Ruthless Vows (Letters of Enchantment, #2)(44)

“Dacre thought it best you remain under my instruction since we come from the same place.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You didn’t know I’m from Oath?” Shane said with a smirk. But before Roman could scrounge up a reply, the lieutenant had turned and walked away.



* * *



It was nearly impossible to tell how much time had passed, but Roman had blisters on his heels and an empty, growling stomach by the time Shane brought his platoon to a halt. They had been marching along an eastern route, one that had led them to another vast chamber, although this one was empty and dim, laced with fog. There was no forge or market, nor were there windows or balconies hewn from the walls. It felt quiet and reverent as a forest, although no trees grew here. Only straggly plants blossomed from cracks in the rock.

Roman felt dried out, like a stone that had cracked in two. He rushed to untether the canteen and drank a few sips, the water so cold it made his teeth ache.

The privates around him were beginning to bed down for the night. Roman followed suit, keeping his typewriter close—the only weapon that he possessed. The bedroll was two woolen blankets, scratchy but warm, and Roman lay down with a sigh, his arms crossed, his palms resting on his chest, just above Elizabeth’s letters. He couldn’t resist pressing down until he felt the paper crinkle.

He fell asleep with a shiver.



* * *



He dreamt of Iris Winnow again.

But of course he would, and he tasted the irony like he had set a coin in his mouth. She seemed to haunt his dreams at the direst of times. When the waking world felt the most uncertain and bruised.

This time, they sat on a park bench side by side, eating sandwiches. It was cold and the trees were bare overhead. Iris was telling him about her brother, Forest. He was missing in action.

Then he dreamt of home again. He was in his room; it was late, and he was typing on his typewriter. He was writing about Del’s drowning and the guilt that still haunted him like a shadow he could never escape. When he was done, he folded the paper and slipped it beneath his wardrobe door. After that, he sat on his bed and reread the letters that Iris had written to him.

He saw Iris again at the Gazette. Their battleground. She was leaving. She was quitting, and Roman didn’t know what to do, what to say to convince her to stay or why this truly mattered to him. He only knew that he felt most alive when she was near, and he stood before the doors and watched her walk to him. He sought to read every line of her expression, every thought flickering through her mind, as if she were a story on a page. He was desperate to know what she was thinking, what he could say to convince her to stay.

Stay, Iris. Stay here with me.

“Roman.”

Dacre’s voice woke him. The deep timbre moved like shockwaves in Roman’s mind, trespassing into the dream. Iris Winnow melted into iridescent rain at the sound. Roman surprised himself by reaching out to touch her. But she was nothing more than mist and memory. She slipped through his fingers, leaving behind the taste of tart citrus in black, sugared tea.

“Wake, Roman,” Dacre was saying, his grip hard on his shoulder. “The hour has come.”

“Sir?” Roman said reflexively, his voice rusted. He opened his eyes to the blurred sight of a god staring down at him.

But even under the heavy watch of immortality, all Roman could think was this: he had been writing to Iris the same way he was writing to Elizabeth now. He had been slipping typed letters under doorways for a while. Long before he had ever become entangled with the war. It made his blood quicken, his skin warm like gold heated over fire.

“Get up,” Dacre said. “It’s time for us to take Hawk Shire.”





{19}

A Brigadier Made of Stars




Hawk Shire wasn’t what Iris was expecting. Although to be honest, she wasn’t sure what she had thought it would be like.

All through the night ride, she had leaned back and let the motorcar hum through her bones, her eyes on the sky. The stars had glimmered overhead like devoted guardians, the western constellations guiding them onward like an arrow set to a bowstring. Iris, too electrified to sleep, had tried to envision what was to come. To prepare her statement and set a plan of action, Roman’s letter tucked away in her pocket alongside Marisol’s bird volume. A few times, she had let her fingertip trace the sharp corner of the folded paper, Roman’s words a brilliant seam in the darkness.

I don’t know how to prepare for this, Mum, Iris caught herself thinking, studying the stars. They continued to gleam, cold pinpricks of fire. I don’t know what I’m doing.

The sun was rising like a bloody yolk on the horizon when Tobias geared down the roadster. Hawk Shire came into view through a veil of fog, a town spun from tall shadows in the distance. There was a patrol on the road with a crudely made barricade. Tobias brought the motorcar to a stop when a soldier lifted his hand.

“This town is closed to civilians,” the soldier said in a curt tone, studying the three of them with a suspicious eye. “You should return to where you came from.”

Iris sat up straighter, removing her goggles. Gods only knew what she looked like, wind-snarled hair, cheeks and shoulders freckled with mud. A desperate gleam in her eyes.

“I have an important message for Captain Keegan Torres,” she said. “It’s very urgent. Please let us pass.”