This will be fun, p.29
This Will Be Fun, page 29
Bewildered, Elowen pulled back. “What?”
“You haven’t asked me anything!” Vandra told her.
The buzzing cleared, and Elowen could finally think. She’d said so much. More than she’d ever said to anyone ever, and still she’d failed to include the most important part of all. “You’re right,” she said. “See? You’re very good at pointing out what people have missed.”
“Enough!” Vandra interrupted. “Ask me!”
Elowen wrapped her arms around Vandra’s waist. “Vandra Ravenfall, would you like to be my girlfriend?”
“Yes!” Vandra responded, kissing Elowen on the mouth. “I would!”
Elowen showered Vandra in kisses in response. Love was complicated, Elowen knew, but in that moment, there was an exquisite simplicity to it. She moved to lay Vandra onto the bed, but Vandra stopped her.
“What is it?” Elowen asked, concerned.
“I cannot bed you until we’ve finished the newest Desires,” Vandra told her. “I need to know what everyone is going to do about Domynia’s return.”
Elowen laughed then, holding Vandra to her chest as she did so. “Of all the things I expected you to say to me right now . . .”
“I told you before that I was a real fan,” Vandra protested. She readjusted the blanket fort and climbed inside it. “It’s not my fault you didn’t believe me!”
Elowen climbed in behind her. “I’m sorry for all the times I ever doubted you.” She kissed Vandra’s forehead. “Truly.”
“Is this a good time to tell you I did not recently go through a breakup?” Vandra said.
Elowen scoffed. “You did lie!”
Vandra rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. It was a harmless one, and I am owning up to it now, aren’t I? Everything else has been completely true. I said it because I hoped to make you jealous. You were being so difficult to me, even more than I anticipated, and I needed a way to get through to you. For what it’s worth, it worked. You did engage me more when I said it.”
“I’m glad no one has broken your heart recently,” Elowen responded, kissing Vandra’s nose.
“Only you, my darling,” Vandra said playfully. “We spent ten years apart, and I knew I could live without you, but when I saw you again, I realized I didn’t want to anymore. I’m glad you’ve finally realized the same thing.”
Elowen laughed. “I’m afraid I realized it about the same time you did. It just took me far too long to do the right thing about it.”
Elowen snapped her fingers twice to return the conjuration to view. The two women cuddled into each other as they started the latest shadow play from the beginning again. Elowen found herself much more capable of tolerating the contentious reception to Domynia’s return. She understood now that painful emotions often needed to be felt in completion to be released. When they weren’t, they tended to clog up one’s heart, making them bitter. Domynia’s lover had to get it all out. Every last bit. It was the only way to heal.
Elowen shot upright so fast she ripped the bedsheet ceiling from the post, covering herself with it in the process. “Ghosts!” she said, scrambling to break free.
“What is it?” Vandra asked. She stood up to lift the bedsheet off Elowen’s head.
“The Sword of Souls is made up of countless trapped souls,” Elowen said.
“Right,” Vandra confirmed.
“And those trapped souls are in pain,” she continued.
“Of course.”
“And pain is an emotion.”
Vandra caressed her cheek. “My love, where is this going?”
Stunned by the use of love, Elowen fumbled to continue her thought.
“Oh! I’m sorry,” Vandra said. “Now is not the time for me to say I love you in return, is it? Forget I mentioned it! You were on such a roll!”
Elowen kissed Vandra for strength. “That’s fantastic news, thank you. I love you, too, as you know. But back to my point. I’ve figured out how we can stop Myke from using the pain of the souls inside the sword. If I can get my hands on it before he uses it, I can absorb all the pain inside it, rendering the weapon unusable.”
Vandra’s eyes sparkled. “My love, that’s brilliant! How did you think of it?”
“Watching Desires,” Elowen said, delighted.
“Only you could accomplish such a feat,” Vandra told her sincerely.
Elowen grinned. As she evolved, Elowen’s shadow plays did not always comfort her, but they did continue to provide her with exactly what she needed.
29
Clare
Clare Grandhart was getting his ass kicked.
