Page 198 of A Liar's Twisted Tongue

“What do you get back home?”

“You know what an austec is?”

A scruffy, nearly inedible little corenth. That’s what she’s survived on? Barley eats better than that.

“I do.”

“Hunted those,” she says.

“Oh,” I say slowly, for efforts of teasing. “You’re a hunter. That makes sense.”

How much about her am I yet to know?

“Why’s that, Prince?” she says with a mock laugh.

I look at her while she looks at the snow ahead, which is for the best—wouldn’t want her falling into another tree well. “You’re strong,” I whisper. “Stubborn,” I mutter with a shrug. “And you have astonishing aim.”

Desdemona stops, turning to me and lifting a finger to the ear she had nicked before, when we were far from where we are now. At first, she seems solemn, then she smiles and says, “You better start wearing armor. I might aim for your heart next.”

The crimson of her eyes gleams like the blood that stains coffins. “Had you not already?”

Desdemona lifts her chin but her gaze doesn’t move. I swear, for but one second, she blushes. “You’ll know when I do.”

The setting sun begins to peak through the snowy trees, turning the whole white world purple. As much as I love staring at her, I say, “Look up.”

“Wow,” she exhales. “This is something.”

“Yes.” I look at her, looking at the world. “It is.”

If it’s wrong to long for the same creature that killed my parents then I will be wrong.

I will await my damnation.

But even in damnation, I would never grow used to the perplexity of her beauty.

We trudge through the snow a bit past sundown. I’ve helped Desdemona out of a few more than a few tree wells she stumbled into by the time I see the lights of Barley’s. Townhomes pile around with snow covering their roofs. Not much farther to go.

The closer we get, Desdemona says, “This is your septic?”

“Yes,” I answer. “Why?”

“We don’t have anything like this back home.” I glance at her, and my face must be uninviting because she gives me one look, and then her eyes are back in front of her. “I mean, it’s nothing compared to Visnatus, but when I think septic I don’t think… infrastructure.”

It dawns on me that I have no idea what she’s lived through in her life. What’s made her the girl standing across from me.

I’d like to know her thoroughly.

The red and orange lights from Barley’s shine on her face like fire, and she trucks along toward them.

“Come on,” she says.

“Keep your head down,” I whisper.

“I know,” she says as if it was the most dimwitted response to “come on” I could’ve mustered.

We make our way to the building. “I’m Andrew and you’re Catarina.”

“Cool,” she sighs.

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