Page 182 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

Fates, it was a relief to have her there. Like a rope that had been tied around his lungs was cut, and now he could breathe again. Even if she’d only promised him tonight, Roremar was taking whatever she offered.

Thankfully, Desmond and Myrella had taken Siena and Vivi into the bedroom, telling them they could draw or read despite the fact that it was well past midnight. Siena was thrilled, barely taking a breath as she dragged Desmond down the hall and talked his ear off. Vivienne had given Roremar a suspicious stare but was convinced by Siena going on about this new, enthralling adventure.

Leo refused to leave, so he sat cross legged on the floor with Lola. And as much as Roremar wished he could continue to shield his brother, he knew it was a futile effort at this point.

Cirre—who had come on the same boat as his family—laid on the balcony, paws crossed over the open threshold and accusing stare on Perry constantly. In his panic over Lola’s note, Roremar hadn’t realized Perry had followed them all the way here. He wanted to shove him out the front door when he did, but his mother had more questions about this tournament than Roremar could answer.

“They found her outside the vineyard when they were tearing down the event,” Lola said, pulling her blanket tighter. “Cyren wrote to me.”

“Cause of death?” Roremar asked at the same time Emmeline asked, “Evidence?”

“All the same,” Lola explained.

The twelve-pointed star tattoo. The slit throat. The incense.

Another Dryvius victim.

“He’s still trying to make the ritual work,” Emmeline whispered.

Roremar scrubbed a hand down his face. “How is he doing this?”

Was it possible this went back to the rituals Falliare was attending? Emmeline had explained her theory that Falliare was working with Rocarri and the cult he was somehow involved in, the Fate Bound Seekers. Did these new murders fall on their shoulders, too? While similar, Dryvius’s had very distinct steps, but was it possible this was Falliare recreating them to aid the Chancellor’s goal of creating a Fate?

Or was it possible it was Roremar killing these women again?

Dryvius’s voice from his reading tonight skittered down his spine⁠—

Horror tensed his entire body. “I read tonight. And last time—the victim hung at the temple—I tried to read the night before she was found.” No, no, no. This couldn’t be him. It couldn’t. “What if that’s what Serchus meant about Dryvius being free? My readings changed after…” He couldn’t say Nico’s name aloud right now. “What if Dryvius was freed from those normal bounds and now can use me when I’m awake and reading, not just unconsciously?”

She considered. “How lucid do you feel during your readings?”

“Not like you. I don’t have that control.”

“No one does, though,” Lola argued. “And the Fates don’t control us during readings.”

“Maybe Dryvius does.” Panic shortened his breaths.

It couldn’t be him—it couldn’t⁠—

“Why don’t we all take a breath,” their mother cut in from her spot opposite him. “We don’t know what happened today, but your brother and I also don’t know what’s happened these past few weeks. Can you tell us?”

Roremar tried to sink into the calm his mother provided, explaining the concept of the tournament. From his spot leaning against the wall beside the sofa, Perry interjected to fill in the details.

As his family had gotten settled, Emmeline had briefly explained her suspicions of Roremar’s ally potentially working with Rocarri. They’d have to be very careful about what information they voiced aloud in front of him, but Roremar wanted to watch his tells. See if he let anything slip.

“So, the Chancellor has known this entire time you were on your way here?” Roremar finally asked his mother.

She nodded, her frame seeming feebler than ever. “All the families of the”—her lips twisted—“competitors were invited. We received word two weeks ago and left as quickly as possible.”

“What did the letter say exactly?” Roremar asked.

As if knowing her son would want evidence, she removed an envelope from the pocket of her threadbare dress and passed it to him.

It was fanfare. Thick parchment and dramatic, swooping handwriting. A celebration of the races mentioning Roremar as a competitor, but nothing about their deadly nature or what the end result was.

“This is twisted,” Roremar muttered, tossing it on the table. He looked over his shoulder at Perry. “Did your family receive one of these?”

Perry scoffed, twisting the silk fabric tied around his waist as a belt. “My family is in Rocarri’s pocket, remember? They’ve known about every aspect of the Races since his inaugural idea. They’re his largest financial backers—it’s why I’m the favorite to win.”