Page 183 of A Liar's Twisted Tongue

“You’re a free man,” I whisper in answer. Freyr shakes his head, denying my sentiment. “The bag is yours. Twenty thousand pence, enough to start a life far from the septic.”

“My life’s been over for a long time now.” He picks up the bag and notes, “You seem remorseful.”

“Yes, well…”

“You want to make up for it? Help Desdemona. If she’s here, danger is coming, and she’s not ready for it.”

“Please,” I whisper. At first, I want to ask what he knows. Dig deeper and deeper for answers until I can no longer see the moon. The words that come from me are far from my instinct. “How do I help her?”

“Don’t let the Arcanes get to her.”

Chapter 38

Three’s A Ball, and One’s A Killer

DESDEMONA

A ball! Do none of these people have common sense? Less than a week ago Leiholan lost a leg and I’ve even heard rumors of a boy dying, and yet we’re supposed to dance for the Collianth.

Aralia’s by the window, smoking her third joint today, and I’m ready to call a truce just to get a hit. The dress she got me really is phenomenal, but not phenomenal enough to earn forgiveness, and neither is a joint, so I stick to my side of the room.

The dress is even better when I put it on. Olive green and floor length. The top half is covered in dark green and gold embroidered flowers with little black beads. Small, vine-like patches stretch down and billow with the material at the waist.

I wear four sheaths, two on each thigh, since I won’t have any readily available at my ribs.

“You look great,” Aralia says from the other side of the room. The red of her dress is the same color as the wine I drank with Lucian, who is yet another person I want to mentally and emotionally avoid.

I allow myself one good look at her before turning away. “Thanks.” Remembering what Aralia said about my scars, I put more of the glamour on my exposed back. Then I begrudgingly turn back to her. “Can I?” I point to the joint.

“Oh, yeah.” She smiles a little, and I refrain from telling her to grow a spine.

I’m blowing smoke out the window when she says, “I heard that the boy the fatta killed was Azaire.”

I freeze, and that act causes me to choke on the smoke and cough. The boy who made the kingdom less lonely. Lucian’s best friend. I shouldn’t care. But I do.

Without reason, she goes on, “That’s what my mom said. Apparently there was this whole drama with Lucian and a meeting?—”

“I want to hear about Lucian even less than I want to talk to you.” I shiver at the instant remorse I feel. What is wrong with me? Both of these people would’ve left me out to die.

Screw them.

“Then no more for you,” she says almost humorously, plucking the joint from my hand. I kind of miss that edge to her voice and have to force my mouth back down.

Am I being too harsh to her?

“Thank you for the dress,” I say shyly. “Truly.”

Her eyes light up. “Is that a smile?” There’s a faint playful, sarcastic tone to her voice, and I can’t not smile more. But screw her, no. I force it down. She sucks at her joint and taps it into the ashtray. “I forgot we’re doing the sulky thing.” She passes the joint to me and frowns. “I can sulk too.”

I watch her with what I hope is a dangerous glint in my eye while I smoke her joint.

“I love you, Des,” she says morosely. Like a child whining that they want their toy back. “You mean a lot to me, and I’m not stopping until you forgive me.” She plucks the joint from my hand, again. “And I might just stop sharing my drugs with you until you forgive me.”

“I could just lie,” I remark.

“That’d force you right back into my proximity until it became true.” She smirks. “I made you smile twice already. That has to count for something.”

“You know what I don’t get?” I say, and she raises her eyebrows while her mouth is occupied with the joint, her face saying: what? “Why you still kiss my ass after I tell you that I hate you.”

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