Page 82 of The Cursed and the Broken
He ran a hand through his hair, shooting me an exasperated look. “We didn’t exactly start off on the right foot, Kitarni. When we first met, I wouldn’t have given two shits about the choices you made. But you’ve found a way to burrow under my skin, and now? It feels like we’re giving them what they want. Why send you straight to them? Why allow Sylvie to rise at all?”
“Allow it?” I scoffed. “You’re a fool if you think us mere mortals have a choice. If we leave them be, they will only grow stronger and the corruption will spread. If Sylvie wasn’t here to lead the fight herself, we would only die by the inevitable plague spilling over the land.”
He jumped out of bed, shoving a pair of pants on as he paced. “Is there no spell capable of fighting it? What about your village? They are earth witches, surely they can do something to stop the spread.”
“It doesn’t work like that,” I replied, pinching my brows together. “This is dark magic we’re talking about, Dante. Earth magic is used to grow, to nurture, not to destroy. I wouldn’t have the slightest clue how to fix this and I’m sure, if there was a way, the council would have tried already.”
He snarled in frustration and I sat up straighter, covering myself with the sheets. “I know you’re afraid of what the cultists are capable of. So am I. But what happened when you’re a boy, what happened to your mother—”
“Don’t speak of her,” he snapped, whirling on me.
I shrank back, a pang of hurt spearing through me. He’d never spoken to me like this before, never been so angry in my presence. My own annoyance flared, rising to the surface. “What iswrongwith you? The Dante I know would never cower from a fight.”
“Maybe you don’t know me at all then,” he muttered, so quietly I almost missed it. Resigned, he sat down on the bed and I scooted over to him, refusing to let him drown himself in emotions.
“Hey,” I said quietly, running a hand through his hair and down to his neck. “You can talk to me. Tell me what’s really going on. Don’t make me burn it outof you,” I said with a wiggle of my fingers.
He smiled softly, but it was a small, ghost of a thing. When he looked at me, I saw pain and sorrow and fear there. “Kitarni,” he began. “I need to tell you—”
Something banged in the corridor outside and he jumped, immediately on alert, a dagger in his hand. I crept behind him to the door, a fireball hovering in my palm. When I nodded at him, he threw open the door, blade brandished, but it was only András and another man further down the hall.
He was laughing, stealing kisses with another táltos, a wineskin in hand and a grin that lit up the room curving his lips. When he saw us, he lifted the wine in salute and the man beside him laughed as András fumbled with the door handle.
“See you in the morn,” András sang. “We go to hunt some cult—” He hiccupped, giggling to himself. “Cultists.”
I rolled my eyes. “Trust you to be absolutely buggered the night before we leave.”
He raised his brows suggestively. “Not y-yet.”
“Gods,” I mumbled under my breath, turning to Dante. “I’m going to help him get to bed. I think he’s a little too far gone to do anything at this stage.”
Dante opened his mouth, but he shut it again without a word.
“I’ll be back soon, I promise,” I said. “We can talk more then.”
It took longer than I’d expected to get András into bed. The idiot kept veering around the room, playing a game of cat and mouse. I had half a mind to bludgeon him with a candleholder, but thought better of it. He’d need a miracle in the morning to deal with the consequences of drinking, let alone the headache of an injury he wouldn’t remember receiving.
When I finally got him to lay down, he was unconscious the moment he hit the bed. His friend had proven no help at all, flopping beside him and snoring immediately. I smiled fondly. “Hopeless,” I said to the sleeping pair.
By the time I made it back to Dante’s room, I found him looking sheepish, sitting on the edge of the bed, a couple goblets of red wine in his hands.
“A peace offering,” he said morosely.
I couldn’t help but laugh at his puppy dog eyes, taking the cup from his hands and strolling back to the balcony. The city slept peacefully, the odd hearth lighting up the darkened homes in the square below. A curl of lavender climbed my nostrils and Dante came up behind me, wrapping one of his big bear arms around my waist.
This was my city now. My home. And I was damn well going to fight for it.
“To Mistvellen,” I said, clinking my goblet against his.
“To victory,” he replied, and we both sculled our drinks.
THIRTY-SIX
I didn’t remember falling asleep, but I woke to sunlight streaming through the windows, casting a bright glow around the room. I glared at the dust motes as they filtered through the rays. My head pounded and my throat felt dry as dirt. I licked my lips, patting a hand around in the bed for Dante. The bed was cold everywhere my palm landed.
“How late is it?” I croaked, but only silence answered me. “Dante?”
I rolled over, but the space beside me was empty. My gaze caught on one of the goblets and, shuffling over, I peered in the cup suspiciously. A powdery film lined the bottom and I suddenly realised why I was feeling like a horse had kicked me in the head.
