Send Me Their Souls (Bring Me Their Hearts #3) - Sara Wolf Page 0,138
fuck it up, Heartless, because I’ve got a promotion waiting for me when I get back.”
“Got it!” I salute. Lucien chuckles and follows suit.
“This isn’t some little promotion game, Lys.” Malachite frowns. I see Lysulli smile for the first time at him, all acid sweetness.
“If you want my battalions, then it is now.” They sweep past him, bashing into his shoulder on the way.
“History?” Lucien asks, trying to sound as disinterested as possible.
“A bit,” Malachite grunts. “Let’s just get this over with.”
“And miss all the drama and fun?” I pout. “Nonsense. Who are they? How do you two know each other? Why are they so pretty? What’s their haircare routine like?”
Malachite does his godsdamndest to ignore every question I chirp as we follow Lysulli under the massive stone gate with all its embedded weaponry. Lysulli motions at the massive copper matronic waiting for Yorl a little farther in, and he strokes its armor affectionately before pressing some unseen button. A mortal-sized compartment hisses open on its back, and Yorl jumps in it, the sounds of levers being pulled echoing. Finally, he jumps back out and catches up to us. There’s a split second before I ask him why he isn’t taking the matronic with him when thumping footsteps resound, nearly scaring me into dropping my waterskin.
Yorl grins at me. “It’ll follow.”
“G-Good,” I gasp. “Great.”
The cavern ceiling of Pala Amna narrows down to a series of smaller caverns still lit by brightmoss and evened out on the bottoms by smooth stone roads. The matronic’s hissing and thumping is the only real noise once the bustle of the city fades. Stone signs carved with beneather runes dot the landscape here and there. There isn’t much wildlife to be seen, just the occasional skitter of bugs, which Malachite doesn’t seem to mind nearly as much as the big one we killed. But then Lysulli dislodges a brood of ghostbats from a stalactite and I shriek. Lucien draws his sword, Fione’s crossbow unfurls in a second, and Yorl hunkers down, ready to strike with his bladed foot gauntlets. Nothing. Nothing but my voice ringing around our heads. It echoes ceaselessly in the caves, folded in on itself and fading even slower than the bioluminescent trail the ghostbats leave behind in the air. The party looks at me, some more pointed than others, and most wincing as my shriek comes back around again on the stone.
“Oops.” I smile sheepishly.
“Pair of lungs on that one,” Lysulli admires begrudgingly.
“And here I was,” Yorl murmurs, “thinking your voice couldn’t get any worse.”
“Wait till she sees some fool dress,” Malachite scoffs. “Then you’ll know real eardrum pain.”
“Ahem!” I draw myself up to my full height. “I’m no master socialite, but maybe consider shit-talking me when I’m gone, hmm?”
“Never.” Lucien’s low voice is in my ear. It’s supposed to be comforting, but I turn to look at him and his gaze is heavier than comfort warrants, probably because I used the words “me” and ”gone” in the same sentence. I can’t help but remember the suspicious look he gave Fione and me before we left her to talk to the ancestor council.
He knows? No. He can’t. I’ve been careful—singing the song-poem in my head every time we touch. He suspects, but he doesn’t know.
He doesn’t know I’ll never really be gone.
“Luc won’t shit-talk you.” Malachite hefts his pack higher. “But I will. Because I have the good sense to.”
“Is that what you’re calling your inborn urge to make fun of people you find attractive?” Lysulli’s voice resounds. “I thought ten years would mature you, not keep you exactly the same.”
From what I’ve seen thus far, beneathers don’t really blush, but that doesn’t stop Malachite’s pink cheeks from trying not to. The color gathers around the three scars I gave him, now almost entirely healed, the long, puckered marks starker white against the flush. And it reminds me.
“I gave him those scars.” I point at them and smile at Lysulli. “So if Malachite wants to make fun of me, he can make fun of me. You know?”
Lysulli looks between the beneather and me, then turns away with a disbelieving scoff that sounds suspiciously like “upworlders.”
When they’ve gone ahead, Malachite breathes out a single word in my direction. “Dolt.”
I trot over to his side, blinking innocently. “You called?”
“I think he means to say ‘thank you,’” Lucien offers.
I act shocked. “What is this ‘thank you’ you speak of? And why have I never heard it in beneather?”