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There were so many wants inside him that he doubted there was room for blood in his body.
Enrique shuddered. “Honestly. Who looks at a vase covered in bull testicles and says, ‘You. I must have you.’?” “The bored, the rich, and the enigmatic.” Enrique sighed. “All my life aspirations.”
All along the walls were small terrariums, landscapes squeezed into miniature form. Tristan made them almost obsessively. When she asked him once, he told her it was because he wished the world were easier. Small enough and manageable enough to fit in the hollow of one’s palm.
They stole histories, swallowed cultures whole, smuggled evidence of illustrious antiquity onto large ships and spirited them into indifferent lands.
She should have been more careful, but that was the problem with happiness. It blinds.
“You’re covered in blood.” Séverin glanced down at his clothes. “Surprisingly, it hasn’t escaped my attention.” “Are you dying?” “No more than usual or expected.” Zofia
“Can we be happy for Goliath from behind a sheet of glass and a net and a fence? Maybe a ring of fire for good measure?”
Though the room was nearly dark, whatever light clung to its corners now raced to illuminate Laila. It seemed the world couldn’t help but want to be near her … every beam of light, pair of eyes, atom of air. Maybe that’s why sometimes he couldn’t breathe around her.
“Wait. I was bait?” demanded Enrique. “You’re flattered.” Maybe a little.
Finally, Tristan placed his hand over Séverin’s, stacking their scars before saying: “I protect you.”
He wished he didn’t know what he had lost. Maybe then every day wouldn’t feel like this. As if he had once known how to fly, but the skies had shaken him loose and left him with nothing but the memory of wings.
said Enrique, feeling his academic tone creeping into his voice. He had a bizarre urge to sit in a leather chair and acquire a fluffy cat. And a pipe.
“Tristan, my love,” said Laila with dangerous calm. “If you get in the way of a woman’s battle, you’ll get in the way of her sword.”
“When you are who they expect you to be, they never look too closely. If you’re furious, let it be fuel,”
Enrique let out a whistle. “First, the walking stick. Then the acid. Now this. Not to mention what you do with numbers. I like how you think, Zofia.” Zofia paused, the pin still in her hand. No one had ever said that to her before.
“Half of winning, my dear wallet, is simply looking victorious.”
“Am I pretty?” asked Enrique, plucking at his fake beard and patting his hands over his jowls, wrinkles, and age spots. “Be honest.” “‘Pretty’ is a stretch. Let’s call you ‘striking.’ Or ‘impossible to look away from.’” “Oooh. Like the sun?” “I was thinking more along the lines of a train wreck.”
And though they were not all his tales, he saw himself in them: pushed to the corners of the dark. He was just like them. As solid as smoke and just as powerless.
Laila could picture his eyes perfectly, even though she couldn’t see them. His dusk-colored gaze darkening, fixed on her. Laila knew she should look at the other audience members, but she couldn’t look anywhere but at him, and she didn’t want him looking at anyone but her.
Séverin did not look like himself. He looked out of breath. Wild-eyed. Frustrated. Laila was supposed to give him the key. Had something gone wrong? Panic struck Zofia. “Is Laila harmed?” At her name, spots of color appeared on Séverin’s face. “Your face is red.” Séverin cleared his throat. “I was walking fast. And no, Laila looks fine. I mean, she is fine. Never mind. I’m fine. Everything is—” “Fine?” “Yes,” said Séverin.
The farthest thing from his mind was her mouth on his, but when she said it, he couldn’t help but look at her lips. They were red as candy. Abruptly, Enrique pinched the bridge of his nose. He must have hit his head because the strangest thoughts kept darting through it.
“Oh no, shiny things,” moaned Hypnos, clapping his hands to his heart. “My weakness.”
And then Laila … streaked with what looked like ash. Laila in that same dancing costume he hadn’t been able to shake from his thoughts ever since she’d thrown him the key. Hypnos waved hello, and then he leaned down to whisper in Séverin’s ear, “You’re staring.” Séverin looked abruptly away.
