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I’ve spent every moment aching to return to Asha’s side, but now that the storm has cleared and the time to depart draws near, I can’t help but wish for more time.
More time to research.
More time with Asha.
That’s the thing about being married to a human. Suddenly a resource that has always been unlimited now seems as if it’s being squeezed from both sides.
A shadowy figure slinks through the piles of books, melding with the darkness.
“I can see you,” I say, shutting the grimoire that’s causing a sharp throbbing at my temples and placing it in my lap.
For a moment, no one moves.
“Blaise,” I say, unable to hamper the annoyance in my voice.
She wriggles out from behind a stack of books, hands interlocked behind her back, looking the picture of innocence.
She is anything but, but I don’t blame her for it. I don’t know anyone who could, not after what I witnessed the night she killed her stepmother. We found her cradling her dead stepmother’s body, drained of blood, as she cried and wept over a child she never got to name.
No, I don’t blame Blaise for the flighty, untrusting woman she’s become.
After all, I know what it is like to be so consumed with rage, you feel control slip from your fingertips and into the hands of someone else. Someone who doesn’t simply mind spilling blood, but craves it.
That doesn’t mean I like her spying on me, regardless.
“I didn’t peg you for a reader,” she says, swaying slightly. She has a way of doing that, carrying herself so that she seems younger, unsure of herself, boisterous and easygoing.
It’s unnerving considering what I’ve seen her do.
Well, the aftermath of what she’s done, I suppose.
“Was it my lively demeanor that dissuaded you?” I ask, sighing.
“That, and that you’re usually the guy who gets pegged as the villain once the story gets penned,” she says, and though her tone is teasing, her eyes are assessing, watching for my reaction. “And everyone knows villains don’t read.”
It’s something Asha would say. In fact, I’m pretty sure Asha might have said something similar to me when she first arrived at the palace.
“That’s ridiculous,” I say. “If villains don’t read, where do they get all their sinister ideas?”
Something flickers in her eyes, then she takes the seat across from me. It’s not empty, so she has to toss aside a pile of books before she plops down onto it. I wince as one hits the floor pages first, parchment crumpling as the book splays.
“What are you doing down here?” I ask.
Blaise picks at her fingernails. “Looking for a good read. Obviously.”
“Are you all packed for the journey? We’re supposed to be leaving Ermengarde for Othian in the morning.”
Blaise’s smile is all teeth. I wonder if that’s a post-vampirism thing. “Of course, Mother.”
I bite my tongue to keep from reminding Blaise she’s the reason I’ve spent months away from my wife. I hated leaving Asha, but I’ve hated waiting to return to her even more. Especially without means to correspond with her.
“And Nox?” I ask, wondering still how trustworthy Blaise’s transport contacts actually are. “Are he and his sister taken care of?”
“Folded up and shoved into my pack.”
I don’t bother continuing to engage with Blaise, not if she’s going to be purposefully elusive. Instead, I open the book I was reading, rifling through the pages until I get to…
“Ooooh. The history of liquid moonlight,” says Blaise, now hovering over my shoulder. I jump, having forgotten how much faster she is than even the fae. “That one’s a real page-turner, especially when you get to the part about undead—” She stops, her mouth working a bit, then swallows. “What has you so interested in this of all subjects?”
