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Slinking from his place by the door, Cy moved about the room, opening drawers and rifling through them. It was incredibly personal, he knew. But he owed nothing to the vampyre. Certainly, Haven had saved his life. But what if Cy had preferred death? After everything he’d witnessed, he wasn’t sure what he preferred.
Cy shook his head. He was being foolish, a sentimental bastard. Yes, he had cared for Summer and Wren. But there was still Jax to think about, wasn’t there? And the rest of the Veritas. The rest of humanity. Wouldn’t Summer and Wren want him to continue on? To find his freedom and fight so the life they’d led would no longer be inflicted upon anyone else?
He dug into the top drawer of the desk near Haven’s bed. Inside, he found an envelope with a broken seal, a swirlingBimprinted into red wax. A letter. Cy’s fingers shook as he withdrew the parchment and unfolded it. Its contents made no sense to him, but he committed them to memory nonetheless.
Dearest Haven,
You ask the most interesting questions. I admit I’m intrigued.
I shall be attending the council meeting in New Avalon in five days’ time. We’ll talk then.
Can’t wait to pick that pretty brain of yours.
Yours Always,
Gaius
So Haven was asking questions. Of what sort, Cy couldn’t be sure. And though the name Gaius sounded familiar, he couldn’t place it. So he continued to search.
Nothing more of interest in Haven’s desk. A chest at the edge of the bed proved worthless as well, filled only with strange trinkets. Blankets. A strand of blond hair. A stuffed bear made from cotton and dirtied old linens. Strange, but not of any use to him.
In Haven’s bedside drawer, he found a notebook filled with sketches—all black and white, various objects and faces. Haven must have made them. He was talented, Cy noted, flipping through the pages.
One particular image stuck out to him, a young boy with dark curls. Cy paused, wavering ever so slightly. This was the person Thorne had told him about. The resemblance between Cy and this boy was unmistakable. Gently, he stroked the sketch, smudging the lead.
He turned a few more pages. His heart stopped. It was a sketch of him. He was sure of it. Every line was exact and precise. His own face peered back at him from the parchment.
Then he heard a key in the door. Shoving the sketchbook back in the drawer, he leaped onto the bed and attempted to feign indifference. But his heart pounded erratically in his chest. Why had Haven drawn him? And in such detail? His hands shook, so he turned on his side and buried them beneath the pillow, pretending to be asleep.
Light footsteps sounded as the door opened, and someone stepped into the room. A sigh. Haven emerged in his line of vision, approaching the desk Cy had rifled through. Thin fingers caressed the wood.
Silently, Haven seated himself at the desk and took out a sheet of parchment. Dipping his quill in a bottle of ink, he began to write. The grating sound of the pen’s point as it trailed over the grains of oak stirred Cy’s attention. He wanted to know what Haven was writing. Who he was writing to.
“I know you’re awake,” Haven said, though his back was turned.
“Where did you go?”
Haven heaved a sigh. “That’s not your concern.”
“But you came back.”
“These are my quarters.”
“You haven’t turned me out of them.”
Haven’s hand stilled. “Not yet.”
Silence fell between them as Haven wrote and Cy watched. He couldn’t see the words on the page but was content to merely observe the flowing movements of Haven’s delicate hands over the paper. Finally, Haven spoke.
“You’re a terrible pet, you know.”
“I suppose I am.”
“I expected better when Mirae told me you’d been a pet before. Perhaps you were bad at it back then, too.”
“I was.”
A sigh. “You’re not doing yourself any favors. The other vampyres aren’t as...patient as I am.”
