Page 38 of To Dance with Death

“She won’t, because I will keep your secret for now. And I will instruct the Aegis to do the same.”

“The Aegis?”

“Oh, you know, those soulless, brainless spirits who enforce the rules of the realm.”

She thinks it over. “What if I wanted to appeal to Moranya directly?”

“There is no appealing to Moranya. You are not permitted to be in her presence, for one. And if she did find you, she wouldn’t listen to a word you said.”

Again she bites that plush bottom lip. Her top lip, he notices, is thinner. Heart-shaped, and rather pleasing at that.

“Fine then,” she says, stepping back. “We have an accord.”

“I expect you on the fourth-floor pavilion in two hours,” he says, unable to help a grin…“Wear something blue.”

Chapter Thirteen

I choose something red.

The pavilion is an airy expanse, open both at the front—with a full view of the city—and at the back, where the waterfall shines in spills of cerulean silk. It is a sight to behold, the outside air tinged with blue, the inside glowing with a pink-gold sheen.

I take a moment, dragging in a few deep breaths.

I was supposed to avoid him. I had meant to. But seeing him in the Abyssal was a shock. I was flustered, my heart a throbbing, bleeding mess; it had taken all my bravado to hide just how much being around him affected me. I’d barely conjured the excuse about finding Emilia in time, after seeing that a soul’s lodgings were in each codex.

But of course he wouldn’t believe that searching for her was my only reason for being in Morta’s Lair. He would assume Sadira had sent me, somehow, and so I had to play into that belief, too.

But dancing? That had come out of nowhere. I’d been desperate, needing to pique his curiosity not unlike how I had at the Gathering—enough so that he’d keep me around. Buy myself time.

Though I can’t deny a part of me hopes I might be able to spur his memory before then, too.

But I must still hide my mortality from the other souls, and that means using the same techniques as last night to blend in, treating my preparations as I did cosmetics in the realm of the living. With the four or so hours I have until evening, I gather a bundle of glowing bulbs, the ones that set my skin aglow, and crush them into something of a cream.

It’s quite the party by the time I enter. Before the cityscape, a long table is dressed with copious amounts of otherworldly delicacies and flush with rows of tall, ornate chairs. In the center of the pavilion is an enormous fountain, bubbling in a grand display. I pause, noticing the way the spray of water pearls into tiny droplets that hang in the air a second before drifting down. Another show of the strange gravity that exists here. It’s quite the scene, thanks to the thick, heady atmosphere of Morta’s Lair, as if the water is moving in slow motion.

Columns divvy up the rest of the space, interspersed with lounges—as if this palace doesn’t have enough of them—and serving stations stacked with flutes and decanters. Servants, all of whom must be from the lower echelons, wander to and fro, serving trays balanced on their shoulders. Then there are the musicians, arranged all along the balcony at the front. They play lyres, harps, and something that resembles a flute but is longer, its sound lower and more delicate. Souls congregate, some writhing against each other, laughing, while others crowd around tables to play games, laze about, and gossip, probably.

Then there’s Anton, who does not notice me, lying back on a luxurious settee.

Tonight he wears yet another dark silk robe and pants, little better than loungewear save for the two winged crescents on either shoulder that match the gold on his ears and neck. Ishu is nowhere to be seen; rather, two souls curl on the floor at Anton’s feet, neither of whom I recognize. Others recline around him on their own divans—each more heart-wrenchingly stunning than the last. Behind him, a woman with sleek dark hair and flawless golden-brownskin tousles his hair, while another plucks grapes and sets them on his tongue.

The very image of the man I once thought he was—the one he once pretended to be to hide his true nature. I wonder how long it will take him to realize how hollow the façade is.

No matter how much he wishes it, attention and adoration are no substitutes for love.

Perhaps it would be wise for me to be one of the women hanging off his arm or bent at his knees, but I refuse to beg for a morsel of his affection. Still, neither will I stand around and wait until he gives me the time of day. I stride his way, halt before his settee.

“I am here to fulfill our agreement, Sire.”

Gazing at the simple red dress, he lets his eyes linger where the fabric hugs my waist before running them along the thin veil of gossamer that swishes about my knees. Then he plucks his chalice from the side table and tilts it toward his lips.

Only after he indulges himself does he reply, his lips quirked into the slightest grin. “Go on, then. Do your little dance. While I’ve plenty of entertainers—of theimmortalkind—I admit I am curious to see how you might fare.”

He pulls a soul up onto his lap, his hand curved around her bared waist in a way that feels deliberate, like an insult. I resist grinding my molars.

He doesn’t deserve a response, so I pivot and approach the fountain. Spouts arc water in a grand display, but it is maybe ten inches deep at most.

One foot at a time, I step into it.