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“I’m fine,” I snap.
He lifts his head a little, expression unreadable. I don’t know what he thinks of me. We haven’t talked since the day I’d defended Lennon and said I didn’t trust him. Standing in the aftermath of what happened Friday, I know I’m wrong and I owe him and Natalie an apology—so many apologies.
“It’s not like the Order’s discussing your future this time,” he says. “You can relax a little. They just want to question you about Lennon and Thane.”
I’d like to repeat what I said—that I have nothing new to add, but I don’t. The Order wants to know how Lennon managed to elude them for sixteen years, how many others exist, what is the extent of her powers, exactly?
I want to know that, too, but for a very different reason.
Will the Order continue to demonize half-human, half-Valryn? Or do they hope to use the powers Lennon possesses in some way?
“What will they do to her?” I ask.
Shy mistakes my question for concern. “Don’t think about her. She can’t hurt you.”
“I’m not saying what Lennon did was right, but...experimentation, torture...those aren’t punishments, Shy.”
He doesn’t respond. Clearly, we think differently. After a moment, he rises to his feet and approaches me. Every bit of me comes alive in his presence and it’s hard to breathe. He reaches for me, places his free hand on my waist, drawing me close so our bodies touch.
I stare at his chest, not wanting to meet his gaze. There are things we haven’t discussed, understandings we haven’t made, relationships we haven’t defined. I feel his fingers under my chin. He tilts my head upward, and then I’m caught in his gaze—a fly in a spider’s web.
“Just worry about today,” he says.
He removes his fingers from my chin, but I don’t look away.
“I’m sorry.” My mouth quivers as I speak and Shy’s gaze melts me.
“I know,” he says and kisses me. He doesn't pull me any closer or crush me to him, conscious of our wounds, but his lips on mine are warm and solid. Heat rushes through me and I lean farther into him, rising onto the tips of my toes just to have more, to taste deeper. I sigh into his mouth and the urge to crush myself to him is overwhelming, too bad the pain in my shoulder overrides me.
Someone clears their throat and we break apart to find Bastian in the doorway. He is in his Valryn form. I have only seen Bastian in his human form once—blond hair, blue eyed, he looks far more grounded sporting black-framed glasses than he does sporting weapons and long silver hair.
“It will never be a good idea for you two to stand that close, but it is an especially bad idea here.”
It’s easy to forget that these Valryn are both Knight and parent. Bastian’s features are cold. Shy says his father always looks like this, that it doesn't mean he dislikes me. I want to disagree. Part of the reason I don't know where I stand with Shy is the Order and their rules against me—a human—being with him—a Valryn—in any sort of romantic way...being the Eurydice doesn’t matter. Needless to say, Bastian has a reason to dislike me.
“Need I remind you what might have happened...”
“Had someone else found us?” Shy finishes, quickly, the implication being no. “They didn't.”
Bastian narrows his eyes, promising a conversation later. Just the thought of what it might include embarrasses me.
“The Order is ready for you, Eurydice.”
I think about correcting him, requesting that he call me Anora, but I don’t want the Order to be informal with me. The goal is respect, and they can start by using my title, and after that they can start by obeying my rules.
Anxiety knots my stomach. No one—not Elite Cain, not Bastian, not even Shy knows what I have planned for the Order. It will throw everyone off balance—and maybe, in the end, they will kneel.
Bastian turns, holding the door open as we pass through. We walk, escorted, down marble halls toward the Council Chamber. It looks the same, except the large window is crowded with thick greenery and all twelve seats in the chamber are full.
I have to say I prefer the Order when it is mostly holograms. Facing people who are whole and solid, people with unfriendly eyes and stone-carved faces, is way more intimidating, and somehow, I feel they’re even more disapproving of me. The projection at the middle of the table moving through images of Friday night isn’t helping. They include pictures of Thane’s lifeless body, two resurrection coins, Lennon’s winged body, pools of liquid Occulate...it had been one hell of a night, that’s for sure.
I take the same seat I had before, at the head of the table.
“Eurydice,” Roth purrs when he sees me. “I speak for all of us when I say, we are glad to see you recovering.”
I want to scoff at his formality, but I manage a civil “Thank you,” as I sweep a glance up his frame, wondering where he might be keeping Poppa’s coin.
“It is our understanding you owe your life to Luminary Roth,” says Elite Ezekiel.
