Page 16 of Anomalies

“I found you some clothes,” she says.

I pull open the door, taking the folded stack out of her hands with another ‘thank you’, hating how dull it sounds, but she smiles all the same.

“I’ll wait out here.”

I change quickly into denim shorts and a plain white T-shirt, taking the time to detangle the matted clumps in my hair. When I step out of the bathroom, Gemma has a pair of brown boots waiting for me, socks laid over the leather pull straps.

“You look better already.” Gemma smirks, leaning against the wall by the door.

“I no longer want to crawl out of my skin, so I guess that’s a pretty good start.” I slide my feet into the boots, the tops brushing my mid-calf.

“There’s an empty cabin next to mine. If you get to stay, Callan’s going to make sure you get it.”

If I get to stay. “I’m guessing the Dame will make that decision?”

“Yup. You’ll be fine, just smile and nod and bow when you see her.” Gemma reaches for the door. “She isn’t—Chiaros, Callan!” Gemma swears. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Callan stands in the doorway, arms crossed, not a single ounce of remorse on his face. He’s clean: A fresh black t-shirt, dark wash jeans, a pair of black leather boots, and a padded weapon-clad vest clipped over his torso. His dark brown hair is damp, curling slightly at the ends, and his skin is no longer caked with dirt. It’s… beautifully tanned, with that same glow to it that everyone here has. His stern grey stare slides to me, the silver in his eyes flickering. “Better?” he asks, and I nod. “Good. Let’s go.”

“Where?” I follow him into the hall, thanking Gemma…again. “To see the Dame?”

“Yup.”

“Who is she?” The sun is blinding when we step out into the sticky summer air, the smell of that rich soil mingling with freshly cut grass.

Callan rolls out his shoulders, setting a pace that I’m forced to keep up with. “The Dame is the High Priestess of the Sol. Nothing goes without her approval.” That menacing silver-stare trails my freshly healed skin. “Especially you.”

6

LUCINA

The Captain takes me to a tall building with swirls etched into the wood exterior. Oak? Cedar? I can’t be sure. It’s on a grassy hill all by itself, second in height to the Banyan tree, which towers over everything in⁠—

Fuck. Where am I?

I should know that.

Callan pulls one of the arched doors open, gesturing me through. Cedar. Definitely cedar. I can smell it. “Um, Callan—” My mouth snaps shut when he whips around to face me, the door shutting behind us at the same moment. “What?” I swallow. “That is your name, isn’t it?”

His chin jerks to the door at the end of the hall. “You can’t call me that in there.”

“Okay…” I blink, and I swear when my eyes open, he’s halfway down the hall. I hurry alongside him, keeping my voice down on instinct, “Where are we?”

“Pirn.” Callan halts just before the door at the far end, warm lights dancing underneath it and lighting the hallway in sunset-hued shadows. “These women oversee it. Quit fidgeting, they won’t like that.”

My brows rise. I hadn’t noticed my hands balling into fists at my sides—over and over again.

“Anything else, Captain?” I ask with as much respect as I can scrounge up, but the bite in my words isn’t subtle.

He gives me a quick once-over. “Keep your chin up, but not higher than theirs. And leave that attitude on this side of the door.”

His knuckles wrap twice on the polished cedar before I can respond, and the door swings open. The room sparkles like the heart of a ruby; red drapes pulled over large windows. There’s a massive hearth centered along the back wall, ashes from a previous fire still piled beneath the black grate. The floor is covered in intricately woven rugs—a layered mass of color and textures, and not a single piece of furniture matches. A russet tufted couch, floral printed armchairs…an eclectic hodge podge of colors that…oddly work.

But the room doesn’t feel nice. It’s cold and sharp, like I can’t drop my guard in here. Ever.

I meet the gaze of three sets of star-flecked eyes: burgundy, caramel, and navy.

The woman standing behind the sofa wears pale-yellow robes that spill to the floor at her feet, the light color making her smooth ebony skin richer in this light. If I had to guess, she is forty, maybe fifty years old, a line between her brows that only deepens as she surveys me.