Page 237 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

“Did anyone else hear anything?” Emmeline asked, giving Desmond and Eston pointed looks. Concern ticked away at her. She hoped one of them had.

The two men exchanged hesitant glances, both shaking their heads.

Myrella trembled harder, her attention snapping up. “Again.” She pressed her palms to her ears as if she could smother the noise.

Emmeline scanned the tunnel, trying to find an explanation. The walls were made of stone, coated with moss or different types of algae and fungi. Between stretches of greenery, thin veins shimmered when the mystlight hit it at the right angle, giving spots of the tunnel a haloed, iridescent effect, some of the stones overlapping in a scale-like pattern she didn’t remember from before. They were following a different path this time, though.

She didn’t see anything unusual.

Myrella shivered, and Emmeline’s heart beat faster, curiosity tangling with her worry as her friend blinked up at her and repeated, “Again.”

“Again,” Emmeline agreed, at a loss. “We need to keep walking, then we’ll figure out what the noises mean.”

Emmeline kept rubbing her palms down Myrella’s arms, trying to soothe the chills that had sprung up. When she grazed that scar again, Emmeline ducked to look at it. It was small, a rough jagged shape she couldn’t make out. And it was still red.

“Is this new?” Emmeline asked. It wasn’t the priority right now, but misgivings trickled ice behind her ribs.

Myrella only shook harder, not hearing or fully understanding Emmeline. Her fingers curled around her ears, eyes flickering between attentive and glassy. Myrella mouthed silent words, and Emmeline leaned closer to try to hear.

“Nico,” Myrella whispered, barely a breath, but Emmeline’s heart clenched.

She looked to Desmond at the front of the group. “Let’s keep going.”

“Want me to carry her?” Tension lined his frame, nightmares of what was happening to Lola plain in his expression.

“I’ve got her,” Emmeline said, still rubbing warmth into Myrella’s body, though it didn’t seem to be doing anything. “You lead the way, and I’ll tell you when to turn.”

They followed Desmond, and while her magic was insistent down here, the Fates said nothing of Myrella.

Chapter Seventy-Nine

Roremar

Roremar had to fight to control his temper, his mind jumbling in ways it usually wouldn’t. “What in the Fates is a Warder Mark?”

Images of Perry absently touching that spot on his chest flashed through Roremar’s memory, but he couldn’t place any of them before they disappeared again.

Perry eyed him warily. “Why are you so worked up?”

“Take a deep breath,” Rian advised, eyes flicking from Roremar’s face to the dagger in his hand.

“That symbol”—Roremar pointed at Perry’s chest with the blade, pulling details from the depths of his mind—“a version of it was at every scene of the murders Dryvius made me commit.”

Roremar took two threatening steps forward, the point of his blade resting against Perry’s tunic. Holding his stare, Roremar tore through the fabric, buttons popping and bouncing across the dirt floors. With the winged sigil on full display, Roremar rested the tip of his dagger against it. “Why, in all the fucking realms, is the same mark on your skin, Perry?”

“Okay, calm down,” Rian said, forcing himself between them. Roremar’s blade nicked his arm as he guided him back, and Rian hissed, but Roremar couldn’t think straight enough to move it. All his mind could focus on was the winged symbol.

“What is a Warder Mark?” Roremar seethed. Khasson was quiet, studying the three of them as if debating where best to intervene.

“It’s a symbol of the Warders of Selene,” Perry said, and shock jolted through Roremar.

“Who are the Warders of Selene?” Rian asked, trying to mediate.

But Roremar answered, digging up any pieces of the explanation he could, “It’s a reference to the Fates. Selene is a three-pronged being the Fates are meant to defend. Goddess, Angel, and unknown. And that is a rendition of their symbol.”

“And this has to do with the murders how?” Rian asked, looking between Roremar and Perry.

“I don’t know,” Roremar said tightly. “We know some—the details are messy.” Messier now with his head scattered.