that from her features. ‘Away.’
‘Where?’
‘Somewhere else, Lorekeeper. It is not important.’
‘Why, then?’
‘That is even less important.’ She eyed the boy curiously for a moment, something dancing behind her alien eyes. ‘You . . . were victorious in Irontide?’
‘Roughly,’ he replied. ‘It was difficult. There were demons, some kind of . . . sacs, I don’t know.’
‘Even fiends have mothers, Lorekeeper, and they are all birthed from the wretched womb of Ulbecetonth.’
‘Those things,’ Dreadaeleon said, cringing, ‘were eggs?’
‘They were nothing meant for this world. What is important is that they are destroyed.’ She leaned in to him, regarding him through a wary expression. ‘You did destroy them?’
‘Not personally, no. There was a longface there. He burned them with fire.’ The boy scratched his chin. ‘Fire that wouldn’t go out . . .’ He scratched a little harder. ‘He was defying the laws, he cheated.’ His teeth clenched unconsciously as he scratched harder at his hairless chin. ‘He ... he almost . . .’
‘Lorekeeper . . .’
He felt his blood on his hands the moment she spoke. Muttering a curse, he wiped his chin off on the lapel of his coat, hiding it from the siren’s curious gaze. A futile gesture, for her eyes seemed to focus on something past the dirty fabric, past his skin and bone.
‘You are . . . not well,’ she observed.
‘I’m fine,’ he replied coldly. ‘It’s just . . .’ He sighed, looking at his hands, so scrawny, so feeble. ‘I should have been the one.’
‘To kill the Abysmyths?’
‘To kill the Abysmyths, the frogmen, the longfaces, to find the tome, to kill the Deepshriek, to . . .’ To save Asper, he added mentally, but all I did was piss myself and fall down, like an old man, with barely any blood on my hands.
‘So long as they are dead, what does it matter?’
Because what’s the point of having the power if I can’t use it? Because why is it fair that I can be beaten by brute force and superstitious myth? Because why can’t I be the one to turn the tide, to get the treasure and win the woman?
‘Because,’ he whispered, ‘there are laws.’
He continued to stare at his hands as the pale, webbed fingers slid around his own, closing tightly over them. Quietly, his stare was drawn up and into her fathomless eyes, her gentle, thin-lipped smile.
‘Laws are not important,’ Greenhair whispered, her voice but a ripple on the water.
He could feel his breath catch in his throat as he stared into her eyes, his hands go so weak and malleable under hers as she pushed them aside. He could feel his legs cross awkwardly over each other in a vain attempt at concealing as she drew herself closer to him, feeling the chill of her body through the garment wrapping her.
Oh Gods, he muttered inside his own mind, quick, say something clever.
‘So . . . what is important?’ he squeaked.
Moron!
‘What is here. What is now,’ she replied, low and breathless. ‘What has occurred is but one wave, come and gone. What is now is you.’
She raised a hand to her shoulder and, with digits working slowly, let her silk-like garment fall from her body.
‘And me.’
His eyes went wide, wide enough to leap out of his skull, yet nowhere near wide enough to take all of her in. He could only steal glimpses: gentle curves like the bend of a river, skin that shimmered between pristine ivory and pale azure as the light glimmered off her body, and rivers of hair that flowed down her body.
‘Uh . . . should I ...’
Dreadaeleon was silenced with a sudden chill as she pressed her mouth to his. His eyes threatened to melt as hers closed. Thoughts slid through his mind as easily as her tongue slid past his lips.
Oh Gods, oh Gods, oh Gods, he babbled inwardly, if there were Gods, that is. This is it! This is it! This is what it feels like! This is what it tastes like. He blinked, his tongue shyly brushing against hers. Salt? That makes sense, I guess. She’s a siren. Does the rest of her taste like—
Something stiffened beneath him and he swallowed hard.
Keep it together, old man, he chided himself mentally. Here and now, like she said, focus on the here and now. One moment ... what does that even mean? Am I . . . am I supposed to lick something? I think I’m supposed to lick something. I should lick something . . . but