In fairness, the fight was ten against one. Furthermore, his hand was already bruised from his duel with the intrepid impersonator.
Not that he was making excuses.
He had been thrown out of the tavern, which, like most in Vermillion Vale, unfortunately opened onto the indoor gambling hall, not the outside road. Instead of landing on soft terrain, Clare wound up crashing onto one of the nearby gaming tables with a thud. Chips went flying. Cards were flung from gamblers’ grasps. With startled cries, panicked guests fled. Clare hoped none of their hands had been good. He’d known the pain himself of a wayward fight interrupting a winning streak.
Other pains found him now. His whole upper half hurt, courtesy of the Order’s flurry of fists. He winced and hauled himself up. When one of his assailants lunged, he managed to redirect the man’s momentum, ramming his head into the gaming table.
The victory was short-lived. Three more Order men descended on him, kicking him in the ribs.
Clare wondered how much worse one day in Vermillion Vale could possibly get.
“Where’s all that heroism I keep hearing about?” Leonor the Overlord mocked, striding up while his companions continued their handiwork. Is it handiwork if they use their feet? It mattered not. “Ten fucking long years of Clare Grandhart being declared Mythria’s finest,” Leonor went on. “Look at you now.”
Replying was difficult under Clare’s circumstances. Instead, he fought to stand from all fours.
He did not get far. Leonor kicked him hard, right in the gut. The man was muscle personified, which, Clare knew, drove his resentment for Clare uniquely. One of Mythria’s most popular horseball players until his personal politics leaned into overthrowing the queen, Leonor was exactly the sort who had once imagined Spark’s Sport Potions sponsorships for himself. Nothing warped men like perceived entitlement deferred.
With the kick, Clare fell onto his side, wheezing. The casino floor where his foes were surrounding him—the well-lit gaming tables now empty, the guests having fled—was unyielding, the slick stone offering him no purchase. He was faring poorly, if he was honest with himself. He used to know how to take a beating, how to block out the pain and will himself to keep moving.
He’d gone too long without real fighting, however. In the comfort of luxurious Farmount, his days full of indulgence, he’d lost his grasp on the man who had once earned his fame and fortune.
He was not living up to the heroism he chased, which he’d proven perfectly well outside. What’s more, while heroes did find themselves in predicaments like his present, he could not picture Galwell on the ground, gasping, clumsy, outnumbered.
Yet he was not Clare Grandhart, either. Not the old Clare, the outlaw who could withstand punches without flinching.
Which left—who? If he could not fight, and he could not lead, and he was not worthy of the woman he loved, he was . . . no different from the performer he’d wrestled outside.
He was just one more Clare impersonator in an endless crowd of them.
“When the Order is restored to its rightful place,” Leonor continued, evidently enjoying the fine practice of villain speeches overmuch, “when Todrick rises and rules the realm the way it should be ruled, people like you will be relegated to where you belong.” He stepped over Clare. “Beneath . . . my . . . boot,” he said slowly, savoring the words, while his heavy heel pressed Clare’s face into the polished stone floor.
Out of Clare’s existential embarrassment, panic surged forth. He tried to buck, wrestling to escape, but hands held him down everywhere. Tears sprang into his eyes while the pressure mounted on his jaw.
Until the very moment he knew he could withstand no more.
Then, release. Leonor’s boot lifted. “Let’s head out, boys,” the Overlord directed his men. “I reckon we’ll not even need to tie him up. Grandhart is more pathetic than I thought.”
The Order men removed their hands. Clare half-wished they would resume punching him. Shame inflicted deeper wounds now. He seethed on the ground. When he struggled to right himself under the casino’s unflinching lights, his punished muscles would not cooperate.
Leonor laughed. “Told you.” He knelt down in front of Clare, looking him in the eye. “You should have joined the Order when you had the chance. But I suppose you’ll help us in the end. You’re to be our gift to Todrick,” he explained. Somber reverence grasped the man’s voice. “One final soul for the Sword of Souls, taken from one of the Four responsible for his death.”
