Roman was sitting at a desk when the news arrived. He was in a room on the upper floor of the factory, watching as Dacre paced before a wall of windows. A few of the officers were standing in a group to the left, stoic and silent, and while Roman was waiting for Dacre’s command, he couldn’t deny that, in his mind, he was very far away.
He was in another small room, a cozy chamber in Marisol’s B and B, and there was a host of candles burning, casting soft rings of light along the walls. There was a pallet of blankets on the floor, and a pile of crinkled letters that Roman had read more times than he could count. He wasn’t alone, and he had never felt more alive, his blood singing when he looked at her, when he breathed in the lavender scent of her skin …
The door banged open.
Roman blinked, letting the memory shatter in his mind. He returned to his body where he sat dutifully at the table, kilometers from home, waiting for a god’s command.
Dacre, the officers, and Roman all looked at Lieutenant Shane, who was panting on the threshold despite his perfectly composed salute.
“What news?” the god asked. His tone was impassive, but Roman wasn’t fooled. He could tell Dacre was furious about the foiled attack in Hawk Shire. He was like a frozen lake, seemingly placid until one noticed the hairline cracks expanding across the ice. The dark, frigid water seeping through the gaps, hungry for a drowning.
“Lord Commander,” Shane began hoarsely. “The hounds have returned.
One of them is gravely injured. The other two show no signs of spoils.” “You mean that Enva’s scout got away.”
“It appears that they did, sir.”
“Appears.” Dacre smiled, a cold crescent of a moon. “Tell me, Lieutenant, how does an entire army evacuate before we arrive? How does a mortal girl evade multiple rounds of bullets in a wide-open meadow? How does a motorcar outrace three of my finest hounds, injuring one in the process?”
For the short amount of time that Roman had known Shane, the lieutenant had never failed to appear stalwart and gallant. But at that moment his complexion was waxy and deathly pale; he seemed incredibly young and vulnerable.
“I … I don’t know, sir,” he stammered.
“Then let me tell you how,” Dacre said. He turned and glanced at his officers, who were now standing in a perfect line. “It happened because someone here has betrayed me.”
“If I may, my lord,” Captain Landis said with a bow of his head. The key he wore around his neck shined with the movement. Roman had no doubt the captain displayed it to remind everyone of his status. That he was a member of Dacre’s favored circle with the power to unlock doors. “All of us in this room are faithful to you. You know that we—”
Dacre lifted his hand. Captain Landis hushed, face flushing.
“Someone among my ranks has turned on me,” Dacre said. “Since I woke, you have known me to be a god who heals your wounds and takes away your pains. A merciful and just god who is building a better world for you and your lovers, you and your children, you and your dreams. But betrayal is something I cannot forgive.” He paused, and the words sat in the air like smoke. “All of you … leave me. Now.”
Lieutenant Shane backed away. Most of the officers—the wise ones— also made a beeline for the door while a few others tarried, red-faced and worried-looking, as if they were terrified Dacre suspected them.
Roman rose, keeping Dacre in his peripheral. Quickly, he packed up his typewriter as quietly and unobtrusively as he could manage. He wanted to be a shadow. Unnoticeable. A tiny moth on the wall.
He walked to the door, back ramrod straight and typewriter case in hand. He waited, stiff with dread, for Dacre to say his name and hold him back. For Dacre to pin him to the ground with those uncanny blue eyes and tear the truth from his throat. For him to smell the betrayal on his clothes.
But Dacre had turned, and his face was angled toward the windows and the night beyond the glass. His eyes were on the stars and moon and a city that was full of empty shadows.
Roman slipped away with the officers.
It was a good thing he had managed to leave when he did, Roman realized when he was halfway down the metal stairs. A twinge of pain shot down his right leg. At first he thought it was only the aftershocks of his fear and the effort of countless steps until he felt it in his chest next. Something was gnawing at him from within, making his lungs heavy.
He stifled a cough, hid his limp.
Roman finally made it to the main doors. He stepped outside and walked until he found a vacant side street. Only then did he stop to lean against the brick wall.
He covered his mouth with his palm and coughed. His temples throbbed in response and nausea crept up his throat. He didn’t know why he felt so terrible, until he remembered the taste of the gas, weeks ago in Avalon Bluff. How it had stung his lungs. How it had spread through him, making his head ache, his stomach churn, his legs feel shaky.
He could feel his panic rising, connected to that memory. The terror he had felt when the gas surrounded him, when he had crawled through the field.
You survived that day, Roman told himself. It’s over, and you survived.
You’re safe now.
He closed his eyes, drawing slow, deep breaths. The tension in his bones eased although the twinge of pain in his leg remained, as did his headache and nausea.
Roman laid his hand over his pocket, where Iris’s wedding ring hid.
I pray that my days will be long at your side.
It had all started to come back to him the moment he had touched her.
Let me fill and satisfy every longing in your soul.
He remembered running to her through the golden field.
May your hand be in mine, by sun and by night.
He remembered exchanging vows with her in the garden.
Let our breaths twine and our blood become one, until our bones turn to dust.
He remembered how she had whispered his name in the sweetened darkness.
Even then, may I find your soul still sworn to mine.
A shiver coursed through him as he looked up at the moon and the stars. He remembered everything.
