Page 109 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

Shooting back to his feet, he circled the statue, scuffing the caked-on dirt with his boot as he went. His steps grew more rushed, Emmeline’s heart pounding. Circling the entire statue, Roremar stopped a foot away, eyes slashing to hers.

“Wings,” he whispered.

“Twelve?” she guessed.

He nodded. “Each one different.”

“Like the Warders.”

They both looked up into the weathered face of the Angel, her wings wide and inviting, though the presence of the tomb pulsed with a haunting echo. A haunting echo, and hopefully answers.

“I suppose we have to go inside,” Emmeline said. Roremar didn’t argue. Restless curiosity rolled off him in waves, and Emmeline laughed, the sound cracking the tension clinging to the rainy night. “You’re excited about it.”

Roremar gave her a dumbfounded expression. “Of course, I am. Aren’t you curious?”

She sighed, conceding, “Yes, I am.”

“I knew it.”

Without waiting, Roremar strode to the back of the Angel statue and threw his weight against the door. The wood groaned as if it hadn’t been touched in years, taking a few good shoves before it finally creaked open.

“Coming, Huntress?” he called, the easy, taunting tone crawling down her spine.

Fates, this reckless warrior would be the death of her. And in this graveyard, haunted by the ghost of what they could have been, she might welcome it.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Emmeline

The interior of the mausoleum was simple. Empty except for the cobwebs stringing the corners and the remnants of broken glass turning to dust along the base.

But its presence hummed down Emmeline’s skin, reminiscent of when they’d visited the Storyteller’s Lair on Alvan, or even the history in the arena.

Frescos covered three walls, but they’d lost their vibrancy over time, the colors faded together. The hints of moonlight that shone through the round, twelve-paned window sitting above the door didn’t illuminate enough detail, nor did the scant, aged mystlight lanterns flickering dully around the room.

Emmeline followed Roremar to the back wall, her skirt swirling up a dust storm with each step. She squinted at the image inlaid in the plaster. Silver hair and swirling clouds around a female form.

“It’s Valyrie,” she whispered, chills skittering down her arms. The clouds—that was the Angel’s ether, and the wings were slightly visible beneath years of dust.

“In the center, yes,” Roremar said. “Who’s with her?”

Emmeline studied the two other women, one on either side. Their faces were obscured. On one, the paint had been scratched away entirely. “I don’t know. It’s hard to tell with the dirt and age.”

“Clearly no art restoration team around here,” Roremar muttered, brushing his fingers over the dull works.

“Perhaps we should tell Lola.” Emmeline scanned the rest of the room. The paintings on the side walls each contained six forms angled toward the back fresco. “The Fates.”

Roremar turned from Valyrie’s image, and Emmeline knew the moment he saw it. His entire demeanor shifted—shoulders stiffened, jaw tightening as he drifted to the furthest corner.

The facial features of the Fates were indeterminable, but the last one stood with his back to the others, as if he was gazing across the room. A silver chalice dangled between his fingers, and a black panther sat at his feet, tail wrapped around one ankle.

Emmeline approached Roremar, and because agony was rolling off him and there was no one here but them, she dared to slide her fingers between his.

Roremar swallowed. “I’ve never hated anyone as much as I hate him,” he whispered tersely, so much emotion in that one sentence. He squeezed Emmeline’s hand like she was his lifeline. “And he’s a part of me.”

“He’s not you, though,” she whispered softly, pressing closer to his side.

Roremar looked down at her. “I’m cursed with him. No matter what, he’ll always be here.”