Page 25 of Veinblood
The raven’s eyes gleam once more, then it dissolves back into shadow, and flows across the room to merge back into my body.
I rise from the bed, my mind still working through what itshowed me, and I dress without any real thought about what I’m doing. The clothes Ellie gave me are simple enough, without toggles or laces. Thin material that can be pulled over the head and left to hang loose, while the pants are a softer fabric that hit low on the hips with a drawstring at the front.
Voices drift through the door when I open it. Ellie’s is familiar, but there are others, and I’m cautious as I make my way along the passageway to the living area.
She’s standing at the counter when I walk through the archway to the kitchen, a cup in one hand, and her focus on an odd device that appears to be showing moving images. She turns, her features breaking into a smile when she sees me staring at the glowing object.
“Television. Like … moving pictures with sound. It’s a news report, which gives information on what’s happening in the city and around the world. A little like when scouts report back, only with a wider reach.”
“Interesting. How does it work?” I move past her to examine it.
“I …” She stops to laugh quietly. “I have no idea, really. It’s something we just take for granted, I guess.” She touches my arm. “Would you like a drink?” She pours dark liquid from a glass container into a cup. “This is coffee. And this is cream.” She holds up a small white container. “It makes the taste less bitter. Some people don’t add it, some do. There’s also sugar, if you’d prefer it sweeter.”
I try it without either of the additions first, then shake my head at the bitter flavor. “How can anyone drink this?”
She laughs again. “Try the cream.” She adds a small amount to the cup.
My second sip is cautious. The cream softens the harshness, adding a richness that makes the strange drink more palatable. There’s an underlying complexity to the flavor—earthy, almost burnt. I take another sip, while she watches me, a smile still on her lips.
“Did you sleep well?” The question seems innocent enough, but I catch the undertone. Is she asking about sleep quality, or is she asking about what I said to her? Does she remember my whispered confessions?
“Well enough.”
She nods, but there’s a hesitation to the action.
“What is it?”
“Nothing … well, notnothing.” She licks her lips. “Why don’t we sit down?”
I follow her to the other room and we sit on the long, low bench she calls a couch.
“I’ve been thinking about Thornspire.” She sets down her cup. “About the moment just before everything went crazy.”
The memory surfaces immediately. Blood flowing from Sereven’s nose and ears, the crystal burning in his grip. His voice tight with strain and growing desperation as he lost control of the situation.
“When the crystal started vibrating, Sereven said somethingto you.” She pauses, watching my face closely. “He called you ‘little brother.’”
“Yes.” There is little point in denying it. In truth, I should have anticipated this discussion.
“Is he? Your brother, I mean. Or was it meant in another way?”
I lean forward and place my cup down on the table in front of us. The answer to her question is simple enough. But the explanation is something I’d rather avoid. Yet after what we shared last night and then again this morning, refusing to answer feels wrong.
“In blood, yes.”
“Were you ever going to tell me?” I can hear the hurt beneath her question. She feels that, once again, I’ve kept something important from her, something that could change everything she understands about me.
I stand, and move to the window, needing space to collect my thoughts. “Does it matter?”
“Does it—” She stops, then starts again. “The man whotorturedyou is yourbrother. The one who’s been hunting us, who helped wipe out all the Veinbloods. Your own brother! And you don’t think that matters? You weren’t going to mention it?”
“Our biological connection ceased to matter a long time ago. He chose the Authority. I chose to fight them. Our shared parentage became irrelevant the day he decided my death served his purpose better than my life.”
“That’s not the point, Sacha!” Her voice rises, and there’s a subtle shift to the air which tells me her power is responding toher emotion. The snowflakes outside fall thicker and faster. “It’s abouttrust. About keeping something that huge from someone who—” She catches herself, and when I glance back, color floods her cheeks. “Someone who brought you back from near death.”
The near-slip doesn’t escape my notice. Whatever she was going to say, she pulled back from it deliberately. But the emotion behind the partial statement is clear enough. I don’t push for more. When she wants to tell me, she’ll find her own way to the words, the same way I did.
“Would knowledge of our shared blood have changed anything for you?” My voice is soft. “In what way would this information alter things?”
