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“It’s not,” she said, craning her head so she whispered in His ear, “because Nyxara doesn’t love You. Not anymore.” She laughed, dry and rasping. “She hates You, Apollius. She wants You gone even more than I do.”
The god growled again, one hand tightening on her chin, the other grasping at her hair and wrenching her head to the side. It hurt, and Lore cried out, and maybe this would be Nyxara’s second death—
The pressure of His body was gone in a rush; Lore nearly fell, sliding down the window before she got strength in her knees again. Apollius stood away from her, in that puddle of spilled wine, head hanging forward so His hair hid His face, breaths panting in and out.
Then He looked up.
Not Apollius.
Bastian.
He looked horrified, his eyes wide and bruised beneath, lips gone pale. Lore lurched toward him, but he held up a hand, backing away from her. “Don’t.” His voice was ravaged, like he’d spent hours screaming. “Don’t come close, Lore, I can’t— He’s too—”
Then he was gone, eyes bleeding from brown to gold. He shook His shoulders, like Bastian was a cold breeze. “That was probably a good thing,” He said, almost to Himself. “Can’t go killing You now that I finally have You back. That’d be a waste. You just make Me so angry, Nyxara.”
Apollius turned, making His way back up the petal-lined aisle to the door. “We’ll speak at nightfall,” He said. “It might be somewhat more difficult to keep My hold, but I want to hear from My wife.”
The door closed softly behind Him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
What do they call a prison with particularly good food?
Marriage.
—Overheard in a Kirythean tavern
Lore slept at some point. Curled up on one of the pews, a pillow meant for penitent knees tucked beneath her head. It didn’t do much as far as comfort went, but she was exhausted, and she was asleep almost as soon as her body went horizontal.
She’d expected a dream, once sleep finally came. But this one wasn’t what she expected, not one of those that played out Nyxara’s memories. At least, not in the same way. This dream was of magic, of twisting black and golden lines, of shadow and white light. The shadow expanded, expanded, and then the white light snapped back at the last possible moment. It reminded her of the docks, where she’d saved everyone, put their lives and their deaths back where they belonged, even if the alchemizing from Spiritum to Mortem had already begun.
It was strange, she thought in that between space that wasn’t quite sleep, wasn’t quite waking. She’d always thought true resurrection beyond the scope of her power. And it was, in a technical sense. The only reason she’d been able to bring those people back that day was because she’d stepped outside of time; the second when life changed to death stretched and expanded and made something she could grip. True death reverting back to true life.
Seemed like something she should remember.
When she woke, neck aching, Nyxara was in her mind again, a dark presence at the back of her thoughts. But it wasn’t the easy carriage Lore had grown used to. This was a flare of white-hot pain, like her brain was trying to claw its way out of her skull, bonds stretched to breaking. She cried out, barely sound with her dry throat, clapped her hands over her ears as if that could do anything.
You have to kill Him. Nyxara’s voice, grating, every word a fight. Straining against the bond Apollius had put on Her when They drank from the Fount.
But Lore was already shaking her head, as if the goddess could see, a negation of both the pain and Her order. “I won’t. I can’t.”
The Buried Goddess didn’t try to convince her. The pain snapped back as soon as it had come, as if She couldn’t risk more.
Lore looked at the window. Golden sunlight still filtered through the stained-glass depiction of Apollius, His chest a hole, His bloody hands outstretched. She’d been just between them, when Apollius in Bastian’s body had trapped her. Talk about metaphors.
But she didn’t spend much time thinking about that, because she was too caught up in the fact that it was still light outside. Still light, though that light was falling fast, and yet Nyxara had spoken.
“You can talk in the day, now,” Lore murmured.
Something like a sigh from the recesses of her mind. You gave Me My first death. She said it like it was a gift. My essence in you is stronger, now.
“Fat lot of good it does us.”
Nyxara snorted. It was an extremely disconcerting thing to hear coming from inside your own head.
“Did I lie to Him?” Lore asked after a moment, her eyes still fixed on the window. “When I said You hated Him?”
A stretch of silence. I don’t know, the Buried Goddess said.
