I check that the blood that’s leaking from the pin wound at the back of my arm hasn’t dribbled onto the pallet, then lean farther forward and get back to shaping the hook. Once it’s acceptably round, I grab Borg’s jar from atop the quilt, careful not to disturb his misty tether as I ease the thin metal loop up the jar’s base, all the way to the nozzle. I tighten it with angled twists of the pliers, finishing off when Borg rises up, gathering size and mass until he’s flopped backward across the plush seater like a puffy white throw.
“Any luck?”
My voice is gravel, betraying just how fucking rough my insides feel.
“I have the answers you require,” he drolls with the same enthusiasm Rygun has when I’m trying to coax him from his molten burrow.
“Good news.” I set the pliers aside and sit a little straighter. “What’re you hankering for?”
“Sleeeeep,” he drudges out on a gaping yawn—so wide it almost tears his head in two—before he smacks his foggy lips together, bringing his hand up to dash across his face. “I can still taste the remnants of Roan’s sorrows. So fresh and zesty, and you want to ruin it. For what? You know I won’t give you thisveryimportant tidbit of information without tasting your worst—”
“You can’t have my worst. Not this dae.”
I can’t stomach that right now.
“Exactly.”
I open my mouth to speak, but he cuts me off, tipping his head to leer at me.
“You want to plug me full ofmeagernourishment? Wash this deliciousness from my mouth with the taste of gluttonous regret? Are you trying to burst my seams? Soon, I won’t evenfitin that ugly, boring ja—”
I unclamp my hand from around his jar now boasting the three beads dangling down its side.
Red.
Brown.
Clear.
With my next blink, he’s gusted up, arching over me like a haunt. “Whose are they?”
His voice oscillates with an eager shudder, lifting all the hairs on my arms as I study the trio of trinkets I’ve been hauling around for phases. Like a macabre war medallion.
“They were Pah’s before I ripped them from his ear,” I murmur as he hunches forward, pawing at the beads with his foggy fingers. Like he’s trying to grab them. “Now, they’reyours.”
“How— How did you know my style?”
“Intuition.”
When Borg looks up, his face is so close it’s an effort to hold his gaze. Slowly, his mouth stretches into a shredded grin so big it dominates his profile.
He chuckles, pulling back to twist and stretch. “Very well, My King. I shall feast on one of your less palatable memories in exchange for the information you desire. What do you have in mind?”
My head kicks back. “You’re going to letmechoose?”
He shrugs, splays his fingers, and inspects his wispy nails. “Given your thoughtful gesture, I’m feeling rather charitable. Though don’t expect it to last. The cork still stinks.”
“Noted.” I jostle Pah’s beads with my thumb, thinking. “What aboutrevenge?” I ask, my voice hollow. Tainted with dark thoughts of the memory I have in mind.
Borg wafts forward, billowing against me, sniffing with such gusto I already feel the memory unraveling from the pit of my soul in grating jerks. “Yesss.” He swallows, like he’s salivating, declaring his freshly forged hunger. “Thiswill do nicely.”
“Wonderful.”
“Waaait …” The memory stills its splintered pull from my insides. Borg pulls back just enough to meet my gaze again before he briefly scans the room—something akin to concern shadowing his ebony eyes. “You don’t want to numb yourself with your poison first?”
“No spirits this dae,” I grind out, setting his jar on the pallet before Istretch back across the quilt in preparation for the onslaught, closing my eyes—
And immediately see Raeve knotted in agony on that muddy battlefield as death encroached with a blade in his hand. Immediately feel the jagged slice of panicked fear cut me through.
