Page 36 of The Girl Who Should Be Dead

Leaving her immediately with the odd emptiness, the lack that still hadn’t left her from Johnsin’s death.

Which is patently bullshit, it’s good that Johnsin is dead.

But if the lack gets worse each time one of them dies, then…

It’s an odd, shifting fear inside of her, before she squashes it down and pokes at the salad.

Her freedom is far worth whatever loneliness she might feel from the end of the control. Any bonds could be recreated. Theoretically.

Maybe.

Who knows if she even can, if one of the central parts to being a demon had been taken away from her.

They say that’s the only true way to happiness as a demon. That you can find contentment, find peace, but only happiness through a true bond.

The idea that they might’ve warped that in her, might’ve taken that away too, burns in her stomach.

With probably more viciousness than needed, she stabs the fork into the salad and shoves some into her mouth.

It’s…fine. Not anything that inspires her, not anything that disgusts her, but after the line and everything, it’s a letdown.

And the body had liked these to the point of seeking them out whenever possible.

A few people stride by, drifting to a nearby table, and Ambra watches them from behind the glasses, but they pay her no attention.

“Is the food at least good?” Gurlien says, interrupting her thoughts, and she swings her attention back up to him.

He’s changed into the outfit he got at the suit store, with a crisp sky-blue button up and perfectly creased black slacks, and he’s obviously re-combed his hair. He sits down across from her with something close to relief in his eyes. He looks good, at ease, like this is finally him fitting back into himself.

“You consider that more comfortable?” Ambra asks, remembering the stiffness of the fabric, but still, some part of her unwinds at having him in her view once more.

“I don’t like being sloppy,” he informs her, almost clinically. “I don’t care about other people’s clothing, but I can’t stand it.”

She doesn’t know why he divulges that, but she shrugs all the same as he opens his takeout container.

“So I’ve been in clothes that don’t fit and clothes that I bled and battled in the last three days, and I hated it.”

Ambra nods, because that seems appropriate. “I can get more money if you want more,” she offers.

“That’s…that’s not the point,” he sighs, before starting to dig into the food in front of him, which appears way more fried than her salad, and she can see the cogs in his mind work, drawing conclusions, working towards something. “Like how the bright lights bother you, looking sloppy bothers me.”

“Makes sense,” she murmurs.

As he eats, he pulls the notebook out of the backpack, flipping it open, and that derails all of her attention.

“So,” he starts, as if they aren’t in the middle of a mall. As if they are somewhere secure. “Nalissa and Boltiex.”

Once more, the panic rises in her, but she breathes out hard through her nose.

“Unless one tries to grab me,” she starts, and her voice wavers, and he examines her as she has to get it under control. “Nalissa will be far easier to…”

“Yes,” Gurlien agrees, and the light blue of the shirt and the cleanness of the lines elevates the expression, making him almost unattainably scholarly. “I want to put out feelers, see how the College is approaching Johnsin’s…demise. See if there’s any theories, anything we can mislead them with.”

The fact that they’re talking about this over food, in a public place, makes her skin crawl.

But data is data and information is power, so she nods. “Can you do that safely? Without leading back to me?”

“I’ve been officially on the run with a known fugitive for roughly a year and they didn’t catch me,” Gurlien replies, which is a far more intriguing conversation than the one about Ambra’s list. “And I’ve been keeping up on the gossip and the general moving for the entire time.”

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