Warden said nothing to contradict me. No words of comfort. No white lie to make things easier. After all, it would be best.
‘You must think about the risk. The Mime Order would collapse if the Ranthen knew. Everything we’ve worked for—’
He waited for me to continue, but I couldn’t.
‘I consider your company worth the risk,’ he said into my hair, ‘but the choice is always yours.’
I drew back and considered his face for a last time. I couldn’t ask any more questions tonight; couldn’t keep second-guessing myself. Jaxon was the liar, the snake in the grass. Warden had earned my trust. I had to let myself believe that he was worthy of it – for now, at least.
I sought his lips first. The choice was mine.
We held each other in the firelight. It was some time before I led his hands into my blouse. The kiss broke as he met my gaze, as he parted the silk from waist to throat. A chill spread over my stomach and breasts.
There was a low fire in his eyes as he took me in. I was perfectly still, trying to tell what he was thinking. After a few moments, his gaze flicked to mine again. When I nodded my assent, he brushed the backs of his knuckles over my collarbone, then my shoulder and throat. I linked my arms around his neck. I was cocooned by his aura. His other hand glided over the seam in my side, where the skin was knitting back together.
A truce couldn’t last when we were at war. For the time I had him to myself, I wanted as much of him as he would give.
Vance’s trap had made me remember my mortality. I was tired of holding back from Warden. Tired of yearning to be close to him. Tired of denying myself. I cupped his face with my hands and kissed him deeply, as I never had before. As if he sensed the need in me, he took me fully into his arms. A soft ache bloomed between my legs. I felt my lips quake, heard the blood throbbing through my veins, as he lowered his head to where the wound tapered off, just shy of my breast, and kissed the delicate new skin. I lifted myself into his hands.
Once he had seen to my side, he worked his way down my body. His lips lingered on my stomach, making me shiver, but he went no farther. Not yet. That was for another night. He laid his head on my chest, and I combed my fingers through his hair.
It might be na?ve, but I wanted to believe in this.
‘Warden.’
‘Hm?’
‘You never told me why you kissed me, at the Bicentenary,’ I murmured. ‘You only answered my first question.’
He lay still.
‘So I did,’ was all he said.
I let it go. It was enough that he was here. It was enough to be beside him, to know that he was with me.
The next kiss was softer. We shifted our positions, so my back was against his chest, and stayed like that in the light of the fire. We looked at each other for a long time, not speaking.
The room was an hourglass that hadn’t yet turned. My breathing and my heartbeat grew slower, falling into line with his. When I was close to drifting off, Warden drew me deeper into his arms and lowered his head a little, so his cheek lay alongside mine. My skin prickled as he touched his lips to my jaw, where the welt was. I threaded my fingers between his knuckles.
‘There is one way that you might see proof that I am on your side. Something that would betray me,’ he said, his voice a rumble in his throat, ‘if anyone but you could see.’
I was so fire-warmed and drowsy, I couldn’t think of what he might be talking about.
‘What can I see?’
He only held me closer. I tucked my head beneath his chin and tried to keep my eyes open, so I could savour these fragile hours. In the softened state that comes before oblivion, I imagined that this moment could be safe from time, like he was. I imagined that the dawn would never come.
‘Denizens of the citadel, this is . . .’
My eyes opened, furred with sleep. The fire had gone out, leaving a chill on my skin. I couldn’t work out what had woken me.
Warden’s arm was around my waist, his hand on my back. Sleep had made his body heavy beside mine. I nosed closer to his chest, where it was warmest, and lifted the blanket over my shoulder.
‘. . . internal security has been compromised . . .’
I snapped upright, muscles tensed. There was no key in the lock; no footstep in the hall. No dreamscapes here but Warden’s and mine.
It took me a moment to work out that the disembodied voice was coming from Nick’s data pad, muffled by the cushion that had fallen on to it. With slack vision, I lifted it from the floor. Warden stirred beside me.
‘We must not be tempted by change, when change, by its very nature, is an act of destruction,’ Frank Weaver was saying. ‘Mahoney’s group, “The Mime Order”, is now classified as a terrorist organisation under Scion law. It has shed the blood of Scion’s denizens and threatened the Inquisitor’s peace.’
I waited, not breathing.
‘However, all is not lost. Thanks to a recent development in Radiesthesic Detection Technology, we were able to use Mahoney’s own unnaturalness to recalibrate our Senshield scanners.’ No. No, no, no. ‘Four of seven types of unnaturalness are now detectable.’
‘Vance,’ I whispered.
It was her. Weaver might be the one speaking, but I sensed her face beneath his, her fingers knotted in his strings.
They had made the announcement before I could, and they had laid the blame at my door. If the syndicate believed it, they would never forgive me.
I should have insisted on speaking to the Unnatural Assembly hours ago, curfew or otherwise . . .
‘To ensure that Senshield is used with the greatest possible efficiency, and to support internal security forces at this time,’ Weaver continued, ‘I have no choice but to execute martial law, our highest level of security.’
Warden lifted himself on to his elbows.
‘A division of ScionIDE, our loyal army, has been recalled to safeguard this citadel. They are led by Grand Commander Hildred Vance, who is determined to restore our capital to its former state of safety before the new year. Upon the arrival of the First Inquisitorial Division in the capital, martial law will be effective in the Scion Citadel of London until Paige Mahoney is in Inquisitorial custody. All denizens should remain indoors until further notice. There is no safer place than Scion.’
The broadcast ended, leaving the anchor to spin on the screen.
Martial law. We had guessed it was coming, yet hearing it from Weaver made it truly real.
The short-lived warmth was torn away from me, like rind off fruit. I snatched my blouse from the floor and left the pocket of heat in the room, needing air, needing the cold to shock me back to reality. When I flung open the front door, the night hit my body like a shout hits the ears. I leaned against the door frame, clutching my blouse around me. The wind scalded my legs and cheeks.
Something was straining in my dreamscape. I could hear things I hadn’t heard since I was six years old. Gunfire and screaming. Hoofbeats. My cousin’s tortured cries.