Ruthless Vows (Letters of Enchantment, #2)(33)

What sort of name is that? he inwardly grumbled, already picturing it as a byline. It was a good name. One that he was tempted to taste, but he refrained.

“I’m Roman Kitt,” he said gruffly. “Welcome to the Gazette.”

Her hand was still between them, waiting for his. It would be rude for him to ignore it. In fact, it already was rude that he had left it hanging for so long. He reluctantly let his hand meet hers and was promptly surprised by how firm her grip was. How touching her sent a shock up his arm.

Roman gasped awake.





{13}

You’ve Seen Worse than This




“You’ve been unusually quiet,” Dacre said.

Roman drew his attention away from the lorry’s dirty window. The troops had finally departed the melancholy farm, pressing eastward along a winding road. “Sorry, sir. I’ve been enjoying the change of scenery.”

Dacre was sitting on the bench beside him, regarding him with shrewd eyes. “Are your old wounds hurting?”

The inquiry was so unexpected that Roman gaped for a moment. Hadn’t Dacre healed those broken pieces of him? Why would the pain return?

“No,” Roman said, but his fingertips traced the scars around his knee, hidden beneath the jumpsuit. “I feel perfectly well, sir.”

“You can tell me if they do. Sometimes wounds run deeper than I first realized, and I have no choice but to heal them again.” Dacre paused, as if lost in thought, before asking, “Did you have a dream last night? It’s been a while since you shared one with me.”

“If I did, I don’t remember.” The lie flowed smoothly, but Roman felt his throat constrict. He kept seeing Iris Winnow, smiling up at him. Why did the gravity seem to gather around her, even hours after he had dreamt of her?

He traced his palm with his thumb—he could still feel her touch—and he sensed that Iris was more than a dream.

“If you could have any magic of the gods,” Dacre said, “what power would you choose?”

Roman was once again surprised by Dacre’s question. “I’m not sure. I’ve never thought about it, sir.”

“When I was younger, I wanted my cousin’s power. Mir’s.” Dacre’s voice was deep and warm as he remembered an era of his past with apparent fondness. “Mir was much older than me, and far more ruthless. He was born with the power of illusions and could come and go as a mere shadow, stealing from one place to another unnoticed. He gathered up family secrets like jewels in a coffer, and then wandered above to glean what he could from the Skywards. I remember when he returned below one day, looking vibrant and hale, like he had swallowed all the stars from the sky. He told me that he had acquired another power. One that enabled him to read minds should he touch someone. From then onward, I avoided him, fearful of what he might find in my own thoughts even though I had only ever envied him.”

Roman studied Dacre’s sharp profile. The sunlight limned his strange beauty.

“You can acquire more power? I thought you were born with your magic, and that is what sets you apart from us,” Roman said.

“We are born with our appointed magic, yes,” Dacre answered. “But that never stopped us from wanting more and finding ways of taking it.”

Roman wiped his palms on his thighs. He wanted to ask further questions, but the words wouldn’t come, and he thought of Mir instead. Another divine who was sleeping in a northern grave.

A few hours of stilted silence passed, Roman dozing in and out of dreamless sleep. He was relieved when they reached their destination.

The town of Merrow was similar to the Bluff but smaller, comprising thatched cottages with brightly painted shutters and overgrown gardens. A main thoroughfare was the only cobbled road. Apple orchards dotted the landscape, their white blossoms drifting from the branches when the wind blew.

As soon as the lorry came to a halt, Roman gathered his typewriter and opened the door. He stepped down carefully, minding the long line of trucks rumbling into town behind him, and he gazed up at the nearest cottage.

The windows were full of shadows, laced with gossamer. No smoke rose from the chimneys; no children raced along the streets. The market was boarded up. Even some of the doors looked to be barricaded and difficult to reach.

“Where is everyone?” he asked, not expecting an answer. But Dacre heard, as did the soldier who had been driving their lorry.

“Evacuated to the east, thanks to Enva’s forces,” Dacre replied, looking to the captain who stood at attention nearby. “Set up a watch at the perimeter. Have your company choose the best place to lodge for tonight and see what we can recover from the cellars for a meal.”

“Yes, sir.” The captain saluted and began to call out orders.

The town buzzed like a hive as the soldiers carried out their tasks, and Roman was considering wandering on his own for a moment, drawn to the quiet peace of the orchard, when gunshots cracked the air.

Not three paces ahead of him, a private went down with a scream.

Roman felt the blood splatter on his face and he froze, heart thundering in his chest. Another trio of shots—earsplitting, bone-jarring. A second and third soldier went down, and through the panicked scuffle and shouts, Roman realized the bullets were coming from a second-story window.

“Move,” Dacre hissed, grasping Roman’s arm.