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“I know.”
His body yearns for closeness. In an ugly way, he wants to reach out and force Arsene to jerk away, to reject him outright.You disgust me, he wants Arsene to say plainly. At least then he can silence his longing.
Instead he pushes the shovel deeper and pries loose a clod of blue grass and dirt, tossing it into the pile with the rest.
Chapter 15
NUR
Nur wakesone night to a chill in the air and his breath clouding in front of him. By the time the grey sky gleams with the first light of dawn, the wind has picked up and the air is so solidly damp each gust feels like a smack. He’s glad to duck into camp and warm his hands by the remains of the fire when his watch ends.
He falls into pace next to Arsene when they move out, instinct driving him into the angel’s vicinity. Sure enough, Arsene turns to him as soon as the caravan moves out.
“Rain’s coming,” he grunts, his gaze flickering over Nur for a heartbeat longer than normal.
Nur doesn’t answer, waiting him out.
Finally Arsene sighs. “They’re going to stop for the rain. I want you to watch the wagon while everyone’s distracted—Gorman might try to escape.”
Ah. The wagon master Arsene still itches to dispatch of. The human is clean so far, but chimeric parasites can incubate for days. It’s unlikely he avoided infection. As soon as the poor doomed human is symptomatic, the parasite will spawn and its young will search out a new host in the form of black goo spewing out of the human’s orifices. All it takes is one carelessperson to check on him and become infected. Then the parasites will infect another. And another. And another. Nur doesn’t blame Arsene for wanting to kill the human—he’s a liability.
Yet if he sides with Arsene, he’s against the humans. Arsene despises him. The humans welcomed him. Why isn’t it an easy choice?
The rain starts at midday, a gentle tap on the shoulder.Hey. I’m coming.But it doesn’t waste any time. The soft drizzle turns to a downpour and the wagons roll to a halt as the earth turns to mud. The humans open the supply wagon for the children to huddle in while everyone else carries empty water barrels and sets them under the rain. Nur hovers near the second wagon, hoping he won’t be called upon to do any labour—he hates panting and straining through the process.
Arsene is roped into helping, of course, as the tallest and broadest member of the caravan. He’s shed his leather breastplate to lift and carry more easily. The rain drenches his shirt in minutes, plastering the ridiculous ruffles to his broad chest. His hair flattens to his scalp and rivulets of rain drip down his nose. Even wet and bedraggled he possesses a glow Nur can’t look away from. Below all the irritating self-righteousness is a delectable gleam ofgoodness. Nur wants to possess it.
When all the barrels are out, catching precious rain, the humans set up a different kind of camp, extending the frame of the wagon to create a shelter. Some of them strip in the downpour to get clean. Nur does the same, glad to sluice the dust off his skin. He tips his head back and scoops rainwater over his face, letting it rinse his long, tangled hair.
Rhys comes to find him, carrying a jar of something creamy and soft which he hands to Nur. “Use this,” he says with a grin.
Nur sniffs it. It smells like perfume. “How?”
“On your hair. It’ll help.”
“Why?” he says.
Rhys jerks his chin across the camp at Arsene, who’s watching them with daggers coming out of his eyes. “It’s for lovers. Won’t he…like it?”
Nur turns away with a scowl, cheeks heating. “I don’t care what he likes.”
And he won’t like it.In fact, he imagines it would infuriate Arsene.
He pries a tiny dab out and rubs it between his finger. The sweet scent gets stronger. Why not? He smoothes it into his hair, pulling apart the tangles carefully. His hair is long because it grows that way, not out of some misplaced sense of vanity, but itisannoying, even after he cut the worst tangles out.
Arsene watches him from across the camp, expression thunderous even at a distance. Nur ignores him—or pretends to. It’s impossible not to feel the weight of that gaze.
Any time he tries to catch Arsene’s look, though, the angel has his back turned.
Unaccountable fury builds. The angel is such a hypocrite. Worst of all, though, is that Nur never be any of the things Arsene wants in a vergis. Selfless. Dutiful. Worthy of the angel’s attention. Craving Arsene’s eyes on him is idiocy—another symptom of his wrongness.
He’s greedy. He doesn’t want to be left with a broken bond. He doesn’t want to spend his last days alone. And duty? Hah. Where did being dutiful get him?
Under the big shelter, Nur ties his hair back and pulls his clothes on over damp skin. Anger makes his arms jerk and his fingers fumble. He brushes off the humans’ gentle chatter with a mumbled excuse and goes to the wagon. He’ll give Arsene something to glare about.
Nur lifts the flap and crawls into the dark. It’s musty and smells like oats, but with an undercurrent of blood.
“Who’s there?” the wagon master calls out gruffly.
