The War Priest (Ars Numina #5) - Ann Aguirre Page 0,9
strange and sideways, like a club to the back of his head.
Though she was pretty in a delicate, feline way, it was her voice that always sent him running in the other direction. From the first time he heard her sing, he’d known that the sirens of legend did indeed exist, and they must sound precisely like Jocelyn Bristow. He’d been tempted enough to find out about her, learn her name, and the denizens of Ash Valley had whispered stories, filled his ears with tales of her wildness, and he couldn’t allow that curiosity to flourish. Callum had to stamp it out with ruthless vigilance. Otherwise, curiosity might sink its roots in, growing into the deliciously poisonous flower of fascination. If he let it happen, he could find himself in that fearful place again, knowing only desire and obsession.
Aware he was staring at her, he snapped, “A pretty fable.” He beckoned Joss, speaking over his shoulder as he stomped off. “The rest of you, disperse. You’ll hear the songbird soon enough.” To her, he added, “Come along then!”
If they whispered about his loss of authority, they didn’t do so until he left earshot at least. His shoulders fell and once more, all he wanted was to return to the comforting routine of life at the monastery: oat porridge, devotions, manual labor, lighting candles, meditations, weekly spiritual debate. Once a month, the brothers hunted in their shifted forms for meat necessary to survive.
Nothing about his new life was routine or comforting, and he didn’t know how long he could keep his temper in check. To make matters worse, he knew people feared him. They needed wisdom, comfort, and reassurance, not the constant pressure of fearing that a single misstep might set him off like an imperfect homemade explosive device.
“Burnt Amber is incredible,” she said then.
Oddly, she appeared to mean it, gazing about with genuine interest. And it seemed as if his brooding silence made no impact on her either. They had passed several buildings without him telling her what anything was or where they were headed, yet she didn’t object to that, either.
What the hell is wrong with this woman?
“That’s the recreational facility,” he informed her. “Workout rooms, communal bathhouse with sauna and steam, an indoor running track, as in the winter, it’s almost impossible to move around outside.”
“I’ve heard that it gets so cold here that it’s hard to breathe.”
“True. That’s why we built the tunnels that connect all the buildings.” He pointed. “That one houses all the shops. Nothing too sophisticated, so don’t get your hopes up. There’s also a couple of restaurants. You can speak to the owner about performing in the larger space. I’m sure Nayan will welcome the boost to her business.” Grimly he continued the tour. “Unlike Ash Valley, we don’t have private bathing facilities. In the rooms, there’s a half bath and after what happened at the conclave…” He hesitated, aware that she might feel guilty about his next words. “We have plenty of room.”
So many good people died in Ash Valley. So senseless. Damn that bastard Talfayen. At first, when Callum initially heard the news, he blamed the cats too, but when he saw the devastation with his own eyes, he couldn’t hold onto that blame. The cats had suffered more than the rest of the Animari, though with the Gols trying to take down the defensive grid, Burnt Amber was up next.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
He cut her a sharp, surprised look. Normally, people couldn’t gauge his mood well at all, but she was locked onto his inner turmoil like it was written in a language only she could read. “For what?”
“Everyone and everything you lost.”
Callum cleared his throat, conscious of a terrible tickle when he tried to breathe. She was the first person who’d realized that he grieved for all of it—the loss of life, certainly, but the loss of his life in particular. Now he was the damned head of Burnt Amber whether he liked it or not, and most days, he assuredly did not.
“You don’t need to apologize. The cats didn’t take a damned thing from me,” he muttered.
“Just as well that I wasn’t apologizing per se, let alone speaking for my whole pride. I was expressing support. It’s been a while since you had any, I guess.”
That was entirely too personal—and accurate—an observation. Dammit, running away from her was the safe move. This woman was a heart-seeking missile, and simply by existing, she imperiled his poise. With bleak resolve,