Page 112 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

The crowd in the gambling hall roared, a small but rowdy group squeezing in their last thrills before closing. Smugness lifted his lips. Roremar had tried to explain to his uncle that a lot of people wouldn’t care about the new curfew, but he was already searching for the murderer, he wasn’t going to police the Mezz’s crowd as well.

Plus, between the noise and the music the dancers rolled their hips to, Roremar and his uncle were able to speak privately about anything here, even without being in one of the upstairs rooms.

“Anphrosia…” Aldryn mused, working through his own theories. “Do we need to worry about your sister?”

Roremar’s jaw tensed, but another drag of the cigar had him loosening. “No. I wrote to her today. She’s safe and we aren’t telling her the details of this mess until it’s cleared up.” He flexed his hand, gaze dropping to the tattoo on his upper left forearm. If she knew, she’d race home. Angels be damned, she never denied any kind of adventure, even if it could kill her. “My mother knows not to let anything slip in their weekly letters.”

“Good,” Aldryn said. “And Emmeline?”

Roremar could barely hide his shock, his slowly blurring stare sharpening.

“What about Emmeline?” he asked casually.

“If this is true, she’s at risk.” The curling tone in his uncle’s voice had a violent chill spreading through Roremar.

He knew Emmeline was tied to Anphrosia? How had that knowledge been shared? Was it during her interviews for the instructor position? It had to have been. Roremar knew Emmeline well enough to be certain she wouldn’t give away private information readily. Not unless absolutely necessary.

But Uncle Aldryn was the head of Lyra Temple Academy. Very little occurred on the isle without his knowing.

Still, the quiet, wavering voice in which Emmeline had confided in him flooded his memory. I have an Anphrosia Fate tie.

It had been both broken and afraid—two things she’d rarely shown other than the night of the attack. She rarely allowed herself to be vulnerable.

Until this moment, when cold shadows wrapped his chest, Roremar hadn’t realized how much that singular confidence had meant to him.

Beneath his uncle’s pressing stare, Roremar remained impassive. “She’s as protected as ever. She’s at the Academy now with Nico and the regular patrol of guards. I’ll meet her when we’re done here.”

Aldryn blew out a ring of smoke, the oak undertones making Roremar cough. “And you?”

“I’m fine,” he answered.

“You’re not feeling vulnerable at all, correct?”

Roremar blinked at him, the haze of incense in the room making his uncle’s frame waver. “Should I be?”

“No.” Aldryn’s viperous smile had cold coiling in Roremar’s chest. “No, you shouldn’t be. You’re doing well.”

The praise had his lips curling in satisfaction, dimming his momentary wariness, but it quickly turned to a grimace. Typically, his uncle had more to share, theories or prompting thoughts that were always a touch chauvinistic but smart enough that he couldn’t be ignored.

Tonight, he internalized it all. And while Roremar didn’t really feel like talking longer than he had to, it only furthered his suspicion that Aldryn Falliare did have ulterior motives in this investigation.

“We’re waiting to hear from the War Master of Alvan,” Roremar said. His gaze dropped to the cigar between his fingers—recognizing that stamped logo—and his heartbeat faltered for a moment, but he forced himself to continue. “If you have a chance, a personal letter from you couldn’t hurt, as well as to the other isles to notify them of what’s happening and request they answer any correspondence from Emmeline or myself promptly.”

Aldryn nodded, mystlights streaking across his features and highlighting deep-brown eyes that perfectly matched Roremar’s mother’s. They softened his nerves. “I’ll send it as soon as I’m home. Though I’m not sure what it will uncover now that you know of the ties.”

“Can’t hurt to investigate every lead. Especially now that we know something here is tied to Alvan.”

His uncle only hummed a non-committal response.

Roremar dragged his thumb across the VV stamped on the cigar wrapper as he waited out the rest of the evening’s show, and he tried not to wonder why the Temple Master had visited Viperous Vices.

Emmeline was pacing the apartment above Fated Ink when Roremar arrived back from the Mezz, his mind still spinning. She glided across the moonlight spilling through the open window, a swift-footed shadow in her black leathers, daggers strapped to her person and one twirling between her fingers. The sight of her effectively shoved all thoughts of his uncle into a drawer in his memory to be dissected later.

“Finally!” Emmeline blurted as the door clicked closed behind him. Her hair was falling loose of her braid, manic energy rolling off her in waves. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were unable to settle on anything, bouncing over Roremar and around the room she’d unmistakably tidied.

Roremar’s instincts perked up, and he rushed to her, gripping her shoulders. The contact may have been a mistake—fire immediately flared beneath his flesh, that echo of her ruin ringing in his memory with cackled laughter—but he didn’t care.

“What’s wrong, Huntress? I was supposed to meet you at the Academy, but Nico said you were here.” His eyes scanned her body, fury erupting when he got to her boots. “Is that blood?”