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They stood in the atrium for a handful of heartbeats, hands entwined, her scar against his. In the corner of Lore’s eye, something like fog twisted around them, a dance of darkness and gold, glitter blown into smoke. But maybe it was just lurking tears she wouldn’t let fall; when she tried to focus on the strange shimmering, it disappeared.
“Well,” Bastian said finally. “We aren’t dead yet.” He dropped her hand and started forward, toward the door of the atrium.
Wordlessly, Lore followed.
Past the atrium, Bastian led her down a flight of narrow stairs, and after that, the corridors slowly became more familiar. They’d wound their way to the main floor, headed toward the front of the Citadel rather than the back. Lore heard courtiers, giggles and soft voices and lovers’ moans, but they didn’t see anyone.
Not until the bloodcoat appeared at the end of the hallway.
Bastian was quick; he grabbed her arm and pulled her toward a recessed alcove framing a window. There wasn’t a curtain to draw over it, nor were there any on the other alcoves close by.
“Shit,” Lore hissed. “Shit shit shit.”
“Hold your smuggler’s tongue.” Bastian’s back pressed against the alcove’s arch; he looked around, measuring the distance between them and the guard. His eyes swung back to her, dark and serious. “We will get by him, but you have to follow my lead.”
“Fine, lead on.”
“Kiss me.”
Her eyes widened. The booted steps of the guard drew closer.
“Oh, come on,” Bastian muttered, rolling his eyes even as he grabbed her arm, tugged her forward, and sealed his lips to hers.
Lore made a small noise in her throat before she realized Bastian wasn’t really kissing her. Sure, their mouths were pressed together, but he didn’t move, didn’t try to deepen this light and technical embrace. His hand curled around her hip, the other bracketing her wrist, still held in the air from where he’d pulled her.
Slowly, Lore let her hand settle on his shoulder, realizing what this was, what he was doing. Two courtiers trysting in the hall at midnight would be a common sight, nothing to raise hackles. The guard would walk right by them.
Bastian angled his head so their faces were hidden from the hall, the curls of his dark hair falling against her cheek. His lips broke from hers, though they were still close enough to brush when he spoke. “There’s our poison runner,” he said softly. “Thinking on her feet.”
His breath tasted like mint leaves. His every exhale became her inhale. He was too much, too close, inescapable, and the damn guard was walking so slow.
Boots approached. Passed. Not even a pause. Lore and Bastian waited in the alcove, pressed together edge-to-hollow, breathing the same air until she felt light-headed. Their faces were too close for her to see his expression in anything but pieces, but she could see the bend of his grin, and it was near-feral.
When the boots didn’t echo anymore, Bastian leaned away, head lolling against the wall. His hands stayed on her hips. “Ready?”
Lore nodded. Stepped back. Bastian led her into the shadows again, and neither one of them spoke.
But she thought of that not-kiss, and how there’d been a moment when she felt a twitch in his control, like he would’ve really kissed her if he’d thought she would let him.
And she didn’t know whether she would have or not.
Finally, a narrow and nondescript door, set between naves presided over by small statues of the Bleeding God, chest empty and hands full of garnets. Bastian twisted the wrought-iron handle; it moved soundlessly, and the door glided open into night air. “After you.”
Lore stepped out onto the soft grass. To her right, the walls of the stone garden butted up from the manicured lawn, rough blocks of darkness in the moonlight. No one was around, the only sound the wind soughing through the rock flowers, rushing against the edges of granite petals.
They approached the gate. Bastian fiddled with the lock for only a moment before it glided open in his hands, then nodded her inside.
The garden had been strange but pretty the first time Gabe brought her here—in the moonlight, it was eerily beautiful. The stone roses cast solid shadows on the cobblestones, the dark leaching everything of color so it all looked gray, even the plants that hadn’t yet been turned by Mortem’s careful application.
And beyond, in the center of the garden—the well, cold and dark, leading to the catacombs.
Bastian approached it cautiously. The circular lid rested on top of it, held in place with the statue of Apollius. He grasped it, pulled, grimaced. “It’s damn heavy.”
“That’s by design,” came a familiar voice from the gate.
Lore turned.
Gabe.
