Page 49 of The Huntsman's Heart
His golden brows lift. “No. Why would I be upset? We were worried he had forced himself on you.”
“No. Nothing like that.” I sigh. “I thought you might feel jealous. Or left out.”
He seems to consider. “I feel grateful to be included in whatever you need me for, princess. To be of use to you. It has been a long time since we have been of use to anyone, and that is what we were made for.”
“But you are not made of stone, at least not during the night! You have feelings, wants, desires.”
“And you fulfill them. I only want more of what we have all shared together, but you letting the hunter taste you does not stop me from having that. I only want you to be happy, and I think that you are not.”
He’s right, but it’s complex. “I am happy with you and Corvin and Raban,” I say eventually. “I don’t know what Alaric wants from me. I cannot read him. I am worried that he will betray me, but there is no way to know for sure.”
Évandre nods. “That is true. If it’s any help, I don’t believe he could have simulated the way he looked at you just now.”
I frown. “What look was that?”
Évandre laughs softly. “The same look I am certain you get from every one of us, only his is more desperate because he does not believe he is entitled to it.”
“He is not,” I say sulkily.
Évandre hums. “Nor is anyone. What you offer is a gift, freely given every time. I meant that he does not believe in himself.”
I’m quiet for a while, thinking about what Évandre said. My gaze follows a vine clinging to the moss-covered stone of the wall, twisting and trailing to the top where a broken figure stands.
Évandre follows my gaze. “That is all that is left of our brother. The seventh of us.”
The figure once would have been a mirror image of Évandre. He’s tall, and from what’s left I can see he would have had two proud wings stretching out wide on either side of his muscled body. Now, though, one wing is broken off, leaving only a stonystump, and his face is badly cracked and part of his left arm missing.
“What happened?” I whisper, saddened.
“Time.” Évandre shrugs. “It is the enemy of us all in one way or another.”
I think about what he says for a while, staring up at the chipped face of the frozen gargoyle. If I truly am undead—immortal—what will that mean for me as time goes on? I may not have to worry about aging or sickness any longer, but will there come a time when I wish I could end things as Alaric seems to wish to do?
The thought disturbs me so much I can’t sit any longer. I stand, judge the distance and leap, gripping the rough surface and pulling myself up onto a crumbling balcony. I climb from there up to the roof and launch myself onto the highest remaining part of the wall, balancing along the broken surface with my arms outstretched. I stop only when I reach the frozen gargoyle.
Évandre alights beside me a moment later, folding his wings away. “He has not stirred in years.”
Despite what Évandre says, I still run my hand over the statue’s shoulder softly. Of course the statue doesn’t move. The stone is cold under my touch, and my own skin does nothing to warm it. “Maybe time turns us all to stone,” I murmur, more to myself than to Évandre.
My eyes sting, but tears refuse to fall. So I sit on the cold stone beside the statue and tuck my arms around my legs and stare into the distance across the treetops.
When Évandre sits beside me and wraps an arm around me, tucking his wing around to shield me from the chill breeze, a little of the numb feeling inside me recedes. I lean my head on his shoulder and shut my eyes and try to remember what sleep feels like. How did it used to come so easily?
Évandre strokes my hair softly. “You won’t end that way, princess.”
“Will I not? I do not like the person—the creature I am turning into. It feels like there is ice where my heart used to be.”
“It does not seem that way to me,” he says gently. “To me you seem full of fire and passion and sweetness.”
“You flatter me.”
“I only speak the truth.”
I nuzzle closer, appreciating the warmth of his body, the feel of his arm around me. “Do you think I should let Alaric go?”
A hum rumbles through Évandre’s chest. “Is it helping to hold him here?”
“No!” I say quickly. All it does is confuse my thoughts and stir emotions to the surface I would rather bury.
