“It’s a gift from the devil,” he murmured.
“You didn’t kill him,” she said. “You could have. You know I would have backed you up.”
A cool morning breeze ruffled Tobias’s hair. “Something stopped me. He looked… broken.”
Jack’s palpable misery had sapped away just enough of Tobias’s bloodlust. Or maybe he hadn’t wanted to give in to Emerazel’s burning rage; to let it consume him.
Fiona cupped his face, staring at him. “Are you going to eat it, or will I have to make you? Because I’m not letting you die over this. I need you alive. I can’t stay in Maremount without you.”
A spark of hope ignited. “You want to live here with me?”
“Of course. And I want to see everything you’ve told me about. The pond, the nippexies, the mayflower festivals. I want you to show it all to me.”
Gods, it sounded like heaven. How could he resist? Gazing into her midnight eyes, he lifted the bone to his mouth, dropped it on his tongue, and swallowed. It caught in his throat for a moment before sliding down, shimmering through his body in ecstatic waves. He could still feel the fires burning in him, but he had a strange sense that he could control their intensity.
When the last of the goddess’s light burned through him, unwelcome images stirred in his mind. The purple lumps on his mother’s throat as she took her last, gasping breaths. Tobias’s father William, lying in bed for weeks, too broken by the world to stand and dress himself. Then Oswald’s father—drunk and beating his young son with a wooden rod. A haggard face in the House of the Swan Ladies—blond hair, sunken cheeks, bruises on her neck. She looked like Eden, only sick and trampled down by the world. Who was she? He’d seen her before. Is that what Eden would have become, had she lived? He felt a wave of nausea, until Fiona placed a cool hand on his cheek.
“Tobias. Are you okay?”
His eyes snapped open. “Sorry. Some things just came back to me.” He wiped a hand across his brow. “My life here was never perfect, you know. Maybe I made it sound better than it was.”
“Maremount doesn’t have to be perfect. I just need you here.”
When she rested her hand on his cheek, his pulse raced, and his eyes took in everything: the gentle curve of her neck, the sharp, dark eyebrows, her lips slightly parted. He’d been with plenty of girls before, but no one had ever made him feel the way she did—as if he’d been walking around half asleep, until her presence roused him to find a world teeming with life.
He kissed her, and when his arms encircled her, he was struck by how delicate she seemed, her body so small. Her fingers roamed into his hair, and he kissed her softly, his tongue brushing hers. Elation transported him. He was finally home.
55
Celia
Flanked by Mariana and Alan, she stared at the King’s bare feet trailing over the flagstones. Thomas and Oswald were dragging him through the hallway in his nightgown. After the werewolves had overpowered the remaining Throcknell guards, Thomas had raided one of their rooms for iron collars, and one now encircled her father’s neck, totally suppressing his magic.
Mariana touched Celia’s arm. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said shortly.
“You don’t feel a little sorry for him?” asked Alan.
It was hard to rejoice in the pathetic display. She stared as her father’s large feet thumped down the cold, granite steps. Tearing into a furious rant, spit flew from his mouth. “I am a direct descendant of Borgerith! The gods’ blood flows in my—unhand me, you animals!”
There was a time when his roar would have made her tremble, but now she just wanted to look the other way in embarrassment.
She needed to remember everything he’d done: He’d murdered her mom. He’d withheld medicines and education from the Tatters. He’d tortured countless people, Oswald among them. She should feel victorious.
Instead, as she watched Oswald and Thomas throw him into a cell, she felt only a twinge of bitterness for the man who’d once ruled the kingdom with an iron fist. It didn’t bring her any joy to watch his red-faced tirade when Oswald locked the door to his cell.
She had an uncomfortable feeling he would die in there, ranting to the walls and the rats.
When Balthazar was secured in the Iron Tower, Thomas guided her and Oswald through the winding stairwells and tunnels, retracing the escape route he’d discovered weeks ago. Through the stone walls, she could hear shouts and breaking glass. All over the castle, wolves roamed wild, tearing through armories and banquet halls, leaving their mark on all the pointless, expensive crap that decorated the fortress.