Page 236 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

Perry inhaled and exhaled slowly.

“Focus on your breathing like that, count each one, and follow us.”

He waited for Perry’s breathing pattern to return to normal, then Roremar nodded to Khasson. He released Perry, and Rian slid into his place, calmly explaining more of what he and Roremar had figured out as they started walking.

Roremar turned to Khasson. “Did you find him like that?”

Khasson nodded. “He was screaming his head off. Hard not to hear.” His gaze flicked to Roremar’s shoulder. “What happened?”

“Svalla,” Roremar grunted, pain radiating through the joint and muscles. He wouldn’t be surprised if something was torn, but he couldn’t worry about it right now. “He’s gone now.”

A cruel smirk hooked Khasson’s full lips. “Good.”

“How do we get out of here?” Perry blurted, rubbing the heel of his palm against his sternum.

It was clear from his tight frame he was trying to control himself, trying to harness the fear as Rian was coaching, but Perry’s control wavered in a way Roremar hadn’t seen. It made him think there was more to the fear than being trapped, but he couldn’t even begin to figure that out right now.

The buttons of Perry’s tunic were undone halfway down his abdomen. He rolled his shoulders repeatedly to calm himself, and the fabric shifted. It slipped off one shoulder, the mystlight catching a mark across his chest⁠—

All sense of the trial fled Roremar’s mind.

“What in the Fate’s fucking grave is that?”

Everyone froze. Rian eyed him, instantly on high alert. Khasson chuckled at his outburst, backing up a step.

But Perry’s chin pulled back at the sharpness of Roremar’s tone. His gaze dropped to the spot on his chest that Roremar had seen him rubbing in an unconscious habit multiple times now, to the pale lines Roremar had glimpsed before, thinking it a scar Perry kept covered.

But now, disheveled as his clothing had become, the winged symbol was fully visible.

Two wings, one solid, almost looking like brushstrokes, and the other a vortex of flowers.

Perry swallowed, fingers brushing the sigil stamped or inked or damn branded across his chest, Roremar couldn’t tell. “That’s my Warder Mark.”

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Emmeline

“What was that?” Myrella whispered on a gasp.

Emmeline and Desmond, leading the group based on what her Fate ties were telling her, paused, spinning toward Myrella. She was whipping around wildly, her head turning in every direction. At the rear of the train, Eston shrugged.

Desmond lifted the lantern he’d pulled from the wall higher, the mystlight glowing an eerie blue down here. He did a thorough sweep of the tunnel stretching behind them and in front.

“There’s nothing there, little dreamer,” he said softly.

“No,” Myrella said. “No, I heard something. It was like glass shattering and someone⁠—”

She blinked again and again, frame trembling.

“Someone what?” Emmeline asked, taking a step closer. Her fingers curled around Roremar’s ring, Fate voices screaming warnings through her veins. “Was it Lola?”

Had Myrella heard something the rest of them hadn’t? How? She and Desmond were both on high alert.

“No,” Myrella exhaled, the word rough. Her palm pressed to her ear. “No, it was like someone whispered.”

She didn’t repeat what the person said, but fear rippled off her in choking waves. Emmeline was nearly bowled over by the potency. She stepped closer, wrapping her arm around Myrella and rubbing her shoulder. Her skin was icy to the touch, but Emmeline tried to get some warmth into her, palm grazing a rough, raised scar along the back of Myrella’s arm.

They hadn’t been down here for long enough for her to be quite so chilled. Sure, the sudden rain had dampened all their clothing, and it was colder below ground, but it seemed unnatural. Especially given the pools of candlelight bathing the space every few feet, adding little pockets of warmth. Maybe Myrella hadn’t been close enough to Desmond’s lantern to benefit from it.