Page 47 of A Steeping of Blood
After two days at sea, Arthie still had to remind herself that she was in a ship, not a tiny boat again. Every blink conjured blood sloshing against her bare shins, moving with the ocean’s current. The skies had split open after she’d done what she’d done, and no matter how much water pooled inside her tiny vessel, she hadn’t sunk.
She had wanted to sink. To drown. She wished the sea would swallow her whole.
In the years since, Arthie hadn’t allowed herself to recall these long-deemed “moments of darkness”—not until she had retreated back into them after the Great Press Massacre.
If not for Matteo, she would have entertained them longer in the shelter of his canopied bed and the Athereum one after. She would have folded further into herself.
“That’s enough,” she told herself, and rose from the crate she was sitting on in the dark corner of the captain’s cabin.
“There you are.”
Matteo sidestepped the wide slant of light on the floorboards cast by the sun through the window and sat on the floor in front of her, propping an arm behind him.
“You’re hiding.”
“Am I?” she asked, pulling on her suit jacket.
“Unless you’re here protecting your skin from the sun, yes.”
She snorted. “I might be a vampire, but I’m no peaky. The sun doesn’t hurt me as much as it does you.”
“Arthie, Arthie,” he said with a sigh. “Imight be a vampire, but you’re always finding new ways to stake me through the heart.”
“As you can see, I’m getting ready to leave,” she said, but when he looked at her, his teasing replaced with something earnest, she sat back down on the crate with a sigh.
Waves lapped and crashed in the silence between them.
“I can’t stand up there and relive it over and over again,” she said eventually.
“Understandably. One isn’t out at sea very often,” Matteo said. “I couldn’t walk the streets of White Roaring for the longest time myself.”
His gaze drifted to the dust stirring in the light of the window. Arthie never thought she’d find anyone like her, and she appreciated when he opened up to her, trusted her. She couldn’t say she liked doing the same, but she tried. He made the words easier. He was forced to be a monster, and he knew what it took to be peaceful.
“Ceylan will be a test, but you will ace it,” Matteo continued. “I know it.”
“I left right as the Ram was sinking her claws into the island,” Arthie said. “I don’t know what she’s done to it.”
Outside of what she’d heard about Ceylan—and almost every country Ettenia had colonized really—she knew little for certain. From the streets near Ceylani and Jeevani shops, she’d heard snippets about streaks of poverty brought on by the newcomers and dwindling resources. She’d heard of deforestation, and the way it had permanently altered,butchered, the very earth that made up the island. She’d seen the skilled and the talented arriving on Ettenian shores for the promise of a “better life”—handing over their expertise to a place that had ruined the better life they already had.
The real and true happenings of other countries and kingdoms weren’t written about in Ettenian newspapers. Not enough cared.
“Whatever she’s done, you’re planning to undo, remember?” he asked.
There was no undoing what had been done, but he was right. Arthie would make change happen.
“And after? What will you do once you’ve saved the vampires and the Siwangs and dismantled the three parts of the Ram’s reign?” Matteo asked, tilting his head.
“What do you mean?” she asked, but a part of her knew what he was asking.
Matteo held her eyes. “Do you mean to kill her, Arthie?”
Arthie was no innocent. She had blood on her hands, and she wasn’t about to forget that fact. She’d never outright set out with the intention of ending anyone, but the Ram was different, wasn’t she? She’d meddled in and destroyed Arthie’s life. She’d stolen her childhood, her home, herhumanity—and Matteo’s too. Even Jin’s. She deserved to die in the worst way possible.
So why, then, did Matteo’s question give Arthie pause?
Arthie hadn’t even realized she’d tightened her grip around Calibore until Matteo reached for her hand, as if he knew she was looking for comfort, as if he knew how to provide it, entwining his fingers with hers. Her hand felt small in his, sheltered. Safe.
Perhaps she’d hit her head and boggled her mind, because when had she ever cared about feeling sheltered and safe?
