Acton was as subtle as a flipped bird and a blaring horn, a swearword in church. But he was a performer, too, and he could hold a secret close as a candle about to be blown out, and spot one held in kind –
And this time he did not miss the glance that Raum leveled on the Solterran girl, with gold on her hide and blue in her eyes and his scar on her face. He was not sure he liked what he saw. And he was just a little relieved (maybe something else, too, something like worry that wormed through his stomach like a bad drink) as he and Raum left that place of waiting, that place of prayers and curses.
He did not remember watching night fall, but Raum was right: aside from the gods, they were the true danger on this hallowed peak. Maybe it was time Acton remembered that, and stopped drowning himself in drink and slurring his barbed words.
At Raum’s warning he only shook his head, the dark fall of his hair hot across his neck. The Crows knew they were well past such kinds of caution.
It is the click of the Ghost’s teeth that draw his attention again, and his ears drew back even as his head lifted, his gaze burning into blue. Acton’s first impulse (always his first impulse) was to lash out, with words or with teeth, to punish Raum for his flippant dismissal –
But for once he did not. For once he listened, and considered, and let his own black guilt mix with the sour truth of the other man’s words. Seraphina’s words still echoed in his mind, kicked around like a sharp-edged can long empty, but maybe she was wrong. Maybe they hadn’t been doing the abandoning at all – not when Reichenbach had failed in his first responsibility, to his Crows and his Court.
“You were right to be worried of his reckless heart,” he said at last, and his voice was more black than the night that wound around them. “We just had the wrong lover at first. I never thought –”
He cut himself off, clicking his teeth neatly shut. What he never thought had plainly come true and he was sick to death of licking his wounds.
Those blue eyes flashed like the edge of a knife, like midwinter ice, in the dim of the summit. The air was cool and almost sweet with oak and pine and moss, as if they never had smelled of flowers and Dawn. Acton let himself smile at Raum’s words, and the grin felt familiar as a worn jacket.
“Then it’s a lucky thing it has such a hard time finding us,” he said, and unlike his brother he does not hide his grin. He had always worn it for the world to see; what use was there in hiding a thing?
“When do you return? The Night Market has doubtless been quiet too long.”
MOUTH IS MADE OF METAL
POCKET FULL OF YELLOW
@Raum
