Page 40 of A Liar's Twisted Tongue

I bite my tongue.

He takes the biggest gulp of vesi I’ve seen from him so far and a deep breath. “The septic, you embellish the stories. Utul-ize them.” He laughs at his spin on the word, and I frown. He’s too droozed to notice anyway.

“You mean make my childhood stories of running from death and fighting for my food sound somehow privileged?” I tilt my head to the side and make sure I’m glaring at him the way I’m thinking about him: like he’s an idiot. My tone is bitter when I say, “Yeah, sounds riveting, when should we start?”

“Look, sweetheart, I’m trying to help you. Perhaps you could take my advice instead of biting my finger every chance you get.”

You’re the one who does the biting, I want to say, thinking about all the times I’ve seen a Nepenthe kill someone with their venomous fangs. This time I don’t. This time I say, “Tell me about flám perfeit.”

He smirks. “That’s your first good question.” Then he tells me it’s the organs of a kappa—a greater corenth from Serpencia—a traditional dish served to the warriors after they killed one.

“Yum,” I say unenthusiastically.

“It’s delicious,” he says seriously, and I stare at him, thinking about what a vulture he used to be when he no doubt fought in the war and killed my neighbors. He stares back at me. “I’ve never had it. It’s a taboo,” he says like I’m an idiot. “But these kids? They know plenty about our grotesque history. You, on the other hand, do not.”

“Can we fight now?” I pick up the double-edged sword that I chose during our first training session. A spatha sword, it’s called, and it still feels heavy and unbalanced in my hands. It was probably a stupid choice, but I don’t want Leiholan to know that I think that. So I’ll stick it out.

Leiholan unsheathes his sword. Pointing the blade at me, he says, “No one will expect you to be able to fight. Utul was a smart choice for that, but not for your sore lack of knowledge. Swing when you’re ready.”

I swing the double-edged sword at him.

The next few days, he helps me with my vocabulary. He tells me to say “suppose” instead of “guess,” “fair” instead of “good,” “dish” instead of “food,” and “as goes for you” instead of “you too.” I write them in a notebook when I get a moment alone in Aralia’s room. What I don’t do is show him any gratitude. This is the least he could do for one of my kind, the smallest way to make amends.

Later, when Lucian stops me before I escape from combat class, I know that the last nine days of ignoring one another are over. And I’m not happy about it.

He knows too much.

Besides, the last thing I want is to be entangled with a prince. Another spoiled brat who gets everything he wants on any whim, at the hands—and often lives—of people like me.

Standing in front of me, eye to eye, he whispers, “I need your help with something.”

“You need my help?” I ask slowly. I didn’t think we’d gotten off on a very good foot.

“Yes,” he says with a smirk. “I could use a powerful partner.”

I step closer, whispering, “Is this about my mom?”

“Partially. I’ll meet you by the lake, same hour as the time before,” he says before pivoting on his feet and walking out.

I do the same when Leiholan says, “You’d be wise to go,” his words not nearly as slurred as I would’ve thought by the smell.

“Why is that?” I say, glaring at him over my shoulder.

“First off, drop the attitude, sweetheart. Second, if the prince thinks you’re powerful, maybe you are. From here you don’t look it.” His eyes squint as he looks at the new cut I earned on my bicep and I cover it with my hand, hoping he can’t see that it’s cauterized.

“Thank you,” I say, and he looks pleasantly surprised before I add, “for another piece of riveting advice.”

I walk out, already knowing what he’d say. Don’t talk like that. Say this instead. Be likable. I can be very likable, for his information. I stop this line of thinking when an Armanthine passes by and I’m sure they’ll think I’ve gone insane. And when the dreams cross my mind, I wipe them away immediately. But when the whispering comes back, there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

I’m learning to live with it. The way I’m learning to live with the murders I’ve committed.

Less living and more maintaining.

Aralia meets me by the purple tree in the garden, flashing a joint.

We go out into the mastick, beyond what I’ve learned is the school’s protective barrier—which means they can’t do a thing about what we do out here, so Aralia says. This has been our routine these last few days, and yesterday I almost found myself telling her about the whispering when another attack came. But I got my wits back before I could make such a mistake.

“Wanna light it, inferno?” she says jokingly, but I see the dead Folk on the ground in my burning dwelling.

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