Page 150 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” There was nothing even remotely close to love between him and Emmeline. Lust? Sure. He wanted her so desperately, she was all he saw when he closed his eyes at night. So badly, he’d thought of her when he wrapped his fist around his cock this morning.

And he also had that instinct to protect her, but that was ingrained in him as it was with anyone else.

That was all it was. All they ever could be.

“Whatever you say.” Desmond eyed him with a smirk. But his expression sobered. “I’m not upset with you, Rore. I know you left her on the beach that night for me. I still don’t like what she did, but you and me? We’re brothers.”

That confession twisted his gut, but Desmond shut down the conversation, shoving open the door. Hoods up, they unloaded the crates as quickly and discreetly as possible. When they were done, Roremar still hadn’t miraculously come up with a new theory, but Desmond’s mother pulled Roremar into one of those comforting, parental hugs.

“It’s really wonderful to see you here,” Roremar said as he and Des moved toward the door.

“I’m happy you know our secret.” She smiled at him with the same amber eyes and blonde hair her son shared. For Desmond’s sake, Roremar was relieved he didn’t have any of his father’s appearance in him.

“I promise to keep quiet, but if you need anything, just ask,” he swore as she tidied up the sitting room, folding a navy-blue cloak that had been draped messily over a chair. She looked at it peculiarly for a second but shook her head.

“We trust you.”

Those three words and Des’s accompanying grunt of agreement worked to erase any doubt gnawing at him over his friend’s recent anger. Desmond wouldn’t have let him come here tonight if he didn’t trust him.

They exited quietly, leaving the safe haven behind and walking back toward the Promenade. The streets were emptier than usual—the taverns, too. An air of fear snaked around every corner, in the marine layer clinging to the cobblestones. Everyone they passed hurried by with their heads down.

Roremar didn’t know how they were going to celebrate the opening ceremony of the Remembrance Revels tomorrow.

“Tell me what you’ve found out about the most recent victim,” Desmond said once they were back inside Fated Ink, the mystlights flaring to life overhead warming a bit of the chill from outside. Des had recovered the shop from its break in, pictures back on the walls and broken mirrors replaced, everything back to normal except the few bottles of stolen ink and the design book.

Roremar leaned against the counter, sighing. “She worked at the Mezz.”

Desmond froze. “Anyone we know?”

His teeth ground together. “Emmeline and I saw her the other night. She led us to the room with the Snake Charmer.” He remembered the carved orange-blossom locket around her neck and her jasmine tattoos. Tributes to Anphrosia. Had the murderer been a patron at the gambling den that night? Was that how they found her? “It happened over night. I don’t know why she was out given the curfew.”

He couldn’t help remembering how cavalierly his uncle had announced this newest victim. Another death, as he slapped the leather file into Roremar’s hand as if it was a grocery delivery.

And why had he been so insistent on Emmeline residing at the Academy again? She was just as useful sleeping in the apartment, and then there was no concern of her being attacked.

He hadn’t thought to question Falliare on it initially—not with all the emotions clogging his mind around his father—but the nagging feeling in his chest had been growing.

“Mezz operates on its own rules,” Desmond grunted as he organized his supplies. “You said it wasn’t far from here? Maybe she was on her way home.”

“Maybe,” Roremar mused. “It’s such a public place again. I can’t decide if our killer is getting impatient or lazy. Both are dangerous. It feels like we’re dealing with someone who’s desperate enough to not care if he gets caught.”

“Then they’ll expose themselves soon, like you thought,” Desmond encouraged.

“Soon can’t come soon enough.” Roremar’s chest tightened, and he raked his fingers through his hair. “The Revels officially start tomorrow night. I need something to bring to Aldryn tomorrow, or he won’t keep his promises.”

Desmond neatly lined up jars of ink, and all Roremar saw was lopsided twelve-pointed star tattoos. “The latest victim ever been to the apothecary you’re looking at?”

“No,” Roremar growled. “Isle Guard asked. They’d never seen her. But she’d been to the Cursed Markets. She could have come in contact with the seeds the Snake Charmer told me about there. Or the killer himself.”

Or both, Roremar almost said, biting his tongue.

He was done waiting for the Snake Charmer to grace him with his presence. Tonight, he’d find him and learn what he knew. And he’d take any opportunity to lay into that disgusting excuse for a man after what Emmeline told him.

A knot lodged in his chest, and he breathed through it. He’d been more exhausted than ever lately, more drained every morning. He rubbed the heels of his palms in his eyes, trying to think—to tie together all the pieces.

Warmth flared at his elbow, and a small slip of parchment appeared beneath the mystlight lantern. With a pathetic part of him hoping it was from Emmeline, Roremar unfolded it.

But instead, the two words written from Darcy had him waving goodbye to Desmond and racing out the door to the headquarters of Lyra Isle Guard.