Ruthless Vows (Letters of Enchantment, #2)(43)

“What’s happened?” Attie closed the distance between them.

Iris bit her lip before surrendering Roman’s letter. She watched as Attie read it, her brown eyes going wide in shock before meeting her gaze.

“Marisol said Keegan is in Hawk Shire, didn’t she?” Attie whispered.

Iris only nodded. It felt like a splinter was in her throat. Her eyes were burning and she rubbed them for a moment, a stray eyelash clinging to her fingertip.

“Why do you need to go to Hawk Shire?” Tobias asked, stepping closer.

Attie only stared at Iris. When Iris tilted her chin, acquiescing, Attie handed the letter to him.

And this was what Roman meant, Iris thought. His letter had been intended for her eyes only, but to prevent the devastation planned for Hawk Shire, she would have to show it to others. She would have to then reveal how she had received the letter. Those secrets she had been holding like jewels in her hand would be exposed, and it made her feel vulnerable.

Tobias exhaled, slow and deep, as he finished reading the letter. “How did you get this? Who is R.?”

“It’s a long story,” Iris said, a blush creeping over her.

Tobias was pensive, his expression almost stern. But he handed the letter back to her. “Then you’ll have plenty of time to tell me on the ride there. Go pack your bags. I’ll drive you to Hawk Shire.”





{18}

Nothing More than Mist and Memory




Roman followed Dacre over the parlor threshold and down the hewn stairwell, leaving the morning sunlight of Merrow behind. He carried his typewriter and Elizabeth’s letters, folded and hidden in his inner pocket. He had known Dacre would be taking him to the realm below at dawn, and yet he hadn’t been able to destroy her letters before slipping from the privacy of his room.

He was relieved when they reached a narrow corridor, lit by torches. From there, they walked for a while in silence with nothing but the clip of their boots and the rush of their breath for company. But Roman sensed the floor tilting, ever so slightly, as if they were traversing further and further downward. Without any warning, the corridor suddenly ended, ushering them into a massive chamber. Although perhaps chamber is the wrong word for it, Roman thought as he came to a slow halt, craning his neck to take it all in.

This place was vast and lively, like a courtyard in a market square, with windows and doors and balconies carved high up into the white stone walls. It was another world, truly, and Roman was surprised to find so many people within it. Mainly soldiers, who were swiftly identified by their uniforms. Some were gathered around a forge, where sparks danced in the air and a wash of heat could be felt, while others were in line for food, bowls in hand. Another company looked to be in the midst of a drill, their boots stomping the stone floor in perfect rhythm, their rifles catching the firelight.

It all felt strangely normal save for the lack of sky and sunlight, until Roman noticed other things.

There was a creek babbling nearby, cutting a serpentine path through the rock. The small stones in its bed looked to be silver coins, and smoke was rising from the currents. And then a woman walked by with a basket of freshly laundered uniforms on her hip. Upon first glance, she looked human, until Roman blinked and saw a flash of the otherworldly in her—talons curling from her fingertips, silver hair with bloodstains on the ends, and long canines protruding from her mouth. She was wearing a glamour of some sort to make her appear human, a camouflage, and Roman shivered, watching her melt into the crowd. Lastly, a dog was trotting about, looking for scraps. A dog and yet not, for it had two limp wings on its back, and three eyes in its face.

“Welcome to Lorindella,” Dacre said. He sounded amused, and Roman realized the god had been watching his reaction. “Are you hungry?”

Roman nodded, feeling the hollow ache of his stomach. He was ravenous. For food, for warmth, for home. For safety.

He shifted his typewriter to his other hand and followed Dacre to the food line. The air became delicious to breathe, overwhelmed with the aromas of chargrilled meat. Roman didn’t realize he was shaking until a bowl of what looked to be chicken, bread, and some sort of thick red sauce was given to him.

“Go rest and take your fill,” Dacre said, indicating the heart of the square, where soldiers were sitting while they ate. “I’ll come for you when it’s time to move.”

“Yes, sir,” Roman said, but his voice was hardly above a whisper.

He found a place to sit and devoured the food. He could have eaten three more bowls, but he distracted himself from the lingering pangs by studying the city again. Lorindella, Dacre had called it. Roman tried to imagine it on the under map he had seen earlier. He closed his eyes and remembered all the illuminated passages he had seen, flowing like rivers, tangling like tree roots.

When he opened his eyes again, he saw Lieutenant Shane standing a few paces away, speaking to Dacre.

Roman glanced down at his hands, but a few moments later, two shined boots came to a stop before him.

“You’ll be marching with my platoon, correspondent,” Shane said. “Here’s your pack.” He dropped a bedroll strapped down with a water canteen, a small iron griddle, and a leather pouch of food. “You’re responsible for carrying it from now on. You have ten more minutes before we depart. Take care of any other business you may have before then.”

Roman stared at it, numb with shock, before looking up at Shane. “Why am I in your platoon? I didn’t think I would be fighting.”