Ruthless Vows (Letters of Enchantment, #2)(94)

He held out his arm without hesitation. But within, his mind was a dark, deep current. Spinning around and around. You will regret breaking my bones. You will regret ever taking Iris from my mind. You will release something from my marrow that you will wish you had never touched.

Dacre took hold of Roman’s arm. He drew him closer, until their breaths mingled.

“Do you know who betrayed me?” Dacre asked.

“No, sir.”

Dacre’s grip tightened. Roman could feel his hand begin to tingle; he could see his father at the corner of his eye, stepping closer, grimacing in horror.

“No, I don’t have a name,” Roman said, stronger this time. “And I don’t think anyone here is a traitor.”

“Convince me of your reasoning.”

“We have been with you, lord. We have served you below as well as above. We know your true nature, your power, your magic. If one of us attempted to kill you, do you think we would be foolish enough to use a bomb?”

Dacre released Roman’s arm. But he raked his hand through his snarled hair, and it was so human-like that it almost made Roman laugh.

A god could be killed. But they would have to be smart about it the next time.

Emboldened by Dacre’s hesitation, Roman pressed on. “Sir, this is a very precarious time. Instead of doubting us, let us strategize on the next step.”

Dacre studied him again. He sighed as if bored. “Go and change your clothes. Meet me in the war room in ten minutes.” To his officers and soldiers, he said, “To your posts.”

Roman stood in the hallway, surrounded by a sudden stream of life. Soldiers returning to their patrols or to the dining room for a meal. To the library-turned-barracks. Whatever they had been doing before Dacre had returned and marred the night.

Shane brushed Roman’s shoulder.

A sign of comradery or a warning, Roman couldn’t tell, and he was too weary to attempt to parse it. He climbed the stairs and retreated to his room. Alone at last, he ripped off his jacket. He fell to his knees, clawing at his throat.

He gasped as if he had just broken the surface of the sea.



* * *



Nine minutes later, Roman returned to the parlor dressed in clean clothes. The blood and vomit had been washed away and his dark hair had been slicked back. His posture was straight, a bit rigid, but he had always been like that, hadn’t he?

By all outward appearances, he seemed normal. He looked fine. Groomed and put together, even after narrowly escaping a bomb.

But within? He felt splintered.

Dacre was too preoccupied to notice. He stood in front of the parlor hearth, full of vitality, as if he had never felt the sting of an explosion. He too had changed and washed away all trace of mortal blood, the firelight illuminating his angular face. But for all his inward distance, he heard Roman enter the room. Without turning, he said, “There’s an important letter I need you to type for me.”

Roman took a seat before his typewriter, waiting to feel a rush of relief to be near it again. The Third Alouette. His connection to Iris. He felt empty as he studied the strike bars E and R.

But then he noticed something else, lying on the table. A bloodstained iron key, strung on a chain.

The key that had been around Captain Landis’s neck.

“Tell me when you’re ready,” Dacre said.

Roman returned his attention to the task, feeding a sheet of paper into the typewriter. He couldn’t help but study the iron key again, only an arm’s length away. The power to unlock thresholds, just beyond his reach.

“I’m ready, sir,” he said.

And yet he was not prepared for the words that came from Dacre’s mouth. For the person this letter was addressed to. Roman listened but was unable to type the name.

Dacre noticed the silence. He stopped speaking and glanced at him with a frown.

“Is something wrong, Roman?”

“No, lord.”

“Then why aren’t you typing?”

“Sorry, sir.” Roman flexed his fingers, two of his knuckles popping. “Please continue.”

I would know if she were dead.

Dacre repeated himself, and this time Roman turned his words into ink, even as his eyes remained on that first line:

Dear Iris E. Winnow





{41}

Conversations with a Figment




Iris ran down the dark side street.

Somewhere along the way she had lost one of her high heels, and her bare foot stung with every lopsided step. Her dress was torn; her knees were skinned. She couldn’t tell how badly she was hurt because her body was numb.

All she could feel was her heart, pounding an erratic song in her ears, down the twisted lines of her veins.

Don’t stop! It’s not safe yet.

Exhaustion crept over her, making her slow and clumsy. Her muscles were tight and hot beneath her sweaty skin. She couldn’t seem to push herself to run any faster and yet she worried she would collapse if she stopped moving.

Where am I?

She felt completely turned around, lost in a shadowy maze. Swallowed whole by a nightmare she was desperate to wake from. She shivered as she limped to a reluctant stop at the next intersection.

A few motorcars sped past, tires splashing through rain puddles. The streetlamps began to flicker to life, their amber light drawing a host of moths. A newspaper was disintegrating on the cobblestones.