect and head low.

Hurry, he said to my mind.

I sat up. “Hurry where? And how did I get here?” A glance behind me showed the shimmering curtain only paces away, and I could hear no snarling of Hell Hounds. I turned back to the jackal—but he was jogging away from me in a steady lope. I scrabbled to my feet.

“Did you see my mother?” I called, pushing into a run. He did not answer, nor did he slow. I squinted ahead, my vision bouncing with each step, but I saw only the dock disappearing into a distant fog.

The wood scraped at my bare feet. But I ignored the splinters that dug into my heels and continued on. The heavy, static air made each breath feel too shallow, while the wooden slats blurred and the dock shivered with each of my steps.