Page 101

“Never lied to you in my life, you know that’s true.”

“I do,” Atticus murmured, but Orpheus caught the strangeness of the tone. “There are other ways to break a man’s trust. Mercy does not come naturally to me, Serval. Please do not question when I show it.”

Orpheus’ hands began to shake when Atticus let them go, the encasements dragging his arms to hang down his front. What in all hells was happening?

“Can you walk?” Atticus asked, hand at his elbow. “I think we’d both rather not have Duluth carry you.”

“I can walk,” Orpheus whispered, taking a step forward and testing his weight.

It hurt. All hells, it fucking hurt, but he didn’t collapse.

“A moment.” The hood loosened and then Atticus lifted it from Orpheus’ head. Fresh air hit his face, then flooded his lungs. Orpheus sucked in a greedy breath. “There now, what a mess.” Fingers plucked at his hair and then Atticus stepped back, looking him up and down before relaxing. “I suppose that’s good enough. Answer their questions directly. Do not rise to any bait. They are aware you’re teaching Gwen and are quite upset with me for that, but I suspect they simply want to decide for themselves that she is safe.”

“She is safe,” Orpheus snapped, like it was Atticus who doubted him—which shouldn’t feel so offensive considering Orpheus had—well, he had been planning—but he wasn’t anymore. He couldn’t, wouldn’t actually hurt Gwen.

I can’t hurt her.

He almost laughed when he thought about it. The sting in his eyes and nose was as welcome as the hand on his elbow. An unlikely bolster in the face of a decision that had been weighing on him for weeks.

I can’t hurt her. I don’t need to hurt her.

I don’t have to hurt her.

When the doors opened, Orpheus limped through them with a steadiness he had no right to possess.

Before him, the Architects waited at a low, ornate table. Hoods pulled up to cast shadows over their faces, stained glass windows framing the chairs in which they sat, they observed his approach under the light of a hundred Netherflame lanterns, path forged between the cathedral’s empty pews. Black columns and vaulted ceilings adorned what Orpheus realized was the cathedral’s nave, their table its altar, the windows at their back depicting a scene of violet fire engulfing a silvery tree.

The image nearly brought him to a stop. Only Atticus’ hand on his elbow kept him moving.

“Steady on,” he murmured from beside him. “You’re almost there.”

It was easy to fall to his knees when he reached the end of the aisle.

“Orpheus Zon Ziffler of the Empire’s Exalted Court?” the Architect at the center of the table asked. Orpheus recognized him as the man from the wall, Lamont.

“Yes, I am he.”

A beat passed where the Architects did nothing more than stare. It wasn’t a sentiment he was unused to. He’d inspired more than his fair share of gawking within the Gilded Palace to not have learned to keep his head up and his eyes at a place clear of faces. But the Architects were not Lore’s nobles. They were his hermits. And in their stares he discovered a mirror to their curiosity, that thirst for knowledge that had led them down a path darker than Orpheus had walked—blood-soaked not by a world at war, but a purpose. One they viewed as far more important than the lives they sacrificed to pursue it.

“Atticus tells us you have begun teaching young Gwen how to harness her magic.”

“I have.”

“He’s also informed us she is largely responsible for the ongoing repair efforts of Sanctuary, under your guidance.”

Orpheus glanced at Atticus, but he remained still beside him, mask firmly in place.

“Yes, she is.”

“And he assures us you are amenable to a future here as both her mentor and any other children who may be born with her same gift.”

He—well—they’d certainly spoken about it. Orpheus hadn’t actually thought it was an offer.

“Yes, I…I would. I am.”

Was that a lie? He couldn’t tell. It was a future, that was for certain, but one sealed by the fate of the man he loved. A betrayal Orpheus didn’t want to make—except…he did. He wanted that. A life with magic, serving a purpose. All hells—but not like this. This wasn’t surviving. It was giving in. Where was his loyalty? His hope? Where the hell was Fenrir?

Nausea curdled in his gut, tickled the back of his throat. He swallowed it down before it could make its way up.