She pours an entire jug of syrup onto the pancakes. “Still, if you wantmeto fix you a proper wardrobe, all you need do is ask. I know all the best dressmakers in Malice.”
I blink. I thought shehadorganized these clothes for me. If not her, then who?
“She doesn’t need a new wardrobe, Aster,” Syrus says flatly.
“Nonsense,” Asterim waves a pancake-laden fork at him. “Half the dance halls will point-blank refuse to let her in if she turns up in such a dreary ensemble. Something you’d know if you ever had any fun.”
“It’s enough fun just guessing what sparkly monstrosity you’re going to dress up in next,” Syrus says, leaning forward with a smirk.
“Spoken like a true monstrosity himself,” Asterim shoots back, baring her pointed teeth. I glance between them, wondering if Syrus’s temper is about to take the sort of turn that would require me to duck for cover, but to my surprise, there’s an amused gleam in both their eyes.
“Reprobate,” Syrus says.
“Pig,” Asterim parries.
“Drunk.”
She leans back in her chair and shrugs with a grin. “You’ve got me there.”
“Anyway,” Syrus leans back too, crossing one leg over the other. “We can’t all spend our nights partying from dusk until dawn.”
“‘Can’t’ is a funny way of saying ‘won’t,’” Asterim replies lightly, pouring herself a steaming cup of coffee. “Especially as now you have someone toshow the sights of Malice to.” She winks at me, and I instinctively shake my head.
“Oh no—” I start, but Syrus gets there first.
“That’s enough, Aster. She’s not going anywhere. And neither am I. Thesights of Malicehave nothing to offer me.”
Something shifts. Rather than offering a pithy retort, Asterim falls silent. I stare at Syrus, who is now studying the inside of his cup. He sounded so bitter, so dismissive of his domain, and yet when we were down by the Morphos yesterday…I remember how he helped that demon to his feet, almost gentle.
I must be staring for too long, because when he looks up, he immediately meets my gaze. I drop my eyes, pushing my chair back from the table.
“I think I’ll go back to my room,” I mutter, pausing when I reach the door. “You don’t need to have Triya guard my room, by the way,” I say, turning to address the Lord of Malice. “I won’t try to leave the castle on my own again.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he says. “But I didn’t put her on guard. She does what she likes.”
Asterim releases a little giggle. “She must like you.”
Great. Well, at least someone around here does, I think as I leave the dining room and turn into the corridor.
I plan to keep my promise to Syrus about not leaving. While he bantered with Asterim, I was turning over what he said about this being a game. He’s right. But cashing in my chips isn’t an option, so I need to figure out how to play smarter. For example, there’s no point risking my life trying to get back to Strata on my own.
Not when I know the Lord of Malice is going to take me there himself.
Chapter 12
Leah
Ihave to get him out of my head.
When I reach my room, I sit down on the bed, considering my options. Once I get to Strata, I’ll need a way to keep Syrus out long enough to break the connection between us. Otherwise, he’ll just drag me right back to Infernum.
Some people in Strata sell charms and religious items that are supposed to keep demons away, but I’ve always been skeptical that they truly work—especially on the more powerful demonic forces. If the Lord of Malice is strong enough to resist a whole team of sorcerers trying to control him, I suspect a bit of sun-bleached bone will be about as useful as a paper bag at holding him back.
My stubborn ass won’t let go of the idea though as I sprawl out on the bed and stare at the ceiling. If I can stop the Lord of Malice from hearing some of my thoughts, then surely there’s a way to block him out entirely. I swear there was a moment on the mountain that I managed to resist him, a second when he told my legs to move and they didn’t.
Could I train myself to get better at that?
I close my eyes and try to focus my mind, mentally feeling out the place he “speaks” into, that space in my head where he likes to prowl around. Somewhere beyond that is the part of my mind he can’t automatically access,where my stream of consciousness plays out. It’s only when the thoughts I have there get particularly loud that I accidentally bellow them at him like the world’s most suicidal town crier.
