Page 46 of Immortal Longings
“Well,” Anton heaves, equally out of breath, “that certainly could have gone better. But it could have gone worse too. Good effort.” He holds his hand out for her to shake. Calla glares at him until he takes it away.
“Of all players to send us after,” Calla mutters. “August didn’t think to warn us about one with a ten-person tag team?”
Anton pulls a face. “He did it on purpose, most likely.”
Calla’s first instinct is to say that he needs her and wouldn’t send her into danger willingly. But maybe Anton is right, maybe August thought she could handle it. She left behind a whole throne room of dead bodies, after all, so what was ten men?
Calla closes her eyes and shakes her head, clearing her thoughts. She can hear the Rubi Waterway from here. They have neared the bridges that take them back to San. When she looks up, Anton is watching her curiously. He offers a placating smile.
“My apartment is not far.”
“Lead the way,” Calla says.
They’re both too tired to make meaningless conclusions about the fight they abandoned, so they walk in silence, crossing the bridge into Big Well Street and walking until the familiar brothel looms into view. Today, there are more stalls set up outside, wooden pushcarts with women behind them selling cheap shoes. Calla only peers at the products momentarily before she follows Anton into the building, because if she lingers for more than a second, there is no getting away until they have all hawked their prices.
“An unlicensed doctor rents one of the units on the floor above,” Anton says when he lets her through the door to his apartment. “If you hear screaming, that’s what it is.”
“Charming.”
Calla unhooks her sword. Tosses it haphazardly onto the couch. Then she empties her pockets too, dumping their contents onto the pillows. Unlike the first time she was here, she’s not in a rush, so she makes a slow perusal of his apartment, walking before his bookshelves. There’s another picture of Otta here. It’s more discreet, cutting off half her laughing face, but Otta always madeher presence known in person, so of course the photographs that capture her are easily recognizable too.
Calla circles around the small couch and enters the adjoining kitchen. While Anton busies himself putting a pot of water on the stove, she peers into his cupboards, trying to gauge how long the candles there have gone unlit, a dusty shrine to the painted figurine of an old deity. Perhaps Anton is one of the few who still pray. If he believes that Otta Avia can be saved, Calla wouldn’t be surprised if he also believes in the old gods.
Calla touches the dust on the cutlery shelf. Just as the pad of her finger brushes over the rusting utensils, she hears what sounds like metal running lightly against the countertop, and when she feels movement by her shoulder—Anton’s arm, reaching over, holding something, holding a knife?—she snatches the first thing in reach and grabs his wrist, slamming him onto the table behind them and pressing what ends up being a fork to the side of his neck.
Anton winces. The whole kitchen echoes with the sound of his head thudding against the hollow table surface.
“Fifty-Seven,” he says slowly. The veins in his neck stand out, trying to brace against the prongs. The utensil itself is blunt, but if Calla shoves hard enough… “I was reaching for thebowlbehind your head. Would you please refrain from attacking me in my own home?”
Calla’s eyes trace down the length of his arm, now splayed and pinned onto the table. There’s the knife. She had not misheard. But it’s too small and short to serve as a lethal weapon. The blade looks like it could barely cut tofu.
“Who said I was trying to attack you?” Calla asks. Her gaze flickers back to Anton. He’s close enough that she can see the ring of deep purple around his eyes, and in that flash of a second, when Calla reaches for the knife in his hand to take it away, an unspoken agreement is made:I’ll pretend you weren’t testing how fast I’d react, and you can pretend I didn’t catch your ploy.
She leans in, maintaining the farce. “You don’t want to finish what we started in that hotel?”
“Go on then,” Anton says, unfazed. He knows that she’s mocking him. But still, his eyes drop to her mouth. “Don’t let me stop you.”
Calla feels her wrist apply pressure on the fork, almost absently, pressing harder and harder the nearer they draw together. She doesn’t stop until her lips are close enough that she can feel the heat of his, and only then—only then does she come to a halt, mouth and weapon alike.
“Water’s boiling,” she says, and pushes away, tossing the fork back onto the shelf. She’s grinning when Anton straightens up, arching an eyebrow at her before retrieving the bowl and resuming his cooking. What’s the point in acting like they’re not constantly suspicious of each other? Theirs is a short-term alliance, not a permanent one. They can be friendly, as spiders and scorpions are while preying on the same nests. But let them both starve, and one will attack and devour the other.
Calla draws a chair, taking a seat. Anton finds a packet of some unidentifiable instant food and rips it open. He drops it into the water. Stands over the stove, stirring diligently. After a few minutes, he turns to find her resting her elbow on the table and asks:
“Have you dropped your guard so easily? Perhaps it’s poison I’m putting in.”
“I’m watching you make it.” The chair rocks beneath her. One of the legs is shorter than the others. “No poison so far.”
Anton shrugs, turning back to stir the pot. “San-Er adores hits made with flourish.”
“There aren’t any cameras here to catch your hit. A foolish endeavor, if you ask me.”
With a loud snap, Anton turns off the stove. The gas cuts off, its blue flame disappearing.
“Your Highness,” Anton says, presenting her with the bowl and a pair ofchopsticks. He feigns a genuflection when she accepts it. “Do be careful, however. Poisoninghashappened once before, eleven years ago.”
From her periphery, Calla looks at the small shrine again. “Seems you’re a fan of the games.”
“I do my research.”
