Page 37 of Cursed Shadows 5

I throw a startled look at him. “But… how? You were gone from Kithe.”

“My mother and I,” Eamon starts, “were pursued when we fled. Lord Braxis sent warriors after us. Mother was injured.” At my panicked look, he adds, “She is well. It was a flesh wound, but severe enough to slow us down. We made it across the border, and we waited. Then Melantha sent word by raven. That you were nearing the summit. We returned.”

“You came back?”

Eamon is unfazed. “Do not think me a complete fool, Nari. General Agnar acted on Melantha’s wants. He came to meet us at the border and escorted us to Comlar.”

The colour drains from my face. “So you were there… You saw?”

You saw me stab Daxeel, try to kill him, you saw me almost die… You saw me beg Mother…

Eamon reaches out to swipe his thumb over my chin. “I saw you as I always have.”

My smile grows as he draws his hand back and there, on his thumb is a lick of jam.

He wipes his hands on a napkin.

I drag my fingertip over the jam smears on the plate, then sweep its bitter sugar over my tongue.

“Do you want another to go?” he asks.

I gulp down some of the soothing tea. “Go where?”

His smile is small. “We have a viewing.”

“Of a dwelling?” I frown. “But we have no coin.”

He pats the pocket at his thigh. The jingle of coin follows.

As much as I work to shove Daxeel from my mind, now that he is free of my soul, I let a thought pass my mind. It is fleeting, but it is the understanding that he paid for a prime healer ten times over in that one pouch.

I will let Eamon be the one to spend it.

I don’t want to touch Daxeel’s gold—

“Nari.”

I whip around.

Twisted in the chair, my wild glare is flung around the shop, from empty table to empty table.

The server, leaning on the edge of a bench, narrows her eyes on me, her mouth swelling with chewed slights.

But it wasn’t her voice I heard.

Eamon swerves his gaze around the empty teahouse before considering my flustered face. “What do you sense?”

“Nothing, I… I thought… It’s fine.” I shake my head then turn around to face him. “It is fine.”

“Your lies are becoming too effortless,” Eamon decides. “Let us not make habits of these things.”

Before I can give a response, the bell above the door jingles. The sound is followed by the heavy thuds of bootsteps and the exasperated sigh of the server.

Opposite me, Eamon stiffens in his chair. Slowly, his face hardens and his spine straightens.

I look over my shoulder—and instantly understand Eamon’s reaction.

Uniforms pile into the tearoom.

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