When he tried to speak, his roughened voice dropped an octave. He coughed into his fist, then finally managed: “I see.”
She expected him to make some comment about her sexual past, something along the lines of “How many men have you been rutting with? Did they all make you erupt with pleasure?” But he didn’t, so she asked, “What about flyovers?”
“Huh? Oh. It’s bad etiquette to fly over another’s home.”
“I’ve heard that all the buildings look the same and all the walls are white, with no color to be seen.”
“They are uniform.”
“And there’s not a drop of wine in your realm? No gambling or carousing?”
“Correct.” He was describing a floating, whitewashed, sterilized, stifled, mirthless hell.
She was surprised he’d acknowledged these things about his home, even as he knew how much she would dislike it. “What would you expect me to do all day?”
“Perhaps selfless acts, helping others. Or even studious contemplation.” He seemed to have found his footing again. “You could read about our culture, studying Vrekener history.”
She’d used to enjoy reading about history, but only if it wasn’t lame.
“Would those pursuits be so bad?”
Yes, yes, a thousand times yes. Which begged the question: How exactly did he plan to get her to stay there? Once her power was replenished, no one could hold her.
She skated away from that subject. “Thronos, if there’s a splinter group up there with its own agenda, then what’s to prevent someone”—your brother—“from attacking me now?” She expected him to deny, to bluster.
Instead, he said, “If someone disobeyed my order and tried to hurt you, or your sister, he will pay.”
“Anyone? Absolutely anyone?”
Curt nod. “I give you my vow,” he said, having no idea of the bind he’d just gotten himself into.
And this was why Lanthe rarely kept her promises. “You’re starting to believe me?”
“I’ve learned your tells. I know when you speak untruthfully.”
Her eyes darted. That could prove disastrous! Damn it, what were her tells?
If he noticed her distress, he let it go. “There’s water ahead. But I also scent resin pits.” Seconds later, he pointed out a shallow depression filled with some kind of amber-colored gel. “Resin will trap you like an immortal-strength tar. Step where I step.”
In a pit farther ahead was a dead animal, an unidentifiable reptilian beast that had gotten its legs caught. Predators had eaten its guts.
Lanthe shivered. What if an immortal like her got trapped? Those predators would chomp on her, but she might live through the ordeal—only to regenerate for subsequent feedings.
Potentially for eternity.
Being an immortal had its downsides.
“I’ve been pondering something,” Thronos said. “How did Rydstrom forgive Sabine?”
Ah, so the Vrekener was moving his mind toward a pardon for Lanthe? With his new tenuous trust of her, he was starting to look for more between them. He probably figured he could shed some of his anger if he absolved her.
One problem: Lanthe didn’t see her sexual history as something that needed absolution.
Especially not from him.
Did she wish Thronos hadn’t found her with Marco? Sure. Did she want Thronos’s forgiveness for sleeping with that vampire?
Hell. No. “Why do you ask?”