Page 38 of The Mask Falling

It was too far. As we stared ice at one another, I was distantly aware that I should quit while I was ahead, but I had said it now, and I couldn’t unsay it.

“You chose to risk my life,” I heard myself say, “when you chose me as the human face of your rebellion. If you hadn’t made that choice, I wouldn’t have been tortured into a shell. And my father would still be alive.” Each breath scissored into my chest. “You helped set me on this path. Don’t you ever tell me how to walk it.”

Arcturus looked away, jaw set like cement. I forced myself up and made for the bathroom.

“I’m going to bed.” My voice cracked. “Find someone else to lecture.”

****

By the time I reached the bathroom, I was aware of my own skeleton—its joints, its marrow—in a way I had never been in my life before now. I shut the door a little too hard and came face-to-face with my reflection. Against the chalk that covered me, my dark circles seemed even darker.

He wasmaddeningsometimes. Immovable, sanctimonious carving, too set in his ways to bend in the wind. No wonder his side had lost the civil war, if he needed advance notice every time we fine-tuned our approach.

Even as I had the thought, I knew it was unfair. I pressed my temples and willed the headache down.

Turning the taps hurt my fingers. Peeling off my sweater hurt my back. I ran a shallow bath, just deep enough to cover my hips.

It took an age to climb into it. I gripped the edges and told myself over and over that I was in control, that no one was going to shove my head under. I wiped the dirt away with a cloth, then carefully soaked my hair and worked apple-scented shampoo through it. At last, when the water ran clear, I pressed my forehead to the lip of the bath and tried to govern my breathing.

He had said I hadstatedmy intentions not to do anything strenuous. In fact, I had promised him.

I got out and pulled on a nightshirt. Combed my hair, too drained to do any more than towel-dry it. I carried my clothes to the washing machine, bundled them inside, and ate a plate of leftovers from the fridge.

Arcturus had retired for the night. Aching from head to toe, I brushed my teeth and retreated to my own room. The heating had been off all day, yet when I crawled into my bed, I found it warm. He had still left me a heat pad.

Shame cooled the last embers of frustration. Feeling worse than I had in a couple of weeks, I turned down the lamp, towed the duvet and blankets over me, and pressed the heat pad to my chest.

Though I was physically and mentally spent, sleep refused to come. Each breath raised brutal pain. My skin was so sensitive it almost hurt. I was hot and cold. On top of that, remorse lay heavy in my stomach.

Blood-consort.

Calling him that had been inexcusable. That was the title he had endured against his will for two centuries while he was trapped in a betrothal to Nashira, mocked and judged by his fellow Rephaim. I had known how it would make him feel. Tiredness was no excuse.

By half past ten, my cough was back with a vengeance. At wits’ end, I stumbled to the bathroom in search of relief. A spoonful of cough syrup cushioned my chest and finally let me sleep.

It never lasted. Not for long. At some point, my hand strayed above my head, finding its old position on the waterboard, and I jerked awake, nightshirt plastered to my skin.

I stared at the ceiling for a long time. When it was clear I would never get back to sleep, I took a long cardigan from the bedpost, drew it on, and crossed the parlor to knock on his door.

“Come in.”

I took a moment to collect myself before I entered.

Except for the position of the bed, his room was almost identical to mine. Arcturus lay on his side, a book open on the sheets in front of him. A lamp penciled shadows across the high ceiling.

He looked up. I had seen him bare-chested before, but this was the first time I had really noticed that he had no navel. His sarx —the warm gold of brass—was taut and seamless over slabs of muscle, limned by the dim light from the lamp.

“Paige,” he said, his tone questioning.

I realized I was staring like a gamal at him.

“Sorry,” I said, face warm. “You just don’t have—” I indicated my own abdomen. “But you wouldn’t, I suppose.”

Rephaim were not born. He had never been tethered to a womb, nor grown inside someone else. When he had first emerged, alone, he had looked exactly as he did now.

“You are curious about other differences.” Arcturus closed his book. “There are none. Externally, at least.”

“But Rephaim don’t reproduce,” I said, thinking aloud. “So you probably don’t have a—”

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