A small smile pulls at my lips. “Fair point.”
Borg sniffs long and deep, getting right up close to my mouth, like he’s about to thread in there and invade my organs. Never fails to make a shiver climb my spine. “I smell the drink on your breath.”
“Indeed.”
“You’ve come to feed me?”
I reach for my glass and bring it to my lips, forcing him to retreat enough for me to take another blazing sip. “Depends,” I hiss past clenched teeth, playing the usual game.
He offers me a gaping grin, then wafts back, pretending to pick mist from beneath his foggy fingernails. “I still haven’t heard from your Elluin, nor have the others. Though a well-fed brother in Gore recently came across a fae who had spiritsclamoringto speak with her. Curiously, some were members of the fallen Neván family.”
My heart almost lurches free of my fucking rib cage.
“For a hefty nibble,” Borg continues while my blood boils, gaze still cast on his nails, “I could ask my brother to inquire about the messages they were hoping to pass—”
“You will tell your brothers to stop searching for Elluin’s spirit immediately,” I growl with such might the room trembles, hands fisting so tight a fissurepingsthrough my glass. “Oranyonein correlation with her.”
Borg wafts his hand flat against what I imagine is his chest cavity, like I just wounded him. “But you swore to feed me for aneonif I managed to connect with Elluin’s spiri—”
“Or I’ll tip you back into the Mists.”
Shriveling to the size of a woetoe, he peers up at me, eyes huge within his trembling body.
He doesn’t want to go back there. He’smuchbetter fed with me.
“And once we locate the rest of your precious moonshards?” he snipes, puffing back to his regular size and posturing over me. “What of methen? Will you tip me back into the Mists? Or perhaps leave me in a drawer until you grow so old and senile you forget I even exist?”
His words pinch, softening my regard. I know how it feels to be capped with a cork and tucked in a drawer, hidden away.
“I still have use of you, Borg. And plenty of painful memories to keep you as overfed as you’ve been these past hundred phases. Though if I were wise,” I mutter, tossing back another swig, “I’d trade you for a brother with a sweeter appetite.”
This time both his misty hands flatten against his chest. “You wouldn’t dare. I’ve been ahumbleservant.”
A hungry, sadistic servant.But morbid as it is, this waif knows me almost as well as Rygun does.
He’s tasted most of my agony, my loss. Every time he brings something painful to the surface, I’m reminded to live each moment with intention. To honor and love with my whole heart and thus stave off the fester of regret.
Mostly.
“I wouldn’t dare,” I confirm, meaning every word. “You’re a loyal ally and a much-treasuredfriend.”
Borg deflates—everything bar his puffed chest—and returns to picking mist from beneath his wispy nails. “Treasured as I am, I have bad news for us both, given my current state of near starvation.”
I lift a brow. Decide against reminding him it’s impossible for him toactuallystarve.
“Unfortunately, I have no news to report on the whereabouts of any more of your beloved shards, though the Moving Mists are migrating farther north than they have in over a hundred phases.” He splays his fingers to inspect his handiwork. “I’m hoping one of my brothers within will spot something soon.”
I nod, pushing down the pang of disappointment. “Good to know.”
He gets to work on his other hand, coy as he says, “Perhaps there’s somethingelseyou want to know?”
Hard to ignore the greedy hitch roughening his voice.
“There is, actually. I’m looking for information on the whereabouts of three folk.”
He surges forward so fast I suck a breath, almost cross-eyed with the effort to maintain his gloomy eye contact. “Go on …”
I take another gulp to forge myself some personal space, my next words hissed. “Veya, my sister. Kyzari, my niece. And Roan, my alchemist. I’ve sent them all larks,” I say, swirling the liquid in my glass. “I’m impatient to hear back.”
