Ruthless Vows (Letters of Enchantment, #2)(36)

Something isn’t right, Iris thought, waiting to see if she felt it again. The clinking seemed to grow stronger, then fainter. Perhaps I’m only tired and imagining it.

She let her fingertips find their places on the keys again, staring at her half-written letter.

Never mind. I am too full of wants and it has made me heady and bold.

I shouldn’t send this letter to you. I shouldn’t, but only because I fear what you may think. And in the same breath … I fear that it will never reach you.

And that is why I am surrendering it. To prove myself wrong and to prove myself right.

—E.

Roman wanted nothing more than to close himself up into his new room and peel away his jumpsuit. To scrub his skin until it felt raw. To unlace his boots and lie on the bed. To reread Elizabeth’s letters until he lost himself in her words.

He wanted to forget—just for an evening—what had transpired that day.

No matter how many of us you turn … we’ll abandon you, eventually. When we remember.

The sniper’s words continued to echo through him. Roman wondered if the man was fully healed now, somewhere far below. If he would remember what had transpired when he woke. How he had dared to assassinate a god.

“Roman?” Dacre’s voice suddenly boomed from the floor below. “Bring your typewriter down to the parlor.”

Roman froze with a grimace. He glanced around the room he had chosen for the night—a small but cozy chamber, with a slice of a wardrobe door—and he decided a letter to Elizabeth would have to wait. He still hadn’t heard from her, and he tried to tamp down his worries as he gathered up his typewriter. Down the stairs he went, returning to the parlor where the sniper’s blood still stained the floor and the doorway still led to the underground.

Dacre had turned the parlor into a makeshift office, pushing away the settee and dragging in the kitchen table. A fire now roared in the hearth, although family photographs remained on the mantel, their brass frames gleaming in the light.

“Sit down,” Dacre said. “I need you to type out missives for me.”

Roman found a bare spot on the table to set his typewriter. But he took note of the papers that were scattered around him—maps, letters, documents—as was a plate of half-eaten dinner, a bottle of wine, and an earthenware cup.

“What would you like me to write, sir?” Roman asked as he drew out his chair.

Dacre was quiet, his eyes on the map spread before him. It was a drawing of Cambria and its five boroughs. Every town and city. Every river and forest. The roads that connected them all like veins.

As Dacre began to speak, Roman listened and typed:

Captain Hoffman,

In six days’ time, your forces need to join us at Hawk Shire. If you have not succeeded in your northern mission, you will have to resume it after the battle. My brigade will begin the assault from within by utilizing my doorways, as previously discussed, and your troops should be prepared to assist in the undertaking if the sacking takes longer than I expect. I am also low on supplies; prepare to bring whatever food rations and canteens you have.

Dacre Underling

Lord Commander of Cambria

Roman drew the paper free and handed it to Dacre. As the god signed his name and pressed a wax seal to the letter, Roman’s gaze coasted over the map. He located Hawk Shire, a large town not far from where they were currently camped in Merrow. It had a figurine of a woman set upon it. A representation of Enva’s forces, Roman knew. But then his attention drifted to another map, tucked beneath the one of Cambria. He could only see the edges of it, but it looked like a drawing of gnarled tree roots. Winding, slithering passages. Some were marked in blue, others in green.

It was a map of the underworld.

He forced his eyes to shift before Dacre noticed.

“Now ready another,” Dacre said, and Roman dutifully rolled a new page into the typewriter.

Mr. Ronald Kitt

Roman stopped typing, staring at the words Dacre had just uttered. The words he had just inked on paper.

“You’re writing to my father?” he asked.

“Did I not mention that he has been a faithful servant?” Dacre countered. “Don’t worry. Your family is fine. Your father knows you’re safe. He’s proud of you, in fact.”

Roman didn’t know what to make of that statement. It seemed to glance off him, as if he was enclosed in steel.

“What message do you want to send to my father, sir?”

Dacre continued:

I’m writing to remind you of our agreement. I’m still awaiting the next shipment you promised me, and, as the railroad has faced some difficulties lately, I wonder if we can devise an alternative for the deliveries to be made. I know you were previously concerned with Enva’s forces intercepting, but the worst of your worries should be

They were interrupted by a soldier, the same captain Roman had seen earlier that day. He abruptly entered the house through the front door. A waft of cool evening air swirled around him as he paused on the parlor threshold.

“Forgive my interruption, Commander,” the captain said, bowing his head. As he did so, an iron key slipped from beneath his collar, hanging on a chain. Roman stared at it, realizing it was one of the five keys Dacre had mentioned. “But I’ve urgent requests that need your immediate attention.”

Dacre sighed but raised his hand. “What do you want, Captain Landis?”