Page 28 of The Avowed
I breathe through a wave of nausea that rolls through me, internally chanting the mantra
you will not fucking puke, Falon.Pigeon flashes me an image of Sice doing the “Single Ladies” dance, and I snort-laugh.
“Shit, I did teach them that, didn’t I?”I ask, trying to recall the fuzzy details.“Damn, Sice owned it though! That dude has rhythm.”
Pigeon chuff-purrs her amusement, sending me other flashes of the dumb shit the three of us did last night. She finds particular enjoyment in the time I almost peed myself from laughing, all because Dri fell out of her chair. One minute she was sitting there, and the next, she’s on the floor. At the time, it was the funniest fucking thing ever.
I groan again as I try to sit up, and my head revolts.
“Nope. That’s going to be a hard pass,”I announce.“Today is going to be a lay around kind of day.”
I move to flop back down when a new basket on the tree trunk table draws my attention. I didn’t hear anyone knock, let alone come in, this morning. I’m not sure what to think about the fact that someone was in here when I was dead to the world and unaware. My need to find out what’s in the basket trumps my headache, and I roll myself off the bed like the lazy slug that I currently am. I caterpillar crawl my way over there, dismissing the flickers of judgment Pigeon sends my way as I do.
I pull the lid off the basket and then stare for a minute as I process the folded pile of leather in front of me. I reach in and pull out the buttery soft item at the top, and it unfolds to reveal a pair of pants. I study the front and then the back, and then pull them to my chest for a hug. Treno gifted me with a huge stack of...pants. I squeal and then put my palm to my head, because that was a really bad idea in my current state.
I pull all of the pants out of the basket so I can inspect them, and I’m surprised to see something similar to the bras that I had Tysa make for me. I’m confused for a moment about how Treno knew to have these made, but I’m distracted by what’s on the bottom of the basket. A fawn leather bound book sits like a dirty little secret under the best gifts I’ve ever been given, and I snatch it out and immediately open it.
Noor Soleiis written as clear as day, and I run my fingers over the name reverently. I doubted that there was a connection between me and this familiar named stranger before, but as I stare down at the writing in the book, I know I’m connected to it. It’s too familiar not to be my mother’s. I try to talk myself down and not get my hopes up just in case I’m wrong. But excitement and wonder surges through me anyway.
I look around my room, aware that I’m not supposed to have this, and hug it protectively as I make my way back to the bed. I can just picture the outraged face Purt would have if he were to see me right now with one of the precious archive books. It makes this all the better. I wrap the soft cool sheets around me and stare at what I hope are answers now sitting in my palms.
I hesitate to open it, suddenly feeling the weight of expectation sitting firmly in my grasp. These writings could say anything, and I’m not quite sure if I’m ready to find out that my parents were mass murderers or any of the other number of possibilities that could be floating inside these pages. Or worse, what if my hopes and nerves are all for nothing because Noor Solei was a lovely woman with no relation to me whatsoever?
I wonder briefly how this book is even here at all, especially since Purt was just telling me that it had gone missing. Was he fucking with me? Or was it just returned, and the powers that be approved my seeing it? That may be the easiest answer, but for whatever reason, I don’t think it’s the correct one.
If I have permission to see this book, why was it wrapped in makeshift bras and hidden under the pile of pants? No, I’d bet that my first instincts are right on, and I’m not supposed to have this. If that’s the case, then it means Treno must have either had this book or had it found. Both possibilities open up a floodgate of questions that unfortunately he’s not here to answer. It will have to wait until he’s back and I can grill him.
I stroke the light brown cover again and take a deep breath. How it got here needs to be worried about later; the fact that it’s here needs to be dealt with now. Pigeon gets all cozy inside of me, like she’s ready for story time. I reach out to her for comfort, and she beak bumps me in my mind. I open the book, read the name Noor Solei one more time, and dive in.
It’s odd to see my parents after all this time. They arrive, expecting the same wide-eyed and compliant little girl that they dropped off all those years ago, but I am not her anymore. This place has achieved what my parents hoped it would. I am not only worthy in blood, but now worthy in my manner and effect. I have been molded to be the best of this year’s Offerings, to take my place in society, a society where we are bound and have nothing. Not even our actions are our own.
This was the way for my mother, my mother’s mother, and so on as far as can be remembered. But I find no comfort in knowing that. Today, I will write my truths in the book my parents gifted me. Tomorrow, I will be paraded in front of the Winged and Marked alike.
I’ll be expected to ignore the desires of my other half and instead make an alliance. One that will keep the blood of my line strong, and more often than not, keep a mate under their boot. It is not our voices or our minds that matter, but what else can be expected when there is no call and no answer? Without those two, there is no truth, and everything that I am and everything that’s expected of me is a lie.
Iread the passage again and swallow back the despair and sense of duty that it conjures in me. There’s a hopelessness in the words. I’m surprised that even in her most private thoughts, there’s no hint of fight, just a resigned acceptance that this sucks and there’s nothing she will do about it. I turn the page.
Tonight did not go as expected. This year’s Offerings filled the room, each of us primped and styled in the most fashionable and desirable of ways. I was lucky that my parents provided me a gown. Some of the other Offerings were only given jewelry, and some not even that. I know what we were trained to do, but to be expected to stand featherless and nude, on a night like this, has a level of desperation to it that I’m surprised to find in this class of people.
I did my best to make all the expected connections. I moved in a desirable way, hinted at what I was capable of. Flashed the power of a partial shift here and there. It was all going as planned. The brightest of the Winged had their eyes on me, and I knew I would secure a good pairing and make my line proud.
Then he walked in.
His presence ate up the shadows. His power moved through the room like the threat it was. He wasn’t expected, and no one still knows why he was there. Some of the Ouphe of old would claim our kind. Not usually in public and not usually as a mate, but the inevitable offspring were bestowed with power all the same. That power became a commodity. Those of us who fit in the in-between, not quite Ouphe, not quite Gryphon, learned to use the power and our gifts to our advantage. We were once outcasts among both races, but now we were sought after.
He could be here looking for a plaything or as a favor to some other guest wanting to show off their connection. Either way, I expected nothing to come of it for me. There are some Offerings who seek out a pleasure match as opposed to lineage match; I am not one of them. I kept my head down and focused on what I was there to do.
And then bright green eyes met mine, and all that I knew, all that was expected of me, was simply gone.
Goose bumps prickle my arms, and I quickly turn the page to find out what happened next.
She sings for him.
No matter how I try to silence it, ignore it, and do as I was always told to do, she still sings for him. Her first note sent me running away. My parents were livid, certain that such a rash move had ruined everything for me...for them. I wanted to tell them what happened, but a stranger wore my mother’s eyes, and I couldn’t speak the truth.
How could I sing for an Ouphe?
Yes, my Sire was pureblood and my mother his favorite toy, but how can someone like me sing for a pureblood? I didn’t even know that was possible. I’ve never even heard whisperings. I was always taught that a gryphon could only call to another gryphon, and yet mine calls to him. I don’t know what to do. If I answer the call, I could be following my mother’s path. I would not be a disgrace to her or my Sire, given who the alliance would be with, but it’s everything I vowed to never become. If I implement the techniques that I’ve been taught and dismiss the call, I can have what I’ve been allowed to want for my life.
