In the Veins of the Drowning(2)

Tugging at my bodice, I traced the thin gray edge of the northern beach in the distance. On a map, the Isle of Seraf looked like a beastly jaw protruding from the waters of Leucosia. It was all jagged peaks and ravenous valleys, and upon its highest summit, King Nemea had built his fort. He’d forced it into existence, carving it from the rock, cramming it into the crooked teeth of the island like a stuck piece of gristle.

I tried to purge my anxieties with an exhale, only to have my eyes sting. It was inexplicable, how both terror and anticipation over my wedding filled me in equal measure. How I both feared what might come of it and hoped for the best. I struck the wall with my palm. “Bloody fucking Gods.”

“Has the party already started, then?”

The deep, smoky voice made me jump. I whirled toward the far end of the curved lookout to see a brooding figure—dark and tall—leaning against the fort wall. He wore a white shirt, tucked neatly into his trousers. His black boots were polished to an absurd shine. No doubt he was one of the many newly arrived guests who now swarmed the fort, thrilled by a rare invitation to gawk. To see what the Isle of Seraf and its hateful, reclusive king had become over the last many decades.

I adjusted my skirt and glowered. “The gentlemanly thing to do would have been to announce yourself when I arrived.”

He gave a conceding nod. Brow pinched, his gaze fell over the abundance of red silk ruffles at my low neckline, the heavy glass beading in the precise color of blood—the king’s color—stitched onto my bodice. The dress was gaudy and unfashionable, and as he stared at it a sardonic half smile curled his mouth. “Unbelievably, I didn’t notice you right away.”

My mood was tenuous, and I wanted to see the smug tilt of his lips fall. I gave a scoff. “How dare you laugh at me, sir.”

His eyes rounded with indignation. “I was not—”

“Oh please,” I said. “I had wished to be alone, but every inch of this place is crawling with ill-mannered people—this parapet included.”

His mouth opened, then shut. For a long moment, he simply stared at me, stupefied. “Well…” He crossed closer, narrowed his eyes to a scowl. “Seeing as how we had both hoped to be alone, perhaps we could be alone together. Though I see that you might not be in the mood to share.”

I held his stare. He reminded me of summer. Skin a golden brown, eyes the color of dark leaves. The wind tousled his inky hair so that it hung over his creased brow. He was regal, towering and straight, well-built and graceful, but it was the way he looked at me down the length of his ever-so-slightly crooked nose that made me certain he was of noble birth. I yearned to tell him no simply because he seemed unaccustomed to hearing it, but something in me clamped down on the impulse. “We can share,” I finally said, “but only if you promise not to laugh at this ludicrous dress again.”

A breath. Another. Then his scowl melted into a full smile that dimpled his left cheek. “A tall ask.”

My jaw unhinged in amused outrage.

“Forgive me.” He raised his hands in surrender, face serious once more. “I’m simply relieved to know you’re aware that it’s… noticeable.”

“Of course.” I gave my skirt a deprecating flounce. “I’m impossible to miss.”

He gave another dimpled smile as he rested his elbows on the crenellated wall and stared at the vista.

A long silence sat between us. “And why,” I asked, “are you seeking refuge from the party? Strange to travel all this way, only to hide.”

He flexed his jaw. “This fort… It’s not a pleasant place.” His low voice had turned somber, ill at ease. He forced a flat smile. “And the wine is terrible. And you?”

I eyed the strong lines of his profile. There was something inviting about him, something that made me want to tell him the truth. “I’m most certainly avoiding the wine,” I said, instead. “Expect to wake with a headache and a burning stomach if you drink too much.”

“You couldn’t pay me.”

We stood side by side, staring over the mountain peaks and old twisted cypresses, out to the glittering band of sea.

“Quite a view,” he said, quietly.

“It is.” It was endless and sweeping and made me feel immeasurably small. “I don’t think that’s why Nemea built this fort so high up, though.”

He gave a disgruntled sound deep in his chest at my mention of King Nemea. Mood suddenly sullen, he turned and rested his back against the parapet wall.

“You don’t like him, do you?” I asked. There were not many who did.

His sidelong glance was fleeting. “I’ve heard rumors this fort was built this high so that he could pitch people from the windows and be certain they would die.”

I gave a dark laugh, then gasped in a shallow breath. Nemea was far more inventive in his cruelty than to simply throw subjects from fort windows. “That’s quite the rumor. And do you believe it?”

The way his attention bore down on me made me still. He studied me, as if he were cataloging my every feature, as if he searched for something in them. Finally, in a voice that rolled through his chest like the storms over the valley, he said, “I think the only reason anyone would reside this high up—this far from the rest of the world—is because they either have something to fear or something to hide.”