Nevernight (The Nevernight Chronicle #1) - Jay Kristoff Page 0,143

who you are inside. They can give you a new face, but they can’t give you a new heart. No matter what they take from you, they can’t take that away unless you let them. That’s real strength, Tric. That’s real power.”

She squeezed his hands so hard her fingers ached.

“You hold it safe, you hear me? You picture yourself standing on that fucking bastard’s grave. Spitting on the earth that cradles him. You’ll have it, Tric. One turn, you’ll have your vengeance. I promise. Mother help me, I swear it.”

The boy stared at the hands that held his. “This is a dark road we walk, Mia.”

“Then we walk it together. I watch your back. You watch mine. And if I fall before the end, you get Scaeva for me. Make him scream. And I’ll swear the same for you.”

The boy looked at her. Those bottomless hazel eyes. That scrawl of hatred on his skin. Her heart was pounding. Fervor in her stare, palms sweating in his.

“Will it hurt?” he asked.

“… That depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether you want me to lie or not.”

Tric laughed, breaking the black spell that held the room still. Mia’s grin died as she looked into his eyes. She moved a little closer. Not close enough.

“Afterward,” she found herself saying. “If you don’t want to be alone…”

“… Is that wise?”

“After ninebells? Probably not.”

He drifted toward her. Tall and strong and O, so fine. Saltlocks tumbling about her cheeks as he leaned near.

“We probably shouldn’t, then.”

Her lips brushed against his as she whispered, “Probably not.”

They hovered there for a moment more, Mia’s belly tumbling, her skin prickling as he ran a gentle finger up her arm. Knowing exactly what he wanted. Wanting just the same. But it hung between them, the thought of the weaver’s twisting hands. Choking the moment dead. And so, he stood. Staring into the dark and breathing deep.

“My thanks, Pale Daughter,” he smiled.

“At your service, Don Tric.”

She watched him walk away, his absence leaving her aching. And when he was gone, she sat in the dark at the feet of a goddess, and her shadow began to whisper.

“… i think you had best visit the weaver after the boy…”

“And why’s that?”

“… your brain and ovaries seem to have switched places…”

“O, stop. I fear my sides will split.”

She retired to her room, burrowed amid the notes and formulae, lost again in the puzzle. One hand wove idle circles in the air, sending the shadows in the room writhing, Mister Kindly pouncing among them like a real cat chasing mice.

As the evemeal bells rang, she stayed with the riddle, mind drifting to Tric. Wondering how he was faring in the weaver’s room of masks. Emotions were rising among the acolytes; she could feel it. As the competition grew more intense, so too did every other feeling. She felt as if the world were growing louder, everything mattered more. She had no idea what the next turn might bring. She didn’t love him. Love was stupid. Foolish. It had no place in these walls or in her world, and she knew it.

But a part of her hoped she’d not find herself alone this eve …

Hours waiting there in the dark. Butterflies batting at her insides. Wondering if he was all right. What he might look like when that scrawl of hate was torn from his face. Who he might be in the end.

Waiting for the knock on the door. Hour after hour.

“… are you sure about this…?”

“I’m sure.”

“… i wonder if—”

“I know what I’m doing.”

But sleep arrived before the boy did.

Mia woke somewhere in the evernight’s dark, eyes fluttering open from a dreamless rest. How long had she slumbered? What time could it b—

There it came again. A gentle sound that woke her butterflies.

Knock, knock.

She rolled out of bed, throwing a silken robe over her slip. Heart pounding against her ribs. Cold stone beneath bare feet. She reached the door, hands unsteady as she twisted the key and opened it a crack. And there she saw him, just a silhouette in the dark, saltlocks framing the hidden contours of his face.

Lips dry, she stepped aside without a word. He looked up and down the hallway, hovering at the threshold. For him to be caught outside his room after ninebells would mean torture at the weaver’s hands. But he knew what would happen if he entered. They both knew. A breath that seemed to last forever, watching him through her lashes. And at last, quiet as her sigh, he stepped