Page 19 of Vilest Things
“Perhaps it did,” Otta replies.
“Ah. Alas.” Calla smiles. “I imagine when you awoke, you asked for Anton Makusa.”
Now Otta sits up straighter, her shoulder-length hair gliding back. Where her posture was soft, meshed into the lines of the sheets, she prickles to attention at Calla’s words.
“What does Anton have to do with anything?” A pause. “Where…isAnton?”
“A fantastic question. I’m sure he would have greeted you himself if he were here.”
Anton can hear the insects fluttering in the corner. The electric pulse beating through the lights. Instinct tells him to jump, to surge into movement before he can be caught and chained down.
“Where is he?” Otta repeats, an edge entering her voice.
Calla takes her time answering. She looks away from Anton, directing her gaze out as though she’s doing penance. She wants to rankle him into giving himself away, into calling her a liar. He will not. He, too, wants to know howOtta will react anyway. The curiosity pushes up beneath the surface of his skin, where his need to be needed flows in his brittle blood.You were supposed to be the one who loved me most,he thinks.How will you mourn me?
“He’s dead,” Calla says. “He entered the king’s games to pay your debts, and I killed him in the final battle.”
He didn’t expect her to say it so plainly. It takes every effort not to scoff and demand she explain the circumstances of his defeat. When Otta lifts her gaze, he braces, waiting for either a wailing shriek or a pithy remark that she never loved him anyway—one or the other, surely—but her expression is unchanging, her eyes narrowed to make two elongated chasms, nothing of the whites visible.
Seven years have passed, and the world has moved on without Otta Avia. Seven years asleep, and those black irises still scare Anton if he looks too long, as though nothing has changed.
“Why do you sound like that?” Otta asks.
Anton can’t help but blink. Dimly, he senses that this exchange between Calla and Otta has moved on without him—which is absurd, when it’s supposed to beabouthim. He rises, and Calla looks at him sharply. Her elbow flutters, drifting closer to her waist where there used to hang a sword.
“I beg your pardon?”
Though she’s speaking to Otta, she is looking at him.
“Your tone. Who was Anton toyou?”
“If I may,” Galipei interrupts. He has been all but forgotten, lurking by the wall. “Any trouble in Rincun should be reported immediately to the council, who can warn their respective provinces. We waste time debating it here.”
“Yes, fair point,” Anton agrees at once. “Calla, won’t you write up the report?”
Calla has been saved from answering Otta’s question. She reaches for her long hair, untucks the stray strands from her collar, and flips them outward with a huff. “Venus Hailira can make the report to the council. I’ve reported to the king. My duty is done.”
She pivots. Her boots clunk through the door, into the hallway, and out of earshot. Galipei catches Anton’s attention and meaningfully tilts his head in that direction too, urging them to take their leave.
“August,” Galipei prompts when Anton doesn’t move, and Anton jolts again. He remembers where he is—who he is. “It’s getting very late.”
“It is.” He turns back to Otta. “Get some rest. There will be time to talk later.”
“Yes,” Otta says quietly. “I appreciate that.”
A lock of black hair falls into her face, curling at the end and flicking at the corner of her mouth. It might give the impression of smiling if it weren’t for the fire in her eyes. Again, for a flash, he thinks,Your eyes. They could almost be the same yellow as Calla’s.Then the light flickers, the shadows settle back in place, and Otta is Otta.
He fears he is filling the space Calla left behind. The thought is frightening enough that Anton has to resist the urge to reach out and touch Otta once more, to confirm that she is real and not an illusion he conjured to reckon with Calla’s betrayal.
“Is there anything you need?” Anton asks. He bids himself to keep still. Galipei’s scrutiny prickles at the side of his face.
Do you have nothing more to say?he entreats silently.Ask about me. Ask anything.
“No,” Otta replies. “But I’d like to be discharged tomorrow. I want to return to my old rooms.”
“We can arrange that.” Anton takes a step away from the bed. Before he can draw far, it is Otta who reaches out to touch the side of his hand, and he startles.
Otta blinks up at him, almost childlike.
