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Lore hadn’t been planning on asking him why he’d blown his own cover to keep her alive. But she thought that if she had, this would be his reason. Unanswered questions, unsatisfied curiosity.
She didn’t know whether she believed that or not. There was one more thing to consider, along with that light she might or might not have truly seen around his hands, along with him saving her—that sense of gravity, of things falling together. Of knowing, the same knowing she felt with Gabe, like the deep parts of her recognized both of these men, even if her mind and heart couldn’t keep pace.
She took his hand.
Bastian hauled her up, then let go. He didn’t back her against the wall again, trusting her not to bolt. They’d knit some kind of understanding between them, and neither wanted to be the one to fray it.
“Now,” the Sun Prince said. “Tell me how you managed to become such an accomplished Mortem channeler. And don’t lie this time, please. Like I said, I’ll know.”
He would. She knew that like she knew her own name, like she knew the raised edges of the moon scar on her palm. Gabe had bought her lie, even with that sense of knowing, but whatever thread bound her and the Sun Prince was different—thicker, coarser.
He’d saved her once. She had no guarantee that he’d do it again, if she went against his orders. So Lore took a deep breath, and she spoke truth.
“I was born in the catacombs,” she murmured. “To one of the Night Sisters, in what’s left of the Buried Watch.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
There will be two factions to control the power of the Buried Goddess—the Presque Mort, the Almost Dead, who will channel Mortem when it reaches the surface, and the Veilleurs Enterre, the Buried Watch, who will ensure that what has been struck down by your god does not rise again.
—The Book of Holy Law, Tract 35
Silence.
Then, a hoarse laugh. Bastian’s eyes were a dark glitter in the gloom of the alleyway, his bloody hands clenched to linen-wrapped fists. “The Buried Watch? They were disbanded after the Night Witch went mad. There’s no one down there anymore.”
“There is.” Lore swallowed. Her throat felt like she’d eaten live coals. “There aren’t many of them left; maybe twenty or so. But they’re still there. Still watching Nyxara’s tomb.”
Still waiting. Still sending someone into the obsidian tomb on every eclipse to see if the body of the goddess had stirred. Lore remembered what those people had looked like when they came back out. Their faces blank, their eyes vacant, as if their very sense of self had been scooped away.
The moon-shaped scars on their hands a burning, angry red.
“That doesn’t make any sense.” Bastian spoke slowly, like he didn’t trust her capacity to understand him. “The Buried Watch hasn’t existed for centuries. The Church would never let a faction persist, not after the Night Witch decided she was Nyxara reborn.”
Lore shrugged. “Like I said, there aren’t many of them. The Church killed most of them after the Night Witch—they thought the same madness might infect the others. But some of them were able to hide, to keep the order alive.”
“How the fuck do they get new members, then? No one goes to the catacombs.”
“They do if they have nowhere else to go.” Like a merchant’s daughter, pregnant with a bastard child that she desperately wanted to keep. Lore’s mother had fled to the catacombs when her parents told her they were going to send her to a sanitarium. It’d been panic; she’d only gone there to hide.
But she’d found so much more than a place to hide.
Bastian’s eyebrow arched, expression clearly incredulous. “So are the rest of the stories true?” He snorted. “Do they sneak out at night and give naughty children bad dreams? Enchant horses to throw their riders?”
“No.” She shook her head. “The true Buried Watch—the Night Sisters who’ve taken the vow—never leave the tomb, except when some of the younger ones are sent up to get supplies. We stole, or bartered stuff we found in the tunnels. Lost coins, precious stones. You’d be surprised what you can find if you look for it.”
Her voice was casual as she spoke of such strangeness. Lore had only ever said these things to Val and Mari, when she told them what she was after she raised Cedric. She’d always thought she’d never be able to find the words again, but they came out of her so easily.
The Sun Prince narrowed his eyes, but he didn’t accuse her of lying again. “So they’re still doing what the Tracts say?” The question came out guarded. “Watching to make sure Nyxara doesn’t rise?”
“They have a Compendium. They read from the same Tracts the Presque Mort do. They follow the Church’s laws.” Despite herself, anger began its slow burn at the bottom of her stomach. “The Buried Watch was given the worst task possible, sent down to live in the dark, and when their leader predictably went mad from it—from being locked underground next to a goddess’s tomb—the Church decided it had incorrectly interpreted the Tracts, and killed them.”
Her hair was sticky and wet, clinging to her forehead. Lore reached up to push it away, and didn’t realize she’d used her scarred hand until Bastian grabbed it.
She jerked back on instinct—the scar was unusual, but not to the point where she’d felt the need to hide it. At least, not until now. But Bastian held her fast, using his other hand to uncurl her fingers so he could get a good look.
Slowly, he opened his hand next to her own.
A sun. Well, half a sun—carved into the top part of his palm, the edges still fresh and red, only beginning to scab. A half circle arced from just below his smallest finger to his thumb, the short lines of rays cut up to his first knuckle. If they’d pressed their palms together, the upside-down crescent of her moon would fit perfectly as the completed curve of his sun.
