Page 31 of In the Ravenous Dark
Great, I think. I can’t write.
Maybesomelessons are a good idea.
“Whatever comes, we’ll survive,” Japha says louder, clapping me on the back before releasing me. They add with a hard, little smile, “Well, until my bloodline kills me. At least you don’t have to worry about that. Yet.”
Which makes me remember: My father has said it’s not his bloodline that’s killing him. Bloodmages in Skyllea aren’t suffering the same fate. Something is wrong with Thanopolis, and it stinks of death. Maybe while I’m trying to survive life in the palace and find a way to escape both its walls and my guardian, I canalsotry to discover what’s happening, so my father can survive his bloodline, too.
And then perhaps we canallescape Thanopolis—my father, my mother, and even Bethea or Japha if they want.
First and foremost, I need to at least pretend I’m cooperating until I know my mother is safe and comfortable. And as much as I hate my guardian, I can’t entirely ignore him anymore, not if I want to learn as much about him as possible: where he comes from, how he’s bound to me, how he holds such power over his wards…
And then I need to lose him.
I also need to talk to Japha. They may know things I don’t, and what’s more, they may actually tell me.
“Is your guardian here?” I ask, my tone merely curious. “I’m still not used to mine.”
Japha tosses their head. “Damios is over there, sulking in the corner.”
I squint. I can’t see much more than heavy shadows that might already be there. “I’m not sure where mine went. Dead man?”
He appears in the opposite corner, arms folded. “I’m here.”
He looks wary. He also seems oddly aware of the other guardian’s presence without actually acknowledging it. Interesting. Maybe guardians are so used to working alone that they’re territorial and prickly in another’s presence, like cats.
“Just checking,” I say. “I knew it was too much to hope that you might have gone for good. Anyway, carry on being dead.”
Japha laughs merrily. “Do you know, I make mine help me pick out the day’s outfit? Damios hates it, which is half the reason I take so long. But if he doesn’t give me his opinions, then it never ends. I must make warding me an actual chore so he feels pride in doing his duty.”
“That’s an idea,” I say, smiling sweetly at the dead man as I head for the washroom. Japha’s right. Idostink of booze.
The dead man merely stares back at me over folded arms as I pass. But then I hear his low murmur behind me: “Rest assured, warding you is chore enough already.”
I spin around only to find his expression as smooth as glass. I toss a rude gesture at him.
“Ooh, you have a spicy one, do you?” Japha says, intrigued. “What’s his name?”
“You know, I never caught it,” I lie, turning back to the washroom. “And since I can’t be bothered to ask, I think I’ll just keep calling him ‘dead man.’”
“Is he handsome?” At my horrified look, Japha demands, “What?”
“He’sdead.”
“If we have to stare at them all the time, they might as well be good-looking. Think of him like a vase or tapestry or some other bit of decoration.” Japha waits precisely half a heartbeat. “So, is he?”
“I hadn’t noticed that, either,” I say, meeting the dead man’s dark eyes. He’s absurdly handsome, but I’m not about to admit that.
His brow climbs ever so slightly. The look isn’t arrogant, like I imagine Kineas’s would be, or flirtatiously teasing like Japha’s. He’s just politely doubting my claim.
Japha sighs. “Mine is somewhat tolerable. Very regal cheekbones.”
“Barelytolerable is the most that can be said of mine,” I declare. I march the rest of the way into the washroom, banishing the dead man’s utterly perfect cheekbones from my mind.
10
Only a few days later, I’m cursing the hope that got me out of bed and made me willing to suffer. Because that hope has led me here, to this room—the dining room—with this woman, my new etiquette instructor. The gleaming marble columns and tree-trunk table, the plush rugs and intricately entwined plants don’t make her company more tolerable. At least Penelope and Crisea are blissfully away at their martial training, and my father in his office.
I’m no closer to discovering anything about guardians or bloodlines, or a path of escape. The dead man is avoiding me, as if he knows what I’m up to. I can’t write Japha. My other source of reluctant knowledge is my father, and he and I have barely spoken since the banquet. Perhaps he’s trying to give me space, or perhaps I’ve driven him away. If only I could be as effective at that withotherpeople.
