Page 41 of Silent Lucidity

Never again.

She licked her fingers. “So, where are we going?”

He swallowed another bite of food and ran his tongue over his fangs, which were coated in sweet venom—as they seemed to be almost every time she was near.

“A safe place to sleep,” he replied. The burning pain in his throat was more pronounced now than ever; he’d spoken more in the last two days than in the twenty-five years prior, it seemed.

Abella’s eyes flicked up to meet his. “Wasn’t the last place safe enough?”

He dipped his chin. “Safer. But more resources here.”

“Will they…find us?”

“Not if we are careful.” He tightened his arm around her. “I’ll keep you safe, Abella.”

* * *

Tenthil slippedthe masterkey into his belt pouch and preceded Abella through the open door, his blaster at the ready. She kept close behind him, one hand on his shoulder, as he swept the apartment. Fortunately, it was still empty. This was one of only a handful of locations he’d been able to recall that wouldn’t be on the Order’s list of obvious places to search.

The apartment was similar in size to the safehouse in which they’d been attacked; here, the larger entry room was a combination living space and kitchen, while the bed had its own room in the back with an adjoined bathroom. Where the safehouse had minimal, purely functional furnishings, this place seemed like somewhere a personlived—which had been the case until a few months ago—with random trinkets scattered about and a few pieces of holographic wall art on display.

After closing and locking the door, he turned to Abella, who stood in the center of the main room studying her new surroundings. The apartment was by no means luxurious, but it would suit their needs. The automated cleaning bot had apparently done its job keeping the place neat despite the permanent absence of the apartment’s resident.

“How long are we going to stay here?” Abella asked, looking at him over her shoulder.

“As long as necessary.”

She nodded and faced forward again, raising her hands to remove her cloak. She stepped farther into the room and draped the cloak over the back of a chair in the kitchen. “Is this another safehouse?”

Tenthil walked to the other chair and shrugged off his cloak, folding it in half over his arm before setting it down. “No. Belonged to a target.”

She stilled for a moment, then shook her head as she muttered, “Guess sleeping in a dead guy’s apartment is still better than Cullion’s place.” She frowned and looked back at him. “How many people have you killed?”

He held her gaze but offered no answer; he didn’t have one.

“Stupid question, huh? I don’t think I even want to know.” She ran her fingers through her hair and bit her lower lip. “Can you at least tell me if you enjoy it?”

“Only once.”

“Once?”

Tenthil nodded, moved to the sink, and brushed the back of his hand over the fixture. Steaming water flowed from the faucet. “Cullion.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t feel much, otherwise.” He shut off the sink and turned to face her; her eyes were locked on him, her head tilted slightly, but he couldn’t read her expression, couldn’t guess at her thoughts. “There’s hot water, and a shower in back.”

Abella’s eyes rounded, her lips parted, and her brows rose high. “A shower? Really?”

He nodded, unable to keep the corner of his mouth from tilting up. “Go.”

Her black and blue hair fanned around her shoulders as she spun away from him and darted through the bedroom door.

A few moments later, the water in the bathroom came on, followed by Abella’s voice. “Oh, my God, yes!”

Tenthil’s chest swelled with sudden, unexpected pride. That so simple a thing as a hot shower could elicit such joy in her was a wonder—and he had been the catalyst for her joy. Knowing he’d brought her some happiness, no matter how small and fleeting, brought Tenthil a sense of satisfaction he’d never experienced. He walked to the bedroom doorway and leaned against the inside of the frame, crossing his arms over his chest and closing his eyes.

Deep within his oldest, dimmest memories were a few exchanges between his parents, quiet moments that had, until now, seemed inconsequential to him. He remembered his mother giving his father a new satchel she had stitched together of hide and sinew, one with little patterns pressed into its flap, and the contentment on his father’s face—and the pride on his mother’s. Or when his father had brought home large bundle of tiny, purple flowers after a long hunt and handed them to Tenthil’s mother—they were the kind she’d used to make her favorite dye. They’d looked at one another as though they saw no one else in the world.

---