Bring Me Their Hearts(97)
“Consider me officially heart-warmed,” Malachite drawls. I nudge his not-broken leg with my own.
“Shut up.”
He chuckles, Lucien rolling his eyes and Fione shaking her head minutely. The sunrise begins bleeding the night sky dry with vermilion wounds. Lawguards move toward the East River Tower, first in drops, then in trickles, then a steady stream. Their voices carry through the trees, though they don’t see us.
“—Crimson Lady reported magic in this vicinity.”
“—you sure the eggheads got the readings right?”
“The polymaths aren’t idiots; of course the readings are right.”
“—a huge surge of magic belowground—”
The four of us share a look. Malachite mutters first.
“It wasn’t the runes. Those go inert when the valkerax dies.”
“And the explosion was a white mercury trap,” Fione clarifies. “Not magic.”
“Then what was it?” Lucien frowns. I bite back the urge to tell them Malachite was well and truly on the verge of death. A simple chest-thumping from Lucien wouldn’t have even been close enough to bring Malachite back. The way Malachite sat up so suddenly, so awake and cognizant again all at once, the way Lucien’s dark eyes seemed to get even darker in that second…
It was like magic.
As we go our separate ways—the influx of lawguards forcing us to be careful and leave one at a time—I watch Lucien’s back. The d’Malvanes are a witch family. Witches can be turned Heartless, but the books in Nightsinger’s hut always read like it was the worst thing you could do to a witch, short of killing them. A shameful punishment. A torturous punishment.
Lucien looks back once at me, his smile reaching his midnight eyes.
A pUniShmEnt wE mUst inFlicT.
16
The Hunt
When I make it back to the Y’shennria manor, she’s waiting for me on the front steps, drinking tea and reading. She puts her book down and stands with a ramrod-straight posture as I approach, her eyes sharper than any sword.
“You went,” she says, cutting into me with just those two words.
“I had to try.” I return her gaze unblinkingly. Readying myself for whatever consequences I’ve earned.
There’s a beat, a lingering moment. The sunbirds cry to one another, and the noble children from the manor over scream as they play in the yard. The swords in Y’shennria’s eyes slide back into their scabbards, and she reaches a hand out to me.
“I know,” she finally says, soft and even, and for a second I swear an I’m just glad you’re back lingers behind them. I take her warm hand slowly, hesitantly, but she never pulls away. We share a pot of tea together in the drawing room, wordlessly, the sort of comforting wordlessness that fills the gaps like goose down—gentle and easy.
We’ve decided, Y’shennria and I, to make peace with each other. Like a family might.
The Crown Prince, too, has decided.
Later that day, he sends me what Y’shennria calls “a traditional invitation to the Hunt”—a luxurious white fur cape. I finger the fox tail at the end of it, my mind whirlpooling.
Did he realize it, too, after that night in the parade, or during our duel? Or maybe it was our darkened embrace in the tunnel. Does his mind drown in memories of our moments together like mine does, still fresh and new and warm to the touch? I should be happy he’s called me to the Hunt, chosen me. It means he’ll pull me aside, privately, and ask me that question every Spring Bride has longed to hear. It means I’ll have the perfect moment to slice his chest open and rip his heart from his ribs.
The thought of taking his heart—it used to fill me with determination. But now? The idea of losing him to the witches, the idea of betraying him by making him into the thing I hate most makes me ill. Why is this so sudden? Why can’t I just be the girl I used to be—bent on earning my freedom back, regardless of the cost?
Why can’t I just be the monster?
BeCausE it hUrts, the hunger screams.
The day of the Hunt comes too soon. I stare at the fire-calendar as I wait for Fisher to drive the carriage to the front door of Y’shennria’s manor. This is the last day. A single day is all that’s left between Verdance Day and me. Between failure and me. I fidget with the white fox-fur cape.
“You have everything?” Y’shennria asks, and I could swear beneath her composed voice and flawless green silk dress, she’s nervous. “Your nightdress, your sword, your makeup—”
“I was thinking I’d ditch the lip tint and use blood, instead. You know, go for a bit of that ‘wild hunting’ look.”
“You’re a true jester,” she asserts.
“I prefer the term ‘fashion pioneer.’”
“Do you have the jar?” she presses.
I finger my shoulder bag for personal travel effects. Against the silk fabric I can feel the glass of Lucien’s heart jar, filled with sweets to avoid suspicion should any humans see it.
“Sword—check. Jar—check. Overwhelming fear of the unknown—check.” I brush my bangs out of my eyes and smile at Y’shennria. “Anything else I should bring?”
“A healthy dose of optimism,” she says. “We’re close. I have every faith in you.”