Page 53 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

Already knowing the answer but needing to hear it, Emmeline asked, “And he knew you when you were born because?”

Alana flicked her hair over her shoulder. The crooked smirk…It was so familiar.

And those blue eyes that had been so friendly since they first met, welcoming and understanding…

Nico’s eyes.

“Roremar is my brother.”

Chapter Nineteen

Desmond

The capital tested Desmond’s Fates-given fortitude. Thank the Angels he was blessed by Arenothos’s prideful, determined, war-waging ass. It made it a lot easier to do the reconnaissance he needed to rather than let his mind wander.

Especially after they’d seen what happened during that tournament today, who had stood on the platform overlooking the arena, blue eyes expressionless on the surface but pained underneath, and how he’d had to suppress every damn instinct.

And fucking Fates, Roremar. He’d had no idea that was where his friend was heading when he was tossed on that cargo ship. Desmond had lost track of him that night, and he hadn’t the faintest clue how to get him out of this.

He and Roremar were a team—always better together—and now, Desmond was lost, trying to assemble the pieces even though it was always Rore who put them back together.

He’d stop at nothing to save his friend, though. Even if that meant digging into wounds he promised himself he’d leave untouched.

So, after the duels concluded, he’d written a letter he knew was a bad idea. A test of his Fates-given fortitude, for sure.

Then, when he couldn’t sit in their room any longer waiting for a response, he and Myrella hatched a plan.

The Temple Master had come to Valyn from the docks, and while Desmond didn’t necessarily have reason to suspect Falliare of anything, his recent movements were unusual enough that Desmond wanted to know what he was up to. Roremar would, too.

That was how he and Myrella ended up following a cloaked Falliare down Museum Row in the Seventh District. The facades of the largest galleries loomed over the empty street like pillared beasts, their locked doors and curtain-drawn windows hiding cruel secrets.

Desmond’s personal relationship with Aldryn Falliare was precarious. The Temple Master had recently found out he was smuggling illegal amounts of ink—imbued and regular—onto Lyra so he could work extra hours outside of his parlor and perform regulated tattoos like soul bonds.

And what had Falliare done when he confronted him?

Allowed it.

While Desmond was happy it meant he could continue to support his mother, he was waiting for Falliare’s motive to reveal itself. Being caught sneaking after him in the capital wouldn’t help his case.

The cheers and music from the festival following the duel echoed over Valyn’s terracotta tiled roofs, starlit streets rumbling with celebrations of the tournament. But Museum Row was almost entirely abandoned except for straggling groups of warriors drinking and smoking on the steps.

Hoods up, Desmond and Myrella turned down an alley wedged between the capital’s largest art gallery and a smaller museum house that currently displayed an exhibit on Gryphon Armies that used to roam the skies. Overturned crates and rubbish lined the alleyway from the food stalls that set up outside the museums on busy days, the cobblestones uneven as they followed Falliare and tried to keep from bumping anything. Last thing they needed was the Temple Master realizing they were here.

A medley of citrus-laced incense wafted on the breeze, and while Myrella shivered ahead of him, Desmond’s magic perked up. His mind was pummeled with paint-splashed fortunes he’d rather pretend didn’t exist.

Arenothos’s cock, Aevollon was playing tricks with him. He’d certainly be finding an incense den tonight.

He’d have to figure out what to do with Nico’s girl, feeling responsible for her after his friend’s death and not comfortable leaving her alone with how chaotic the city was, but maybe she’d like to go with. Get lost in the haze to forget her grief like he would.

Yeah, that sounded pretty Fatesdamned good.

Now if the Temple Master would hurry up…

They looped around the back of the art gallery onto a tiny cul-de-sac rimmed with single-story buildings that looked thousands of years old and oddly personal—lacking the grand antiquity of the museum they stood beside. Myrella and Desmond paused near the stairs leading to a smaller rear entrance to the gallery, likely for staff members.

“Is that another sanctuary?” Myrella whispered as she peered over the stone rail to track Falliare.

Desmond tugged her back a step, ducking down. “Think so, little dreamer.”