Page 17 of Sore Throat, Slight Fever

“I didn’t know he was dead,” she says in a small voice. “Did you read it?”

“Yes.”

“And?” She looks up, shaking a curl out of her eyes. “How did he die?”

“Didn’t say.” He sighs deeply and, once again, she finds the movement so curiously quaint. She wonders if it is a learned habit, because she hasn’t felt the need to breathe since she was Turned. “Just says it was suspicious and they’re looking into it.” She can feel his eyes on her. “You’re not wearing a ring.”

“That’s because I threw it at him when I left.”

He runs a hand roughly across his face, the light stubble dotting his jawline scratchy in the lull of the conversation. “And you’re sure you didn’t hurt him? Before you left? You didn’t…throw the ring at his head and…”

“Knock him unconscious with a cubic zirconia? Yes, I’m sure.” She attempts to put some sort of humor into her voice, but her body is still taut with tension. She did indeed throw the ring at him, but what she doesn’t mention is that he had been unconscious when she did so.

She worries, now, that she had misread the situation. Had already been dead? She tries to remember if he was breathing, but the room had been dark, lit onlyby moonlight.

Rory isn’t fooled. His eyes narrow at her and she has the strange sensation that he’s looking into her mind, that he can see her entire life story projected in her body language.

“Where did you get that scar?” His eyes flit down to the thick scar that encircles her upper arm.

She tightens her grip on the book. “It was an accident,” she says, the well-practiced words tumbling out of her before she realizes. Her voice is flat and unconvincing, and again, Rory can see right through her flimsy excuse. She’s not sure why she continues. “It’s the downside of marrying a warlock. Lots of…accidents.”

His jaw clenches again, fists tight, but she has the distinct feeling his anger is not aimed at her this time, but at her husband. And just as suddenly as Rory appeared in the doorway, interrupting her reading, his anger is gone, dispersed like ash on the wind. He sits heavily in the chair next to her. It takes some effort to release the tension in her shoulders, to bring her arms down, to rest her hands lightly on the table.

He runs a hand through his gray-streaked hair that curls around his ears and rests against the collar of his shirt. Calliope can’t help but think about how tired he looks. Sabine was right that his features are not typical of vampires, nor would they be considered classically attractive to mortals. But his presence is striking, formidable even, with his physique tending toward themore muscular side of brawn than a mere excess of weight. His nose is long and slightly hooked, a little crooked too. He’d clearly been punched a few times before Irina sunk her fangs into him. There’s even a small white scar on his cheek, cutting into the dark and silver stubble. She understands, in an abstract sense, that vampires can be made at any age but, regardless, Rory was clearly turned later in life than the few vampires she’s met, and the exhaustion that was etched under his eyes when he was human has stayed.

There’s a weight in his eyes too, so strong she wonders if that’s what the deep blue flecks around his irises actually are. Just little spots of fatigue, like how freckles on skin are from too much sun.

“How do you do that?” she asks.

He arches an eyebrow. “Do what?”

“Switch your emotions around so quickly. Like flicking a light switch. Is it a vampire thing?”

He seems mildly uncomfortable—she’s beginning to recognize the slight flicker of his eyelids as he looks down and away from her. She hasn’t yet decided if it means he’s lying. “No. It’s just…years of practice.”

“How many years?”

Her challenging tone is enough to get him to look back up, his eyes connecting with hers with a small shock. “A lot,” he says evenly.

His mouth twitches. A smirk? Or a grimace?

The truth of the expression remains unseen as Kane, sensing that no more newspapers will be tossedat him, leaves his perch from the top of the bookcase. “It takes a lot of courage to leave a relationship like that,” he says softly. He nips at the tips of her hair affectionately.

She shrugs him away and finds herself doing much the same as Rory, eyes downcast as a flush of vulnerability washes over her. She reaches for the Ether, though she doesn’t slide into it. The feeling of its comforting nothingness—its potential—at her back is enough to lift her eyes from the table.

Thankfully, Rory doesn’t let her wallow in her embarrassment or confusion or fear—she’s not entirely sure how she’s feeling right now. Unlike Rory and his tidy emotional organization, she seems to be roiling in all her feelings at once, never quite sure which one will face the front.

He nods toward the book. “There are a couple of histories about the Blood Wars. Which one is this?”

“Sabine,” answers Kane.

Rory scowls. “Sabine’s a terrible writer. Didn’t bother to check her sources.” He gives Kane a sideways look. “Why’d you let her pick that one?”

“I didn’t. The library chose it.” He cocks his head at Calliope. “The house seems to like her.”

“Yeah, whyisthat?” Rory asks, folding his arms across his broad chest. She wonders how strong he is—and how much of that strength is vampiric magic. His hands are large and could wrap easily around her neck.

This man is not my husband, she reminds herself. “The house is magical?” she offers, thinking of the Ether. It makes sense to her that, if the Ether is accessible, then the magic in the house recognizes her as one of its own.Like calls to like, as her grandma used to say.

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