“It’s a tiny burn, Majnun,” she’d said, laughing off his panic. “I know,” he’d said. But I cannot stand to see you hurt.
“What’s going on here”—said Hypnos, his voice rising as a bizarre grin spread across his face, —“is that you care for me. We’re all friends. We’re friends going to save another friend! This is … this is amazing.” Laila wanted to hug him.
“We also know that Roux-Joubert wears a honeybee pin,” said Enrique. “So? Today I’m wearing underwear. It’s hardly monumental.” Zofia frowned. “Why did you specify today—”
“I can’t get the rickshaw driver’s attention!” she called. The footsteps were gaining on them. Zofia had an idea. From her sleeves, she pulled out the matches, struck one against her teeth, and set it to the outer sheath of her dress before jumping in the middle of the road. She tore off the first, burning layer, which now flared into a long column of fire. The rickshaw driver braked hard. “I got his attention,” announced Zofia, stomping the fire out with her foot. The rest of her dress, made of Forged flame-retardant silk, gleamed, completely unsullied. Laila’s mouth fell open, but then it
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“See?” said. “What did I tell you earlier?” Zofia gripped the edge of her seat. “That some people consider disrobing an art?” “No, not that!” said Laila, as the driver blushed. “I said that beauty was its own armor.” Zofia considered this. “I still don’t like dresses.” Laila merely smiled.
He groaned aloud. “It makes no sense.” Hypnos, seated on the black-cherry chair beneath him, raised his nearly emptied wineglass. His third such glass, if memory served Enrique. “Try wine.” “I doubt that will help.” “True, but at least you won’t remember.”
“The truth is I need someone on my side,” said Hypnos. He wrapped his arms around his knees. “Someone who might understand what it means to live in two worlds as I do. I have tried and I have failed. I cannot be both the descendant of Haitian slaves and the son of a French aristocrat, even if that is what I hold in my heart. I had to choose, and perhaps the Order forced my hand in this. But what no one tells you is that even when you decide which world you will live in, the world may not always see you as you would wish. Sometimes it demands that you be so outrageous as to transcend your very
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He was reminded of it now, staring at Hypnos … and he was far too distracted to realize the other boy had noticed. Hypnos swiped his thumb across his lips. “Do I have something on my mouth?” “No, not at all,” said Enrique, turning quickly. Hypnos muttered something that almost sounded like: That’s a pity.
Zofia ignored them. She had no interest in listening to two boys compare their sticks.
Laila glanced up, focusing on Séverin. Even now, even bruised, he looked like a king. His gaze stern. Unflinching.
Kisses were not supposed to be like this. Kisses were to be witnessed by stars, not held in the presence of stale death. But as the bones rose around them, Laila saw fractals of white. They looked like pale constellations, and she thought that, perhaps, for a kiss like this, even hell would put forth stars.
Enrique had always imagined what it would feel like to be a hero. This was not how he imagined it. He thought that, at least, he would have a flaming sword. Instead of a stick. That emitted light. But as he whirled onto the members of the Fallen House surrounding them, at least he could rely on one thing: Heroes always made do.
“I think everyone could use a distraction from last week,” said Hypnos. “You especially.” Enrique looked up, startled at how close the other boy stood. He had only just noticed. Around them, the lights of the hall had dimmed. The only illumination came from the gilded baroque patterns along the wall. Hypnos smelled of neroli and jasmine, the scent more concentrated at the base of his throat—Enrique could see a slick swipe where the other boy must have applied the pomade. “Perhaps you’re in need of convincing?” “Unless you have a treasure trove of jewels and undiscovered Forged instruments, I
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Heat zipped up his spine. She wanted it to seem like he was hers. “Jealousy looks good on you, Laila,” he said, smiling. Laila scoffed, but her grip on his chair tightened a fraction. “I’ve got a reputation to protect. So do you. It’ll draw too much attention. So laugh.” “Make it worth my while.”
