“Sure does.”
Right.
Silence hovers as I eat, getting through half the bowl in the time ittakes him to drain half the bottle of cupboard brew. “Well,” I murmur, scooping another big chunk of meat, “whatever it takes to get this off your chest, just know that I’m supportive.”
“You keep giving us permission to fuck off, you’re gonna have nobody left,” Pyrok drones, producing another ball of flame he spins on the tip of his finger.
Fair observation.
“Speaking of.” I jerk my chin at Roan’s empty stool, the Book of Voyd still open on the kitchen counter. “Did he mention where he was headed?”
“Not a word.” Pyrok tosses the ball so high it almost grazes the ceiling. “Just stood the moment you started banging your boots against the doorstep. This is the longest he’s stepped away from the book since Raeve set it down. He even takes it into the privy.”
I frown, chewing through a hunk of dahpa.
Pyrok tips his head to the side, brows bumped so high they’re almost lost beneath the fiery might of his strewn hair. “Did it seem strange to you that he asked to use your cloak? He was already wearing one he hadn’t bothered to take off since he got here. Pretty sure it’s runed against the cold, so it’s not like he needed extra protection.”
With my next bite halfway to my mouth, I pause, realization punching me. “That little—”
The door squeals open with a blow of icy wind.
Roan skulks in with my thick black cloak draped across his arm, not even bothering to keep up the ruse. Nor does he meet my gaze while rehanging it on a hook or wedging off his boots.
He dashes the snow from his floppy curls and moves through the room, lips pinched against his signature guilty smile. The sort of grin that usually accompanies a confession that’ll make me either mad, frustrated, exasperated, or—most likely—all three.
I set my spoon in the near-empty bowl and cross my arms, waiting.
Roan gathers the Book of Voyd and displays it on the stout table before settling on the opposite seater, pushing his spectacles farther up his nose. I raise both brows when he finally meets my gaze, at least having the decency to look abashed as he reaches out, dangling Borg’s jar between his pinched fingers.
Pyrok chuffs and sits up, shaking his head. “I’m not drunk enough to deal with your shit just yet,” he mutters, then lifts his bottle and chugs.
I have half a mind to do the same—studying Roan’s gaunt face, the dark rims around his green eyes telling me Borg just chewed him to bits. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that you don’t feed a freshly fed waif unless your life depends on it. When they’re not ravenous, they drive a hard bargain.
I reach out and snatch Borg’s jar. “I thought you were smarter than that.”
“I’mbooksmart, common-sense stupid.” Roan shrugs. “You know that.”
At least he’s self-aware.
“Did he give you what you wanted?” I pocket Borg and jerk my chin at the book. “The secret to deciphering that, I suppose?”
Roan huffs a laugh and shoves the book closer to both his brother and myself. “I wasn’t that ambitious. Have a look, you’ll understand why.”
Pyrok stands faster than I’ve ever seen him move. “Pass,” he says, bottle to his mouth as he lumbers toward the kitchen in stoic abdication.
I sigh, using an empty mug to nudge the book closer so I can get a clearer view—
I tumble into the parchment with gut-flipping velocity, plunged amongst an infinite stretch of silver threads that shift and slither. Like a nest of serpents wriggling around, forming flicked shapes and sequences.
Bits bend into elbows, taper into hooks sharp enough to slash, then soften into dramatic swoops faster than the time it takes to blink. I almost glimpse a rune I recognize before things churn again, tangling in another direction.
Gaze narrowed, I try to focus, the muscles around my eyes straining so hard it feels like they’re being wrung out—
I push the book all the way to the other side of the table as my gut cramps again—this time with the urge to purge my stew—sickeningly aware of the reason Roan has grown more gaunt over the past few daes.
If I ever look at food the same way again, it’ll be a miracle.
“You’re fired,” I mutter, trying to knead the ache from my eyes.
