Carry these Bones
When I enter the foyer, my apartment is quiet and dark. Phoenix doesn’t waddle in to greet me. I drop my boots by the door and wait, but it doesn’t come. Maybe its hover mode malfunctioned? I take one tentative step, and then another. “Phee?” I slip off my jacket and leave it on the small table. I have sand all over myself. I need to shower and sleep.
Walking out of the foyer, I slow my steps. The lights don’t come on automatically in the drawing room. The shutters are closed. “Lights,” I order. Nothing happens. I fumble for the lamp I know is on the small bureau near me. I touch it, and the soft glow barely pushes back the shadows. I move to the other lamp near it, but the shadow of a figure on the sofa in the drawing room captures my attention.
Reykin.
Seated on the middle cushion, the Star is hunched over, his elbows resting on his thighs, his head bowed, his hands gripping the back of his skull. I take a few steps toward him. “Reykin?”
He lifts his chin and drops his hands. His expression is a mixture of rage and relief. Dressed to kill, literally, he wears black everything—his moniker covered by his lead-lined glove—the outfit of someone ready to do murder. A shadow of a bruise mars his jaw. The muscles of his arms twitch. In a sword fight, we’re equals. In hand-to-hand combat, I might not fare as well. Icy chills run down my spine. “Where have you been?” he asks in a low snarl.
“I . . .” I haven’t thought this part through. He can’t know about Gabriel and Balmora. He’ll kill my brother.
“Is that a hard question?” His lip holds a sneer.
“Yes.” I hate hearing the quiver in my voice.
“Well, let’s start with where you weren’t. Maybe that’s easier. You weren’t in the Neon Bible with Grisholm.”
“No,” I reply breathlessly, “I wasn’t.”
He leans forward and reaches for a fat tumbler of amber liquor. Lifting the rim of the glass to his lips, he drinks all of it in one swallow. He sets it down and seizes a nearly empty diamond-shaped bottle, splashing more alcohol into his tumbler. “If that child you sent to me with your message hadn’t delivered it when he did, I would’ve killed Grisholm.”
“Why?” My stomach twists with dread. I put out my hand and steady myself against the seat back of a chair.
“My first impulse was that he arranged your kidnapping. I thought he let your mother’s killers take you. Do you know what that feels like?” Reykin’s jaw flexes. He looks as if he’s ready to throttle me.
“It should feel like nothing. You said you don’t have a heart—that you don’t care about me.” The rawness of my emotions chokes me. I blink away tears. Why does this man affect me so? “You should be more concerned about Grisholm being assassinated by my mother than about what I’m doing. I can handle myself.”
Reykin throws the glass against the wall. It shatters. “Haven’t you figured it out yet?” He rises from his seat, seething. “You’re the most important person. You. Not that ridiculous excuse for a man who thinks he should be the ruler of the world!”
“Tell me you didn’t hurt Grisholm!” My knees grow weak.
“No. I left him at the Neon Bible. I told him that I found you but you were ill and I had to take you home. In essence, I lied for you. Nobody knows you were gone. I fixed it, like I always do!”
Anxiety like I’ve never known passes through me. I’m not a fan of Grisholm, but it’s not that. If Reykin were to kill Grisholm, he’d be hunted down like no other man in the history of the world. He may not care about me, but apparently, I care about him . . . enough to feel the crushing force of panic building.
I wring my hands to try to get them to stop trembling. My breathing becomes heavier. Cold sweat develops on my skin. Reykin continues to rant at me, but I can hardly hear him over the pounding of blood in my ears.
I turn away and, in a daze, hurry from the sitting room to the den where I put some chets away for an occasion such as this. It’s dark when I enter. I stumble to the box on the table. Its clear wrapper crinkles when I try to unwrap one. The walls spin. I knock over the box. Why is this happening?
I didn’t feel an ounce of panic when I was fighting my way through a club full of assassins, but that was different. I was in control. It’s the things I can’t control, like Reykin, that turn me into a panting, shaking mess of heighted emotion.
“I need . . .” I can’t breathe.
Reykin stands in the doorway. The light in the room responds to his presence. Lamps turn on. He must have messed with it to irritate me. The room responds to him but not me. Without Reykin—if I’m alone—I’ll be in the dark.
My hands become fists as I attempt to catch my breath. Reykin approaches me with his hand out warily, as if I might startle and run. “I . . . need . . .” I try to force myself to breathe slower, but I can’t.
He takes the chets from my fumbling fingers. Tearing off a piece of one, he holds it out to me, but when I reach for it, he pulls it back. “Why should I give you this?” he asks. “You left me to panic for hours with no relief.”
A flare of anger spikes. Dizziness turns to tunnel vision. Full-blown, merciless fear catapults my heart into a frenzy. I’m dying. My nails bite into my palms.
Reykin swears softly. His fingers press the small piece of a chet to my lips. I take it into my mouth, and it melts on my tongue. My heart feels like someone is punching it.
He touches my sleeve, smoothing his hand over my arm. I cringe at the ache it brings. I must be one enormous bruise from head to toe. I’ve compartmentalized my physical pain, and now an awareness of it roars to the forefront of my mind. The chet steadily dulls it, but I’m beyond sore in the places where I was shot.
Reykin pummels me with a dark and brooding stare. I don’t want to see his pity. He must think I’m weak and stupid. Why it matters to me what he thinks, I don’t know. He’s not my friend. He’s barely my ally. His arm goes around my middle, tugging me to him. My back rests against his formidable chest. My head is heavy. He sweeps my damp hair away from my neck, baring my nape.
“Shh,” he whispers softly, soothing rather than scolding. The scent of whatever he was drinking mixes with his normal scent. It’s sweet, and I turn toward his lips. His cheek skims the sensitive part of my throat. His hand brushes back my hair again. He pulls me to the sofa and tugs me down next to him, holding me to his chest. He covers me with the charcoal-colored cashmere blanket. My cheek rests against his neck. When normal breathing returns, I don’t move. Exhausted, I lie limply against Reykin’s side.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, grasping the bridge of his nose with his fingers, as if his head hurts and he can’t find relief.
The palm of his other hand rests on my side, one of the only places I’m not bruised beneath my white shirt. The crest of his knuckles is scabbing over. “Who have you been fighting?” I ask. My voice is hoarse.
He lifts his hand, studying it. “Where do you think I went when I couldn’t find you?”
I wince. “I wasn’t with Hawthorne.”
“I know.”
“Did you hurt him?”
“He’s alive,” Reykin replies grudgingly.
“What did you do?”
“We had a conversation—mostly with our fists. We stopped trying to beat each other senseless when it became obvious that neither one of us knew where you were.”
“What did you two talk about?”
“That’s between us.”
“Did he say anything about joining our fight?” My voice is weak.
“No. We didn’t talk about that. My only concern was finding you.” When I don’t say anything, he sighs. “Whose side are you on, Roselle?”
“My side.”
“Were you with Salloway—the Rose Gardeners?” he asks. He sounds jealous.
“No.”
“Then where were you?”
“Nowhere.”
“You have to tell me. I’m going to lose my patience if you don’t.”
“Then lose it,” I reply. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“I think I’m the only person you’re afraid of.”
“Why would I be afraid of you?”