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Although, Devere had lied for me, and that put me in his debt. Now I had more reason than ever to solve Jacapo’s murder, so long as Devere hadn’t killed his father. Because if he had, his lies to Russo regarding last night might see me hang alongside him.
ChapterTwelve
In the carriage,we didn’t speak. I wanted to thank him for the lie, but that would open the door to a discussion about what had happened and why he’d had to lie, which would lead to what I’d been doing running through the storm last night. It was better for us all if we never spoke about any of this.
The carriage dropped me at the inn and took Devere off to run his errands.
Numb, I slumped at the inn’s bar and ordered a whiskey to settle my nerves. I needed to get back to work, but I didn’t have my notes or enough focus. Too much had happened. One glass of whiskey soon became two, then a whole bottle on my desk in my room. I dug a small medicinal bottle of laudanum from the desk drawer and added a splash to my glass. It would smooth out my thoughts and my nerves, helping me to think.
In most murders, the perpetrator was known to the victim. Husbands, wives, lovers. Few were random acts of violence. According to statistics, Devere had killed his father, and if I were to look at Rochefort’s murder objectively, I too was the obvious suspect. We’d fought, he’d attacked me, and I’d acted in self-defense.
Only I had no memory of killing him.
“I didn’t kill him,” I told the empty room, then swirled my glass, mixing the laudanum and alcohol.
I closed my eyes and the memories flew at me like crows in the night. He’d pinned me. I’d struck my head, the room had spun, and his hands had been on me, in places they had no right to be. I’d reached for the knife…
More whiskey and laudanum went down. The laudanum would kick in soon, make everything fade away… Make me sleep.
I hadn’t killed him. I’d cut him, and the beetle… The beetle had burrowedintohis neck. Only there hadn’t been any marks on his neck, and no cuts on his face. It wasn’t possible. I knew what had happened, how I’d acted. I knew I’d cut him. I’d felt the blade cut in. But there was no evidence. If I told Russo I’d cut Rochefort’s face but nothing else, he simply would not believe me.
It was happening again. This place, this town, it burrowed under my skin and slithered into my veins, showing me things that hadn’t happened, making me think things that weren’t real. After the years I’d spent in Massalia, I’d been sure Minerva would be different. I’d thoughtI’dbe different.
Not so… broken.
Another sip of whiskey, and the laudanum’s embrace wrapped around me, dragging me under, fading the world away.
I stumbled from the desk and sprawled on my back on the bed, surrendering to the dreams.Fly away, little bird.
Devere stood in my washroom doorway, arms crossed, a smirk on his lips. He wasn’t real, though, so how he’d gotten here, through a locked door, didn’t matter.
“You didn’t want to be fixed,” he said. His voice rode over me like warm honey.
I rolled my eyes away and stared at the ceiling. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“If that were true, you wouldn’t be here.”
My eyes fluttered closed, squeezing out useless tears. “I don’t want to be here.”
“Then make it stop.”
He made it sound so simple, as though I could snap my fingers and erase the past. The past was in my bones. It was who I was, exactly like this town.
Heels struck the floorboards—the sound that triggered a cascade of horrors. I opened my eyes and peered at the slit where the cupboard door didn’t close, where the dust danced in the light like glitter. No longer on my bed, I was trapped behind the door again, making the light stroke over my fingers.
“Hush, Valentine,”she whispered, always there when I needed her.
A beetle ran under the cupboard door and bumped my bare foot. Its metal gleamed bright purple, tiny metal rivets glinting. Its clockwork innards ticked around and around, each cog locked with its neighbor, trapped in an intricate mechanical dance.
I blinked again, the dream swirled, and I was back on my bed. Devere sat next to me, still half-smiling, as though he had all the answers and would continue to refuse to tell me any of them. He wasn’t real, he wasn’t here, but I wanted him to be. Like Hush, he made me feel… not alone. “When you pulled that pistol on me, I felt more alive then than I have in years.”
He frowned.
Gods, what was I doing? My thoughts spun, spiraling down a drain. I was drunk and high, neither of which would solve anything, but I didn’t want to think. Thinking led to action, to responsibility, to a life I was struggling to stay afloat in. Better to drift away…
Devere reached over, flicked my bangs from over the bruise on my forehead, then stroked his knuckles down my cheek. His touch was so soft, so precise. A pleasurable shiver trickled down my back, stirring old embers of desire awake, breathing new heat into them. He’d touched me once like that before, brushed his knuckles down my cheek. And I’d kissed him.
I caught his hand and looked into his marvelous eyes. “I’m sorry for what I did. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have—”