Clare’s vision blurred. He fought to hold on to consciousness. His opponent’s words didn’t help. One final soul. It was perfect, really. He had to commend the Order for their flair for poetry.
Behind Leonor, the doors of a lift opened. People inside gasped when they saw Clare, and then the doors closed on their frightened faces.
No one was coming for Clare Grandhart.
Yet he would not give up. He thought of Galwell, who never ran out of strength. While the hands of the Order’s men hauled him up, his mind strayed to more of his heroes. To Elowen, who had faced so many fears in so few days. To Vandra, who was fighting for a better life despite her past. To Beatrice. Who despite every hurt they’d inflicted on each other had wanted to kiss him today.
He did not know whether he could ever be worthy of his fame. He just knew he needed to be worthy of his friends.
With every bit of vigor he could muster, he rose up. Headbutting backward, he connected with the nose of the man holding his arm. It worked marvelously. The man cried out in pain, releasing Clare. Freed, Clare limped toward the lifts.
He focused on the lift doors. The magic lanterns’ light illuminated the gold frame. The effect was ethereal. Salvation itself.
Right as he reached his destination, someone grabbed him and shoved him up against the closed doors, ready to smash his face in. “It’s over,” the Order man growled. “You’re done.”
Clare grinned. Surprise stopped his assailant’s fist. “You’ve forgotten one thing,” Clare said, feeling like Galwell about to storm the Order’s stronghold. “I’m Clare fucking Grandhart.”
His catchphrase didn’t need eloquence. Not when it had heart.
As the words left his mouth, he went limp. The lift doors opened, and he fell inside, exactly like he planned. His maneuver unsteadied the man enough for Clare to kick him off, sending him stumbling.
It left Clare sprawled on his back on the lift floor—which was when he realized the lift was not empty.
Over him stood Beatrice.
Understandably, she looked shocked. She’d changed her clothes, he noticed. Would she have caught his eye were she clad entirely in rough-spun cloth? Yes. Was the white blouse she wore belted into her leggings desperately distracting?
Definitely.
Their gazes met, both of them stunned silent for a heartbeat. The last time they’d locked eyes, she’d run from him, from the kiss she wished he had not witnessed. Perhaps, he intuited, enclosing herself in a small lift with him was not the refuge she’d intended.
However, he did not have the chance to wonder if she would leave him again. In the next instant, she was pulling her arm back to land a solid punch on Leonor, who was trying to climb into the lift.
The hammering strike pulverized the Overlord’s nose. He withdrew clumsily, crying out while blood poured down his face. While Beatrice urgently pressed the spelled runes on the wall, prompting the doors to slide shut, they could hear Leonor howl.
“Fall back!” he commanded his men in wretched frustration. “It’s only a matter of time!” he yelled at the closing doors, to them. “Tomorrow there’ll be no hiding from the Order!”
Beatrice tensed, her fighting stance ready, her eyes flashing. She was poetry in combat, Clare found himself observing. His favorite sorts of poetry were lyrics of hard-fought victories—and, in recent years, love songs. Watching her, he could not decide which one rang louder in his pounding head.
Her gaze rounded on him. No poetry echoed in her ears, he noted. Sharp evaluation swept over him.
“You’re hurt,” she commented.
“The Order is here,” he explained. “They jumped me.” He was grateful for the safety of the lift.
She knelt, wiping blood from his lip gently as she examined his face for injury. “I figured,” she murmured.
Beneath them, the lift rose. Carrying them up, into the sky. It filled Clare with an odd euphoria. “You kissed me,” he stated.
Her finger paused. Her eyes narrowed.
“Is now really the time?” she asked.
Yet hidden within her irritation, he heard—yes. She wanted to know how he felt on the subject. “We could find ourselves in this lift with Todrick himself and I would still consider the matter of you kissing me to be the most pressing issue on my mind,” he said.
She laughed a little at that. How he loved her laugh. It was like the glimpse one could catch of the crescent moon in daylight on summer evenings when the sun had not entirely set.
“You’re concussed,” she said, covering for how he’d charmed her.
