He frowned, peering close, too close. “You don’t sound fine. We should get you out of here.”
Her heart rattled in her ears, a drumbeat to the cacophony. She hadn’t been this close to him, not like this, in too long. It still ached, it still burned.
He’ll know, some distant part of her warned.You’ll lose control of your teeth and he’ll figure it out, he’ll see your face, you have to get out, you have to—
Distract him, Niemi whispered.
Fie leaned forward and pressed her mouth to his.
It doesn’t mean anything, she told herself, none of this is real—
Tavin’s torch fell to the ground with a clatter.
Shaking hands skimmed her face, drew her closer, and she hated how much she missed this, hated how she curved into him like a bow he was stringing, hated her heart for leaping as he traced the line of her spine.
None of it’s real, she lied to herself as she curled her fingers in his too-short hair, trying to shut out the brief, flickering gasps of his thoughtswhenever his teeth brushed her.This isn’t you, he doesn’t want Fie, he wants a dead girl—
Just don’t look at her face—
The thought broke in as his teeth grazed her jaw, the need and sorrow burning bone-deep.
You can do this, just don’t look—
Fie didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Of course it was all mummery on his part, of course none of it was real.
Tavin still wanted her, the real her. By every dead god, she hated him for it.
By every dead god, she couldn’t let him go.
None of it’s real.
That was the way of Peacocks, though, just as Khoda had said. It didn’t have to be real. It just had to be real enough.
They half shifted, half fell against Ambra’s casket. The marble cover grated in protest but only moved a hair as Fie let herself lean back, shivering first at the chill of the stone, then at Tavin’s hands slipping under her tunic, his mouth burning on hers.
She hated him still. She wanted him more.
She thought she might have him right here, on the grave of the Queen of Day and Night.
His fingers were too clever by far. Then he pushed her tunic up and knelt to press a kiss to her ribs. Fie sucked in a breath. Her knees faltered, and she scrabbled for a handhold on the casket.
For the second time, her fingers met bone.
But this time, there was no venom-sharp spark.
Fie blinked, gut lurching, at the sight of her fingers hooked in the empty eye socket of Ambra, Queen of Day and Night.
And then—simply, inescapably—she was pulled under.
She knelt before a throne, silk knotted around her head. It took but a thought to light it, and in the glassblack panes she saw her own reflection crowned in golden fire.
“We have chosen,” a crowd chanted at her back.
You chose wrong, she wanted to tell them. Oil dripped down her face until her reflection was streaked with fire.
She lay in a sea of sweat-stiff satin, and she was dying. Twelve figures stood around her bed, watching her gravely from beneath black silk hoods.
“You know the price,” a voice said, one Fie had heard before. “Will you pay it?”
