THEY STOOD UP STRAIGHT AND PURE ON THE STALK, GRIPPING THE DARK LIKE PROPHETS
AND HOWLING COLOSSAL INTIMACIES
FROM THE BACK OF THEIR FUSED THROATS
AND HOWLING COLOSSAL INTIMACIES
FROM THE BACK OF THEIR FUSED THROATS
❀
Overhead, the breeze in the trees sings a sweet, cool song. It blesses the burning-hot gold of Bexley’ skin and cools her just slightly enough that she does not boil. No matter the danger around them — and oh, there is danger, humming through the ground dark and easy as a heartbeat — there is something to be said for the island’s beauty, its almost-silence, its unexpected lacquer of peace. The way promise rings through it like a bell. Even with teeth sharp as knives it knows how to smile pretty.
Like her.
And like August, it’s obvious. Bexley is still looking hard at the tattoo burnt into his skin, and after a few long moments her brows raise and she blinks in some combination of realization and surprise. The Black Scarab. In the stories it’d always seemed like the kind of place Bexley would have gotten along well in — dark and secret, filled with terrible opportunity. She’s heard of its hallowed halls, the floors filled with lush carpets, she’s heard of the girl with the knives in her hair, but not of this man. Not of his white-blonde hair or the way he looks at her like a piece of art. And so she has to wonder — what does he do?
Is he the bleak messenger, sharp and fearful? Does he kill those patrons with the nerve to cheat at cards? Perhaps he is someone with less sway, merely the boy who stamps the envelopes before they’re sent out. Oh, it doesn’t matter. She’ll take him any way.
They are too close now to ignore the way the air is hot between them, the way Bexley’s skin is melting into sloughs of pure gold, or how intently her eyes are fixed on the silver of August’s. Ah, they are so similar and yet so far removed. “Getting to pick which part you compliment seems like a cop-out on your part.” The world is now and briefly still; with hooded eyes she notes the boy’s white lashes and the fact that they are nearly perfectly matched in height. Her gaze moves to the sparrow behind August’s head, how it watches them in shades of red. Like an omen. Like a promise.
Then she meets his gaze again, bright blue-and-gray, and her nostrils flare when she breaks into an arid smile. “Bexley,” she offers, and for the first time in weeks, admitting it is not difficult. The ex-regent cocks a back hoof and leans her weight onto it with an air of perfect casualty. “But you knew that, hmm, smart boy —“ and it might have been acrid on anyone else, but her tone is light and her pale lips turned into a smirk, and the dryness of her voice lends itself well to that kind of flattery that sometimes does not sound like flattery at all. “Why’re you here, then?”
Bexley is not sure what answer she is looking for. The relic is too obvious, “adventure” too cliche. What’s left? Love? Fame?
More likely a distraction, just like she is.