When she reached up to turn his head to the side, continuing her examination, he grabbed her hand.
“I’m thinking more clearly than I have in ten years,” he replied.
If she wished to reject him now, she could. He would not, however, have her mistaking his devotion for a medical malady.
That silenced her. Swiftly, she stood, ending her inspection of him—rather prematurely, he felt. He knew no healer or heart magician who could relieve pain the way the charge in her eyes erased every hurt from his pummeled body. He felt new. He felt fucking fantastic.
Rising to his feet, he followed the wondrous feeling. He stepped toward her, pressing her against the railing in front of the transparent spelled wall of the lift. Past them, Vermillion Vale lay spread out under the sky. The lift ascended slowly, showing off the Vale’s panorama. The road of glittering inns and taverns lit up with iridescent colors in the setting daylight.
“The doors . . . are going to open.” She exhaled.
“I don’t care,” he said.
“Someone could come in.”
“I don’t care.”
She was intoxicatingly close. He could smell her, the scent he would never forget. Something sweetened with secrecy, flowers opening in moonlight. He could not help his hands finding her waist. She didn’t shy away or withdraw. Instead, she . . . wavered. Like she was warring with herself.
“You’re bleeding,” she remarked, valiant in her fight.
“I,” he repeated. “Don’t. Care.”
He ran his nose along the curve of her neck. Under him, he felt her shiver. And—
The lift doors opened. The knife of disappointment cut into Clare, deeply enough he nearly gasped. Instead, the sound came out half frustration, half something else. No part of the utterance, however, seemed to reach the reason for their interruption. Outside the lift stood a pair of gentlemen in elaborate formalwear, the sort under which even Clare’s handsome earnings would strain.
One held in his hand purple liquor. The other nodded his head exuberantly to music only he could hear. They were, Clare intuited, on their way to the inn’s rooftop revelry club.
Not on this lift, they weren’t.
“It’s occupied,” he shot over his shoulder, still hunched over Beatrice.
Their dauntless interlopers—damn them—weren’t deterred. In the corner of his vision, he even noticed one of them roll his eyes. The prospect of a canoodling couple didn’t bother them, Clare guessed, when such dalliances were common in the Vale.
Nevertheless—did the name of Sir Grandhart command no respect? And just how often would Vermillion Vale’s cast of unpredictables prevent him from kissing Beatrice?
He was preparing to round on the young nobles, ready to let them know exactly what he thought of their cravats, when Beatrice reached past him. With one purposeful finger, she stabbed the spelled rune to close the doors.
“Sorry, boys,” she said, her voice diamond hard. “You heard him.”
The lift doors closed on the gentlemen’s indignant frowns.
Clare’s heart raced. Hearing her like this, feeling her this way . . . He wondered if it was possible for these sensations to incinerate everything in him, leaving a creature of pure desire. Her eyes found his. The lift restarted its gradual climb higher. He leaned closer . . .
Yet no matter how fierce his need, no matter how many punches the Order’s men struck, one question clung in his head. No longer could he leave it unspoken. It had the power, he understood, to define his life.
“Why did you try to kiss me?” he asked.
In response or on instinct, she opened her legs, just enough for him to press his between hers, bringing their bodies close. He knew he was hard. Embarrassingly hard, under other circumstances.
Now? He didn’t care.
“I—I guess I wanted to. I . . . always want to,” she ventured.
He’d heard of the rush dragon riders felt racing for the sky. He suspected he knew the feeling. Combined with the closeness of her, it produced a humming growl in the back of his throat.
“Then why did you run?” he pressed.
His hand rose up her front, finding her breast. When he felt her fingers rise to his chest, he very nearly lost consciousness. If he was concussed, she was not helping. If he wasn’t—well, it did not matter. He felt like he was. Dizzy, uncomprehending, wrecked.
“When—” she started, then swallowed. “When I kissed . . . him, there was a moment where I wondered if you—he—you would laugh. Or worse, gallantly and gently reject me like the gentleman you’ve started pretending you are. When he kissed me back, I was . . . relieved.”
