Siret’s smile was so huge that he was going to give the game away before we even started. No wonder it had been so easy to convince him—he was downright giddy at the thought of causing his brothers so much grief. Not to mention playing games was his number one specialty.
I just had to make sure I didn’t chicken out, which was much easier said than done. My bravery was a very fickle thing: it mostly only existed until common sense had a chance to sink in.
“Okay.” I punctuated the word with a sharp nod. “Let’s do this before I change my mind. Turn around!”
The smile disappeared off his face. “How do you expect me to alter your appearance if I can’t see you?”
I planted my hands on my hips, giving him a narrow-eyed glare. “The agreement was that every person in Blesswood would see me semi-naked, just to prove that it wasn’t that big of a deal. Every person who isn’t an Abcurse. Because you five have rules.”
“Soldier.” He said my nickname in a tone that tried to insinuate that I was being unreasonable. “You’re the one who asked for my help, remember? It’s me and you against all of them.”
“You’re an Abcurse.” The statement was final.
His lips quirked. “Is that your rule? Only the Abcurses are subject to this deception?”
I was about to nod, when something in his expression stopped me. My hands fell from my hips. I knew that look of Trickery—he’d just figured out a way around my rule. Either Siret wasn’t a real Abcurse … or Abcurse wasn’t a real name.
“What’s your father’s name again?” I blurted, not at all subtle about my suspicion.
His lips quirked further, almost a full smile. “Abil.” He took a step closer.
My brow furrowed. “Just Abil? That’s it?”
“Why would there be any more?” he asked, spreading out his hands. “My father was one of the Original Gods; one of the ten companions created by Staviti. In the beginning, it had been Staviti, him, and nine others. Do you really think they had a need for last names?”
My mouth dropped open, and while I should have been more interested in the rich history of the gods, and his close connection to the Original Creator, I couldn’t quite get past the part where they didn’t actually have a last name.
“You guys lied to me!” I accused, though my anger faded away in the wake of a stronger confusion. “Wait—why have I been calling you five the Abcurse brothers this whole time?”
“It’s the name we made up. Dwellers and sols use family names.” He rubbed a hand over the lower part of his face, and even though he was trying hard to hide it, I knew that he was laughing at me. “Our father cursed us to remain here for a life-cycle; Abil’s Curse; Abcurse. We thought it was funny.”
I shook my head, asking, “Is Five even your real name?” He only snorted in reply. “So you’re a little sneakier than I realised,” I admitted, “but that doesn’t mean you get to watch me take my clothes off. Turn around.”
“Willa.” He sounded exasperated, even though he turned around to face the doorway. “I’ve already seen you take your clothes off. You do it all the time. Clothes are repelled by your—”
He cut himself off and I paused in the act of whipping my shirt over my head. It was a difficult act, because the clothes that Siret fashioned for me using Trickery seemed to be getting smaller and smaller—or maybe I was just getting bigger. Either way, the shirt was being difficult, and it was refusing to be whipped off in favour of gluing my arms to the side of my head.
“By my what?” I pressed, my face stuck inside the shirt.
By my winning personality?
By my natural, inherent grace?
By my—
The pressure around my arms and head disappeared, and I found myself face-to-chest with a boy-man-sol-god-whatever … who was supposed to be standing over the other side of the room.
“By your body.” He spoke in a low voice, his hands landing on my hips, the pants disintegrating into nothing. “It seems only natural. A body like this should repel clothes.”
I was a breath away from swooning, from drawing myself up onto my toes and fastening my mouth to his, when it hit me. The realisation. I shoved my hands against his chest hard, and then fell back onto my ass, because he hadn’t budged at all. He grabbed my arms, hauling me to my feet.
“Argh!” I shoved him again, with the exact same result. “You’ve been making my clothes uncomfortably small!”
The ever-present smirk graced his lips once again, and I finally fully understood how he had managed to get himself exiled to Minatsol.
“Was worth a try.” He picked me up again and then quickly held his hands up, palms displayed, a clearly fake sign of surrender. He also backed up a few steps and spun on his heel, giving me his back again.
“I can’t believe you’ve been trying to literally squeeze me out of my clothes,” I growled at his back.
“Are we getting revenge on my meddling brothers or not?” he shot back over his shoulder. “Or did you want to stay in here for a few more rotations of flirting with me?”
I kicked off one of my shoes and tossed it at his head. Somehow, it veered even further off-course than I would have expected, even with my clumsy-curse. It smashed into a display vase high up on one of the shelves beside the front door. Siret laughed. I supposed that meant he didn’t care about the vase. It didn’t look like something he would have chosen anyway. The rooms had probably been provided to them mostly furnished. I made a mental note to find something that he actually valued, so that I could feed it to one of the bullsen. Specifically a bullsen that had been reserved for sol-consumption. That seemed fitting.
“I’m not flirting with you,” I argued, kicking my other shoe off and looking down at myself. I was wearing a plain white bra and plain white underwear. My hair was tangling over my shoulders in plain blond curls, and my features were probably painted in the same ‘just plain crazy’ as always. I was all-around plain, but what did ‘plain’ matter when you were a dweller walking around an academy of elite sols in your underwear? Not much, I’d bet.
“You just undressed—again—and we’re alone in my bedroom,” Siret pointed out.
“These are all facts that I’m aware of.” I moved to stand behind him, unsure—despite my insistence that he not look—how he was going to fashion an illusion of clothing over my body without actually looking at me.
“So if that’s not flirting …” he let the sentence trail off.