Page 48 of Vervain

Shaking my head and securing the towel to my chest with one hand, I open the door to the closet. All the new clothes overwhelm me. I wore the same thing for ten years, so the idea of something new churns my stomach with anxiety.

Pick something that is you. When was the last time you did that?

“Never,” I answer myself.

Glancing within, a flash of gold and deep indigo catches my attention. Without overthinking, I take out the garment to find it is a structured tunic-style dress with high slits up the front of both thighs, while the back of the skirt is split into two long panels that flow like a tailcoat.

I slip it on to find the broad lapelled neckline plunges into a deep-V that almost reaches my navel. The rigidity of the fabric holds in my stomach and chest, and when I face the mirror to inspect the outfit, my fingers curl into loose fists at the sight. After wearing white my entire life—painted like a fragile, doe-eyed deer—the darker colours and dramatic tailoring bring out something malicious hidden under the surface. The mask is slipping.

I put on some black stockings and then face the door, shoulders squared. This room has been a haven, like the last one, where nightwalkers cannot enter.

My fingers close over the locket Serun gave me, and with a deep breath in, I push my nerves aside and open the door.

When I first saw Serun’s office, I thought back to the last time I read a book. Most books in my village were forbidden to me because they mentioned vegodian powers. So, I read picture books, and it was there that I fell in love with ballet.

My fingers brush against the spines as I pass and make my way out to the dimly lit corridor. Floral patterns dance in silver and purple across the walls, the design reminding me of vervain. I take in the now-familiar sunset painting when my ears prick, bending at the sound coming from the door on the right. Music plucked from strings tickles my sensitive ears. A harp? It’s delicate music, flowing along strings with tender affection.

I open the door and push it gently open. The music cuts away, leaving a static humming in my ear as I enter a bedroom. There’s a harp in the middle of the room, and a stool beside it. The bed is against the window overlooking the Undercity—glimmers of light filtering through the red stained glass. Sparks pulse in the darkness, filling the city as though Mother hadn’t left and taken the light with her.

I press my palms against the soft mattress and crawl closer to the window. From up here, inside Serun’s manor on the slope of a hill, the Undercity looks even more like a spider’s web—patterned with bridges and paths that branch out into different streets.

“Didn’t think to see you on a bed as an offering so soon, kamai.” I jump and spin around. The door closes with a click, and Serun leans back against it with his arms folded over his chest, and those very magnetic, intense red eyes watching me. “Evening.”

I tap the glass of the window. “Was the world like this before Mother left?”

“Not entirely.” He steps closer, his presence magnetising the air. “Magik was frowned upon back then, while I try my best to weave as much as I can into everything so it won’t be forgotten.”

“So nightwalkers hold more magik than compulsion?” I murmur.

“Some,” he agrees. “Like my family, for instance.”

Tearing my gaze away from the window, I shuffle off the bed and stand before Serun. Without meaning to, my focus lowers to his mouth.

Lemongrass and nightshade—a beautifully fragrant, devastating blend—fill my airways like oxygen. I lean in, wanting more when he pulls away. My heart stutters a beat before my walls move high to conceal embarrassment and hurt.

“Afraid, nightwalker?”

“Not in the slightest,” he says with a breathy laugh, his eyes crinkling in amusement.

I step forward, daringly bringing us back into contact—into the orbit of tension about ready to crumble Kepler. “Then what are you waiting for?”

Sharp fangs flash. “The perfect moment.”

My breath shakes as I look into those killer eyes: windows to a place where crimson paints the walls and floors, voices wailing, desperate to flee with their souls on tethered heartstrings. And this time, I’m the one who looks away.

His voice drops an octave—a careful sound. “Until you know what you want, I’ll wait.”

“How gentlemanly of you,” I mutter.

“It’s the least I can do.”

I breathe a laugh. He has jokes for someone likely to be centuries older than I am. It eases me enough to sigh and ask, “Have you heard anything about Cole?”

“Did you want me to call Reyes again?”

I shake my head. “It’s fine. I will wait until later tonight. For now, show me where you would like me to train with my vegodian magik.”

The shadows quiver. Is he amused? When he looks at me like that, with his stupid half-smile, crooked around the edges, my heart murmurs a beat.