Dacre had once told him gods needed little to no sleep, which made Roman wonder why was he making himself vulnerable now.
He stepped closer, his heart beginning to pound.
I could kill him, Roman thought, staring down at Dacre’s placid face. I could kill him and end everything here and now.
The only weapon he held was his typewriter, enclosed in its case. Which made him swiftly realize that he didn’t know the most effective way to kill a divine, even if he had been granted a blade or a gun or a match to burn their immortal body down to ash.
Despite that stark reality, Roman glanced around the room, wondering if there were any weapons hiding in the shadows. There were none to be found, but his gaze landed on the candlelit desk, where maps were spread across the wood.
He had been eager to study the map of the underworld again, waiting for a moment when he could be alone with the drawings.
Roman walked to the table and laid his hand over the detailed drawing of Cambria, watching as the map beneath was illuminated. He studied it, his gaze racing along the active routes, all the way to Oath. This time he knew what to look for, and even as the city remained mostly dormant and dim, due to the routes still being repaired, there was a single, brilliant vein that ran beneath the city, straight through its heart, up to the northern side.
The current active route.
It ended in a blue flickering circle, marking the Kitt estate. Just as Iris had suspected, and Roman wished he had thought of his father’s potential involvement sooner. That he had recalled those magical quirks of the house he had grown up in, and how they might be connected to the under realm’s doorways.
Where are the other thresholds?
He leaned closer so he could study the details of the city. He scrutinized the active route, noticing there were other circles that were not lit in blue. Other magical doors, then? And this didn’t even account for the additional routes that he knew must run beneath Oath that still needed to be repaired. There could be hundreds of doorways, and Roman gave himself three more breaths to memorize the lit route and the circles before he lifted his hand and stepped away.
He walked to his appointed desk and drew a fresh sheet of paper from the pile. Closing his eyes, he saw the illuminated path again. It was burned into his vision, and he drew it as best he could on the page with a fountain pen.
The room suddenly felt colder.
Roman opened his eyes.
Dacre was beginning to stir on the divan. His breaths quickened as if he were in a nightmare, hands clenching into fists. Roman glanced at the door, measuring the distance. He wouldn’t have time to slip away before Dacre woke, which meant he needed a reason to be here. He noticed the Inkridden Tribune was still on his desk, Iris’s headline about Dacre’s doomed love with Enva wrinkled as if it had been roughly handled.
Roman marked three potential doors on his crudely drawn map, identifying general buildings in Oath that might be hosting magical thresholds. Then he forced himself to fold the paper and tuck it into his pocket. He had begun to unpack his typewriter as if it were any other afternoon work session when Dacre’s voice broke the silence, darkened by fury.
“Enva.”
The sound made Roman’s blood turn to ice. He froze, watching as Dacre sat forward on the divan. The god’s back was angled to him; Dacre still hadn’t seen him, and he covered his face with his hands—such a human gesture that Roman felt a pang in his chest.
“My lord,” Roman rasped, thinking he had better announce himself. “I’m here to finish our article.”
Dacre didn’t move. He could have been hewn from stone; there was no draw of breath, no reaction to Roman’s presence.
“Are you all right, sir?”
“Get out,” Dacre said in a low, sharp tone.
Roman didn’t need to be told twice. With a shiver, he took his typewriter and fled.
* * *
A few hours later, just before dusk, Dacre sent for him.
Lieutenant Shane once more came to fetch Roman, his eyes hooded as if he were bored.
“A true summoning this time?” Roman asked, a touch sardonic.
Shane held his stare, impassive. “And what of it? Did you not write a new article for him, as is the norm every afternoon?”
Roman frowned. He was about to ask if Shane had known Dacre was sleeping, or had suspected it and wanted confirmation, when the lieutenant said, “Leave the typewriter. You won’t need it.”
Roman paused, his hand reaching for the case handle. If he didn’t need his typewriter, then what did Dacre want with him? It couldn’t be good, given the private moment Roman had witnessed earlier.