Page 107 of Veil of Blood and Bone

Chapter 22

Helene

Audra wakes from her stupor before lunch with a bad attitude. No matter what bed she’s in, she manages to find the wrong side of it.

She tugs her hand away from mine with a frown deepening the delicate lines around her eyes. “I’m fine.”

“You are not,” I insist.

“Oh, and you're psychic now? If I tell you I’m fine, then take it at face value, Helene.”

I grip her tighter. “You’re awfully bossy. Where did you pick up this nasty habit?”

“From you, obviously.”

Holding her hand is more for my benefit than for her. She’s right. I need the closeness. I need physical presence to watch and wait for the next fit, or worse.

To make sure Nicholas’s blood doesn’t set off a change reaction we can’t come back from.

“Is it too cold for you? We can move into the bedroom? I’ll even...get you some coffee from The Grind. Eh?”

The window is stuck in place. Wren pried it open for us earlier when Audra woke and wanted fresh air. Desperate for something other than the stale normalcy of the apartment with its familiar reek and dust.

But she isn’t strong enough to get downstairs herself, and as much as I hate it, I’m not in a state to carry her. Not right now.

An open window is a compromise. At least from here, we’re able to hold the vantage point, and any trolls stupid rough to stroll down Willow or Wentworth...

We’ll see them coming.

Wren shoved the casement open a few hard-won inches, and, with a dark look promising more heat than I’m capable of holding, he left.

My cheeks burn, and my lips sting from the kisses. It’s a good kind of tingle, like a bee bite, a pang of pain with my pleasure.

What does this make me?

“This is good.” Audra smooths the blanket across her lap with a free hand and jerks her chin to the mug of coffee, set in the same stained ring like a performer’s spike. “I’m fine.”

“Wench.”

“Wench 2.0.”

Her tired eyes dart from my face to the street corner, and she sighs. But she doesn’t withdraw her hand again.

Fingers flexing, she links us together.

Our legs rest beside each other with our arms touching. When she was little, I used to pull her into my arms and let her tell her stories. She's always had a thing for fantasy.

Hell, if she wants to dig around through Mom's old stuff then why not? She can find secret maps and buried clues in the margin doodles. I don't care.

She loves those novels with immersive worlds and forbidden love, the ache of yearning, the bite of magic.

Only now, fiction feels less fantastical than something I should have recognized all along.

My spine curves.

“I love days like this. When the storm is rolling in and the entire world goes quiet. You know?” She stares out the window with a longing fierce enough to twist my gut.

If wanting something made it possible, she’d turn into a bird and glide along the thermals, like Forest.