Page 43 of Angel Lost

This. This was the thought I had been chasing, the thought that slipped away each time I surfaced from the dark. A whisper at the edge of consciousness, too fragile to hold. I latch on to her words, desperate, searching her face for some kind of confirmation.Please. Please let that mean I didn’t—

But she’s already turning away, scuttling from the room, shoulders hunched like she expects damnation to strike her down.

My mouth is so dry. I let the shower water trickle in past my cracked lips, then force myself to swallow. My throat aches, and I make myself swallow again and again, finally gathering enough strength to cup my hands together, pouring the blessed liquid into my mouth. Catch, pour, swallow. Catch, pour, swallow.

Not everything was real.

The next time I scoop water to my mouth I see my wrist and choke back a sob. My allegiance mark. I stand stock-still, watching the rivulets run over it, the color slowly changing from bloody red to clear. My mark is still there. I trace the lines with my finger.

I reach for the soap, the sponge. Slowly, I clean myself from head to toe, then I do it again and again. I rinse my hair one final time, then, watching the last of the suds float down the drain, I reach into my mind.

It’s still there.

The slave bond is still there. And I’m glad. I’m glad to feel the nasty, slimy, oppressive bond. I tug gently on my aether, just a tiny pull, and it surges to me, filling the ache in my chest, replenishing my magic. Just as quickly, it’s pulled away again. Tugged down the bond, back to them.

They’re alive.

Legs shaking, I make it back to the bed without collapsing. An ominous gray robe with silver embroidery sits, neatly folded, waiting for me. The colors of the royal household? Shit.

There’s a tap at the door. I open it to find the harsh young priest from my test, except now, his eyes are downcast, respectful. It unsettles me, like a wrong note in a familiar song.

I follow him through halls of soaring arches, gilt-framed portraits, and heavy woven tapestries. The air reeks of polish—too opulent for the priests. I stumble over the thick carpeting, catching myself under the priest’s watchful gaze.

Two days. I slept for two days in the royal palace.

“The king will receive you in his drawing room,” the priest announces, bowing from the waist.

In his drawing room. That’s very informal. Is that worse? It feels worse.Did we fail?Stepping hesitantly inside, the door is pulled shut behind me by unseen hands.

Everything in here is gold—the paneling on the walls, the intricate cornicing, the shutters on the windows. Even the bookcases are gilded. I drift toward them, trailing a finger down the spines of the books.

A door clicks open behind me.

“Good afternoon, aether,” the king says.

I swallow hard and bob a curtsy, my feet tangling awkwardly beneath me.

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose with a small, twitching hand. “Well, you passed, but we have to work on your etiquette.”

Up close, without the chaos of our last encounter, he’s slighter than I’d realized, his alabaster skin lacking the ethereal glow most angels have. His neatly trimmed beard does little to disguise the weakness of his jaw,and his pink-tinged eyes—too light, almost translucent—fix on me with unsettling interest.

A crown rests on his head, gleaming in the golden light. Not the real one—the weight of it would be too much for his delicate neck. The thought coils unease through me. For all his power, all his presence, his body is fragile. And yet, looking into those eerie eyes, I know better than to think that makes him any less dangerous.

“You are a strong aether, though. A natural one.”

My heart pounds in my throat. I stuff my clenched fists deep into the pockets of my robe and wait.Stupid. So stupid. Of course it wasn’t real. Of course his nephew wasn’t at risk.

“But, alas, you are a second aether.”

I allow myself to breathe out, slowly uncurling my fingers.

The king strides toward me, his presence somehow failing to fill the vast, gilded room. “I was so hoping for a natural first aether.” He sighs—a delicate, practiced thing. “I suppose my gifted first aether will have to do.”

He’s talking in riddles. I force myself to nod. At least he doesn’t seem to be expecting me to speak.

“Shame,” he says, taking my chin in his hand. “You are so pretty, too. We’d make beautiful babies.”

Goose bumps break out across my arms, and the asshole looks pleased. It’s from disgust, not pleasure, idiot king. He drops my chin, offering me a hand. “Come, we can discuss your living quarters.”

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