“I found some books of yours in Whitefire.” I don’t lie, but I’m careful with my words. No use hurting Cal more than he’s already been. He doesn’t need to know that Maven gave me the books. I won’t give him any more false hope for his brother. “Helped pass the . . . time.”
While the mention of my imprisonment sobers Cal, Julian doesn’t let us linger in the pain. “Then you understand what I’m trying to do,” he says quickly. His smile doesn’t reach his darkening eyes. “Don’t you, Mare?”
“‘Not a god’s chosen, but a god’s cursed,’” I murmur, recalling the words he scrawled in a forgotten book. “You’re going to figure out where we came from, and why.”
Julian folds his arms. “I’m certainly going to try.”
TWENTY-TWO
Mare
Every morning starts the same way. I can’t stay in the bedroom; the birds always wake me up early. Good that they do. It’s too hot to run later in the day. The Piedmont base makes for a good track, though. It is well protected, the boundaries guarded by both Montfort and Piedmont soldiers. The latter are all Reds, of course. Davidson knows that Bracken, the puppet prince, is likely quietly scheming and won’t let any of his Silvers past the gates. In fact, I haven’t seen any Silvers at all, except the ones I already know. All of the abilitied are newbloods or Ardents, depending on who you speak to. If Davidson has Silvers with him, serving equally in his Free Republic as he says they are, I haven’t seen any.
I lace my shoes tightly. Mist curls in the street outside, hanging low along the brick canyon. Unlatching the front door, I grin when the cool air hits my skin. It smells like rain and thunder.
As expected, Cal sits on the bottom step, legs stretched out on the narrow sidewalk. Still, my heart lurches in my chest at the sight of him. He yawns loudly in greeting, almost unhinging his jaw.
“Come on,” I chide him, “this is sleeping in for a soldier.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t prefer to sleep in when I can.” He stands with exaggerated annoyance, all but sticking his tongue out.
“Feel free to go back to that little bunk room you insist on staying in at the barracks. You know, you’d get a bit more time if you moved to Officers Row—or stopped running with me altogether.” I shrug with a sly grin.
Matching my smile, he tugs on the hem of my shirt, pulling me toward him. “Don’t insult my bunk room,” he mutters, before dropping a kiss on my lips. Then my jaw. Then my neck. Each touch blooms, a burst of fire beneath my skin.
Reluctantly, I push his face away. “There is a real possibility my dad shoots you from the window if you keep this up here.”
“Right, right.” He recovers quickly, paling. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Cal was actually scared of my father. The thought is comical. A Silver prince, a general who can raise infernos with a flick of his fingers, afraid of a limping old Red. “Let’s stretch.”
We go through the motions, Cal more thoroughly than I. He scolds me gently, finding something wrong with every move. “Don’t lunge into it. Don’t rock back and forth. Easy, slow.” But I’m eager, thirsty to run. Eventually, he relents. With a nod of his head, he lets us begin.
At first the pace is easy. I almost dance on my toes, exhilarated by the steps. They feel like freedom. The fresh air, the birds, the mist brushing past with damp fingers. My even, steady breath and steadily rising heartbeat. The first time we ran here, I had to stop and cry, too happy to stop the tears. Cal sets a good clip, keeping me from sprinting until my lungs give out. The first mile passes well enough, getting us to the perimeter wall. Half stone, half chain link topped with razor wire, and a few soldiers patrol the far side. Montfort men. They nod to each of us, used to our route after two weeks. Other soldiers jog in the distance, running their usual training exercises, but we don’t join them. They drill in rows with shouting sergeants. It’s not for me. Cal is demanding enough. And thankfully, Davidson hasn’t pressed me on the whole “resettlement or service” choice. In fact, I haven’t seen him since my debriefing, even though he now lives on base with the rest of us.
The next two miles are more difficult. Cal pushes a harder pace. It’s hotter today, even this early, with clouds gathering overhead. As the mist burns off, I sweat hard and salt collects on my lips. Legs pumping, I wipe my face on the hem of my shirt. Cal feels the heat too. At my side, he just pulls his shirt off entirely, tucking it into the waistband of tight training pants. My first instinct is to warn him against sunburn. The second is to stop and stare at the well-defined muscles of his bare abdomen. Instead, I focus on the path before me, forcing another mile. Another. Another. His breathing beside me is suddenly very distracting.
We round the shallow forest separating the barracks and Officers Row from the airfield, when thunder rumbles somewhere. A few miles away, certainly. Cal puts out an arm at the noise, slowing me down. He snaps to face me, both hands gripping my shoulders as he leans down to my eye level. Bronze eyes bore into mine, looking for something. The thunder rolls again, closer.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, all concern. One hand strays to my neck to soothe the scars burning red hot with exertion. “Calm down.”
“That’s not me.” I tip my head toward the darkening storm clouds with a smile. “That’s just weather. Sometimes, when it gets too hot and humid, thunderstorms can—”
He laughs. “Okay, I get it. Thank you.”
“Ruining a perfectly good run,” I tut, moving my hand to take his. He grins crookedly, smiling so wide it crinkles his eyes. As the storm moves closer, I feel its electric heart thrumming. My pulse steadies to match it, but I push away the seductive purr of lightning. Can’t let loose a storm so close.
I have no control of rain, and it falls in a sudden curtain, making us both yelp. Whatever bits of my clothes weren’t covered in sweat quickly soak through. The sudden cold is a shock to us both, Cal in particular.
His bare skin steams, wrapping his torso and arms in a thin layer of gray mist. Raindrops hiss when they make contact, flash-boiling. As he calms, it stops, but he still pulses with warmth. Without thought, I tuck into him, shivering down my spine.
“We should go back,” he mutters to the top of my head. I feel his voice reverberate in his chest, my palm flat to where his heart rips a fast tempo. It thunders under my touch, in stark contrast to his calm face.
Something stops me from agreeing. Another tug, deeper inside. Somewhere I can’t name.
“Should we?” I whisper, expecting the rain to swallow my voice.
His arms tighten around me. He didn’t miss a word.
The trees are new growth, their leaves and branches not splayed wide enough to offer total cover from the sky. But enough from the street. My shirt goes first, landing in mud. I toss his into the muck too, just so we’re even. Rain pelts down in fat drops, each one a cold surprise to run down my nose or spine or my arms wrapped around his neck. Warm hands do battle across my back, a delightful opposite to the water. His fingers walk the length of my spine, pressing into each vertebra. I do the same, counting his ribs. He shivers, and not from the rain, as my nails scrape along his side. Cal responds with teeth. They graze the length of my jaw before finding my ear. I shut my eyes for a second, unable to do anything but feel. Every sensation is a firework, a thunderbolt, an explosion.
The thunder gets closer. As if drawn to us.
I run my fingers through his hair, using it to pull him closer. Closer. Closer. Closer. He tastes like salt and smoke. Closer. I can’t seem to get close enough. “Have you done this before?” I should be afraid, but only the cold makes me shiver.
He tips his head back, and I almost whine in protest. “No,” he whispers, looking away. Dark lashes drip rain. His jaw tightens, as if ashamed.
So like Cal, to feel embarrassment for something like this. He likes to know the end of a path, the answer to a question before asking. I almost laugh.