Page 21 of Dead Heat
We traversed the winding hallways, eventually finding ourselves outside of Malachi’s room once more. Cirian unlocked the door by pressing his palm against the ward, a deep blue light flashing just before the door swung open.
“Rest well, friend. We’ll come get you at first light.”
“First light,” Malachi repeated, his gaze distant as he stared into the darkness of his chambers.
“Is something wrong?” I asked him.
“We should go see Her Eminence,” Malachi responded, his gaze rising to meet mine. “I must speak with her.”
“In the morning,” Cirian said firmly, wrapping an arm over the man’s shoulder and guiding him inside. “First light. You have my word.”
Malachi took two steps into the room, his back to us as he began to hum once again, his voice filling the sparse space.
Cirian closed the door, muttering a few words as the shimmer of the ward rebuilt itself over the wood.
“Something odd is afoot,” he said after his incantation.
“Your deductive reasoning is impressive.”
Cirian snorted a laugh.
“Can he get out of there?” I asked.
“Oh, so now you support holding someone for their own safety?”
“Shove right off.”
We shared a laugh that reverberated around us in the stone hall.
“You look tired, Bast. Come. Let’s find you a place to rest.”
The idea of separating myself from Cirian under the roof of the Church caused my pulse to spike. Before I could question my own resolve, I blurted, “Would it not make more sense to stay in your chambers tonight?”
Cirian paused, his dark eyes holding me in a breathless panic.
Why did I say that?
“If that is what you wish,” Cirian replied slowly, as if he couldn’t believe his own words.
“It makes the most sense, I mean,” I quickly defended the idea. “We’ll have to meet with Sancha at first light, as you said. If I stay with you, I won’t have to worry about oversleeping or getting lost in these endless halls.”
The ghost of a smile traces Cirian’s lips. “Right. It only makes sense. Good thinking, Bast.”
I wanted to kick myself. Instead, I followed the man down the hall, silently cursing my own tongue with every step.
Cirian’s quarters had me questioning everything I knew of the man. I’d often thought someone’s living space to be a reflection of their innermost self. Back in Paradise, the flat I’d been furnished with was kept tidy, besides the piles of books that I had amassed from the libraries of the Reviled. Stylish furnishings had never been at the forefront of my mind, so what little I had accumulated in the months I’d resided there equaled all of two leather chairs—one in which I would take my meals—and a single bed that had been left behind by the previous occupant.
It was sparse, but functional. And it met my needs suitably.
If I had been asked to imagine the dwelling that Cirian resided in, I would have conjured images of an interior as pompous and flashy as he represented himself. Something along the lines of the lavish parsonage that we’d experienced in the Hallowed’s Sanctuary City. Opulence for the sake of setting oneself above the rest. He was the Acolyte, after all. In line to inherit the privilege of a Cardinal, and all the boons therein.
I would have dreamed up all of the luxurious things I could muster. And I would have been sorely mistaken.
“Here we are,” Cirian announced, opening the large wooden door after dispelling the ward set into it. He reached over on the wall and flipped a switch, a row of crystals above illuminating the space in a warm amber light.
The room was smaller than I expected, not much larger than my own modest dwelling in Paradise. The first thing I noticed was the floors—rustic wooden planks glossed with a smooth finish—which made the space feel warmer than anything I’d yet to encounter at the Cradle. Tucked in the corner of the room was a sitting area with a plush tufted sofa and a small fireplace that appeared well-used. Pillows piled on one side of the sofa, as if someone had been propping themselves up on one end. Sure enough, a book lay open on the small side table, just within reach. Across from the sitting area, a large bed took up most of the remaining space, a heavy crimson duvet tucked neatly at the corners, and silk pillows sat neatly arranged atop it. The frame looked sturdy, carved from wood a similar shade to the floor, and a beautiful, ornate rug sprawled from underneath the bed.
It was… cozy. Comforting. Even the air lacked some of the chill of the Cradle’s stone hallways, though the walls were still carved from the same grey rock.
