Page 21 of Blood Currents
I wasn’t going to pretend I didn’t want to be.
9
Elio
The walk to Keane’s suitefelt like a funeral procession.
Marigold moved ahead of us, her shoulders tight with that reckless determination I’d learned to recognize—the kind that looked like bravery but always came with a cost.She’d barely slept, barely eaten, but here she was throwing herself into saving someone who might be beyond saving.
And I was following her because I couldn’t seem to stop.
Cyrus walked at her side, close enough that their shoulders almost brushed.His flames were banked low, faint gold flickers around his hands.Something was new in the way they moved together—a subtle ease that hadn’t been there before.A shift.I’d left a space, and Cyrus had stepped into it without hesitation.
I hated how much sense that made.
“You don’t have to do this,” I said quietly as we reached Keane’s floor.My voice felt foreign in the tense silence.“Either of you.If we’re caught…”
“We’re not abandoning him,” Marigold said, not looking back.“Not when we finally have a chance to help.”
We.Alwayswewith her.NeverI.It was admirable.Infuriating.And exactly why she’d get herself killed someday.
The magical wrongness radiating from Keane’s door hit me hard.My illusions twitched involuntarily—reflections in the hall mirrors stuttering, light bending in sharp, unnatural angles.Echo pressed flat to my shoulder, her scales shifting to sickly gray, as if she could feel the cracks in my control.
Marigold didn’t hesitate.Her palm pressed to the wood like she could steady him just by being there.
“Keane?”she called softly.“It’s Mari.I brought Cyrus and Elio like you asked.”
“Real?”The voice that answered was raw, unsteady.“All real?”
“All real,” she promised, her voice unflinching.
I almost envied her—no script, no performance.Just raw truth, given freely.
The wards clicked open.We stepped into darkness that seemed to watch us back.My magic curled tightly to my chest, instinct screaming at me to retreat.
Keane sat hunched on the couch, his body a ruin of dark veins and hollowed eyes.When his gaze found me, it cut deeper than it should have.
“Pretty,” he rasped.“But masks.Always masks.Can’t tell what’s underneath anymore.”
There was no venom in his voice—just tired truth.And it cut deeper than any accusation.Because he was right.I’d spent so long becoming what others needed I’d forgotten how to be anything else.
“Keane,” Marigold said gently, kneeling beside him.“We want to help you remember.About what your uncle did.Where it happened.”
“Remember?”His laugh cracked in half.“Which memories?Which ones Uncle planted?”His hands pressed against his temples, corruption pulsing like it wanted to burst through his skin.“Forty-seven tiles.Or forty-nine.Can’t make them stay still long enough to count.”
“The tiles,” Marigold said.“You mentioned tiles before.Where were they?”
“Down,” Keane whispered.“Always down.Under us.Where the magic screams and no one listens.A lab.”
Marigold reached for his hands.“Tell us.”
“Dangerous.”But he didn’t pull away.“Uncle said never tell.Good boys don’t ask questions about the work.”
“Your uncle lied to you,” I said sharply.The words burned on my tongue.“He used you.Trained you to believe obedience was love.”
Keane’s eyes met mine, startlingly lucid.“Pretty prince understands masks.Pretty prince knows about love that’s just control.”
I had no answer for that.Because he was right about that too.
