Page 21 of The Demon Tide

Why wouldn’t it be?

Vothe is a midnight storm come to life.

My affinity lines tighten as a melancholy longing sweeps in. Why did they have to assign me such an outrageously attractive guard? He’s so dauntingly beautiful, with his lightning-laced onyx skin, his silver-tipped black hair, and dark eyes with their dangerous Wyvern pupils. His perfect, angular features. His perfect, angular body.

And my power is drawn to Vothe’s with the force of a blasted tide. I struggle to avert my gaze and ignore the draw of his power, but it’s frustratingly impossible.

Basyl’s teasing laugh sounds as his palm slides down Vothe’s broad chest in a light caress, a harder spike of futile longing tightening my throat.

Vothe has no dearth of fawning admirers. All so cloyingly sympathetic that he has to guard the dangerous, reviled grandson of the Black Witch who they are intent on driving out. Even women moon over Vothe, many staring intently as he passes. Especially when he partially shifts, onyx horns spiraling up from his thick hair. And once, his black wings on full display, fanning out from his back. I momentarily lost the ability to breathe at the glorious sight.

The men who are so inclined are so open about their desire for him that it’s both shocking and fascinating, every playful touch and inviting look stunning to witness. Because there’s no danger in it here. No shame. Nothing in the dominant religion to condemn it.

And sometimes, I can’t help but hate them all for being so uncomplicated about who they are. Hate their sense of safety and privilege as they shut me firmly out. And despise their blaring ignorance about what my whole life has been like.

I let out a long sigh and meet the world-weary, black gaze of Viger Maul, the tall, pale Death Fae sitting across from me who has surprisingly become friends with Tierney Calix. I turn and meet the inky eyes of petite Sylla, who sits by my side, a weighty understanding in her spider-shifter gaze that has been, at times, a lifeline here. The silent Death Fae are the only apprentices willing to sit with me at meals, even though they never partake of any food.

It’s a quiet showing of solidarity, and it touches me deeply.

Even the poisonous black snake twining around my neck and the gentle brush of spiders’ legs along my ankles are bizarrely comforting, as I can sense my Death Fae companions’ intention.

Staunch acceptance, in defiance of a realm determined to mark me an outcast.

I try to remember that, outcast or no, I’m here to fight for the East alongside my family and friends, even if I can’t be with them at the moment. I’m here to fight the horrors of the West so that others can have a future worth having. And if I’m not accepted here, so be it.

The snake’s purple tongue flickers against my cheek as my eyes are drawn, once more, toward Vothendrile through the faint, dark mist that often swirls around the Death Fae. Basyl reaches up, threads his fingers through Vothe’s silver-tipped hair, and pulls him into a sultry, farewell kiss.

Invisible lightning kicks up in my lines and crackles toward Vothe.

His eyes open and meet mine. A spark detonates, leaping between us as he breaks the kiss, and I swear I can see lightning flash in Vothe’s eyes before he quickly averts his gaze. But Vothe’s expression is more subdued now. Tight with tension.

You’re such a mystery, I consider, feeling tangled up in this frustrating draw that has residual lightning flashing up and down my lines in a stinging rush.

And Vothe’s demeanor...it’s changing around me.

The change is subtle, but there. He’s no longer purely hateful...moreconflicted. I catch his looks of curiosity and scrutinize him right back.

Like I’m scrutinizing him right now.

I ponder how Vothe’s sniping bursts of sarcasm aren’t as frequent. How, when the stray barb does come, it’s as if Vothe is defending himself against some new threat. Each time, I pare back my own acid reply, refusing to let Vothe know his biting words cut me to the quick.

Basyl departs, leaving the ever-surrounded Vothe momentarily alone. I bid Viger and Sylla farewell, angling my arm to prod Viger’s serpent to slither down and return to him as the spiders scuttle off me and back to Sylla. Then I get up, step through the Death Fae mist, and approach my cursedly dazzling guard.

Vothe loses his faint smile, his neck tensing.

“It’s time,” I say, my words clipped as I hold up my small runic time-orb. “I’ve weapons training.”

That increasingly familiar look of conflict flares in Vothe’s gaze, his eyes briefly turning a dazzling silver that threatens to breach my composure.

“Well, then,” Vothe says, his expression remote, “we’d best not keep them waiting.”

Vothendrile

“We’ve got a surprise for the Crow.”

I flinch inwardly at Heelyn’s use of the slur as I stand with her on the same riverside terrace a few days later for weapons’ training. It’s growing increasingly infuriating, this ceaseless hurling ofCrowandRoachat Trystan Gardner, my own use of the slurs having rapidly dropped away. They scrawl them on his belongings. On walls. And always, Trystan meets the abuse with his same stoic, unflappable facade. But I can sense past it. I can read in Trystan’s power how much it all wounds him, and I’m increasingly troubled by this.

“I agree that he shouldn’t be here,” I say, “but he genuinely wants to aid the Vu Trin, so maybe everyone should stop calling him that.” It’s becoming exasperating, her dogged hatred. I’m exasperated with the entire Wyvernguard these days. And vexed with myself.

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