Clark, like most people, couldn’t properly hear praise, but Riley hadn’t delivered it that way. You’re wrong, comforting in its familiarity, had ensured her other words came in at normal volume instead of muted. You’re good.
He didn’t know if this was her attempt at an apology. If her conscience demanded she balance the scales a little before he left. But Clark heard the conviction in her tone. Strong, steady. Aimed like an arrow straight for his soft, smushy insides. She meant it.
This time, when he played back the accusations she’d hurled at him last night, he heard them slightly differently.
They were still a blatant attempt to wound him. A callout of his selfish desire to be seen, to be loved, to make his father proud even if it came at Patrick’s expense.
Clark had carried that rotten thought as long as he could remember. He’d tried to bury it, to shrink and ignore it. But it was part of him. Like a small, dark spot on his heart. The subject of constant shame.
He’d spent thirty-odd years trying to hide this . . . this failing. Before today, he couldn’t imagine anything worse than having someone, practically a stranger, see.
But now, if Riley thought—like she’d said—that somehow despite his moral deficiency, he was good . . .
Not that he could be, if he atoned. He was, she’d said, already.
In ways that transcended what he could accomplish.
Clark didn’t like her in that moment any more than he had this morning. But it was true that she’d already gotten what she wanted—he was leaving. She had no reason to lie.
Even if she had only handed him a parting consolation prize, Clark thought he’d like to keep it.
He held her gaze, allowing himself one final indulgence after a hard week, a hard month, a hard year. “Joining a band is the worst occupation you can imagine?”
Her lips curved into the ghost of a smile. “There is literally nothing more awful than having someone sit in front of you with an acoustic guitar and play a song they just wrote. It should be illegal. Where am I supposed to look? Your hands? Your mouth? What if it sounds terrible? I don’t wanna tell you.”
There was something painful in the way she uttered the hypothetical. Though she obviously meant your in a general way, the words left too much ambiguity for his fragile ego. Your hands. Your mouth.
Darkness descended upon them. The last sliver of sun must have slipped beyond the horizon. A strange fluttering noise drew their attention upward, to where all of a sudden the ceiling seemed to be shifting, breathing. Undulating, almost as if . . .
“Are those . . .”
“Bats,” Riley said a few seconds before him.
When the wave of tiny black animals crested and crashed, nothing stood between him and their shining eyes and minute fangs. Dropping the manacles, he dove to his belly on the ground at the last possible second.
The colony’s airstream ruffled his hair as they escaped out into the evening.
“Quite the farewell.” Riley got to her feet gingerly.
Clark stayed on the ground, trying to wrestle back control of his breathing.
“Here.” She offered him a hand up.
He didn’t take it. The last thing he needed was to touch her right now.
Following his rebuff, Riley moved to pick up the manacles instead.
“It’s fine. I’ve got it,” he said churlishly, reaching for them himself.
As they each extended their hands, going for opposite circlets, two consecutive clicks cut the air.
“What the fuck?” Clark pulled his ensnared wrist back, only getting about ten centimeters because Riley was attached to the other end of the manacles.
“Oh no.” She started pulling too. “Oh no, no, no,” she said in time with the metal chain clanking as it extended and contracted between them with the force of her attempts to free herself.
They both yanked in opposite directions, swearing, disbelieving, until their wrists turned red, sore.
“Riley,” he said finally, trying to ground himself as his brain screamed. “Do these manacles have that curse-scent-signature thing on them?”
She nodded, biting her lip.
Bloody hell. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“You told me you were leaving!” Her eyes were saucer wide. “I thought it was about to go away.”
“Well.” He gestured at the cuffs. “You’re the curse breaker. Undo it.”
“Me?” Her voice had risen an octave. “I’m not Magneto. I can’t control metal.”
Clark closed his eyes. How had they come to this? Ten minutes ago, he’d been imagining how many sausage rolls he was going to pick up from the first Greggs he passed on the way back to England.
“No.” He tried to school himself to patience. “I mean use that framework you’re always blathering on about. Charm it, cleanse it. Whatever nonsense you have to do, I don’t care. Just fix this.”
He could not be chained to her. He just couldn’t. He was leaving. Clark was never, ever going to see Riley Rhodes again.
“The artifacts are just an extension of the curse,” she said, looking more freaked out even than he felt. “Until I break it . . . I think we’re stuck.”
“No. That’s unacceptable.” He tugged her forward. “Come along. I’ve got a series of picks in my kit.”
Something would work. It had to. He’d saw the chain links off with a nail file if he had to, priceless piece of history be damned.
Chapter Sixteen
Riley leaned against Clark’s desk, racking her brain, trying to figure out what the fuck was going on while he attempted his fifth （increasingly more frantic） lock-picking solution.
She didn’t get it. He’d been ready to leave. Had said himself that she’d driven him away. Yet the manacle around her wrist acted like a metaphorical horn blaring YOU GOT IT WRONG.
Her head throbbed. Had she really hurt Clark for nothing? It wasn’t like she’d felt noble or anything before. She just hadn’t realized she could feel worse.
That was until Clark jammed a penknife into his palm while attempting to MacGyver the lock mechanism.
“Fuck.” He brought the injured hand to his mouth.
“Don’t do that.” Riley walked him to the sink, flipping on the tap to rinse the cut instead. “You know, for someone who fusses over everyone else’s wounds, you could stand to be a little more careful with your own.”
She hadn’t actually meant for that to be a metaphor, but . . . yeah.
Grabbing the first aid kit he’d used to tend to her cat scratches （her right arm had really gotten the shit end of the stick this week）， she took out a Band-Aid, pulling the thing open with her teeth.
“Listen, maybe we should call a locksmith,” she suggested while Clark tolerated her awkward attempts to apply the bandage with her nondominant hand.
“The type of drill they use would completely decimate the integrity of the artifact,” he said, as if Riley should know exactly how locksmiths worked. “We need something custom forged to unlock the device without damaging it beyond repair.”
“Fine, then.” She released his hand and tossed the plastic wrapper. “Let’s call a blacksmith.”
Those were the people who forged metal, right? Were they still around, like as a profession? She kinda assumed they were an old-timey relic like apothecaries.