Page 84 of The Second Death of Locke
She leaned back so she could see his face—he was still inside of her, and she still throbbed with the aftershock of him. “Congratulations. You’re the first citizen of Locke.”
He laughed, burying his face in her shoulder. “It’s an honor,” hesaid, dropping to nip the top of her breast, “to be yours, my lady.”
Time stayed syrupy and still. They cleaned up in the washroom, then she pulled on his shirt and crawled into bed, and he stretched out, still naked and uncaring, his hand skimming over her hip, her waist, the line of her thigh, like he was trying to memorize every part of her by touch. They talked about nothing, like they would any other day, but then she leaned in and kissed him, and he was there, warm and sure, and just as needy. Soon he was over her, his weight on his elbows, her leg hitched around his hip, and he was sinking into her all over again.
It wasn’t like she’d imagined it would be, when she had allowed herself to imagine it. He was more certain than she’d anticipated, but he was eager for her to take the lead, to push him deeper into the bed and set her own pace. It was less of a battle for dominance and more of an understanding; him sinking into her as much as possible until she gripped his chin, then ceding power easily. Though she’d never been one to lead with previous partners, she loved controlling him, knowing that every breathy gasp was her doing, that every sharp sound, every profane word from his lips was hers.
After, they lay still, facing one another halfway down the bed. She was so languorously pleased that she could barely keep her eyes open. He was too warm for her to press against him—Kier always ran hot—but their fingers were tangled in the space between them. He did not seem to mind her fidgeting as she constantly knotted and unknotted their hands.
“Where should we go first?” she asked. It was long past dark now, and neither of them had bothered to turn any lights on besides the small golden magelight that Kier had summoned, which left the room mostly in shadow. She could still see every line of his face, though, mostly from memory. She lifted her free hand to run her little finger over the scar that always made his mouth do things it shouldn’t. He turned his face to kiss her palm.
“Home first, I think,” he said, “if you don’t mind. It’s been a while. I’d like to visit Lot.”
She nodded. Every time they went home, Kier kissed his ma and his mom and then went quietly out into the garden, kneeling atthe foot of a tree, pressing his hand to the marker that bore Lot’s name. He sat there for an infinite amount of time, talking softly to his brother of all that had passed in the months since he’d last been home. She understood from that initial visit after Lot died that the first trip to his grave, that great outpour, had to be done when Kier was alone. In the days following, she sat with him, gently running her fingers through the grass as they talked to Lot, in the way she used to run her fingers through his hair while they all lazed in the sun together.
“And Mom has been pressing,” he said. “Ma hasn’t been well—we should spend a few weeks, at least. Get our bearings. Make a plan.”
“I’ve been meaning to write to Imarta,” Grey said, feeling that familiar guilt—but it was easy to pick up when they saw each other. Every time she returned, her adopted mother looked up as she came through the door and said only,Well? Where’d you go? No redactions, please(even though there were always redactions; they were necessary), and fussed over her until she left again.
“I sent her a letter,” Kier said. “Before we left camp.”
“Of course you did.” He was always better at being someone’s child.
“And then?” he asked, genuine curiosity in his voice.
Grey sighed.And then. She rolled onto her back, staring up at the ceiling. “And then, I suppose we need a boat.”
“I think we need more than a boat,” Kier said carefully.
“I don’t know what the process is,” Grey confessed.
“I know. We have time to figure it out,” Kier said. “But you’re sure the bulk of it didn’t… explode?”
“There were explosions,” Grey said, “from the sheer force of power. But no, I don’t think so. It’s there, in the sea, waiting for me to come back.”
Kier thought on this. “Maybe something will feel right when we get there. Or maybe your gods will give you the answer.”
“Maybe.” She closed her eyes, all desire for sleep erased by the memories that surfaced. She highly doubted her gods would want anything to do with her anymore. “You never asked me how it happened. And even since… finding out about what I can do, you haven’t asked how I did it.”
He was quiet for a moment. “I didn’t think it was my place.”
“And it changed nothing? Knowing I was the one who destroyed the Isle?” She opened her eyes, staring straight up, remembering how Severin grabbed her hand, then the two of them running, running, running.
“I think I’ve always known.”
She remembered the sweat on her back and the smell of burning wood, burning meat, burning hair—everything was aflame all the way up to the Ghostwood, then they were in the cellar and she couldn’t see the fire anymore.
“You always thought so low of me? That I would kill my entire line? Destroy my home?”
He rolled over, drawing her close against his chest, shifting her to lie on her side. He stroked her cheek, his touch whisper-light. “No,” he said. “I always knew you were a survivor.”
She searched his face, uncertain what she was looking for. “My father wanted Severin to have a choice,” she said, the words falling from her lips. “They tried to protect us, protect my parents, when everything went so wrong… Eprain sent a suitor, but it was just death in disguise. I remember her. Severin killed her himself, and I can’t imagine how…” She drew a shaky breath. “Locke, my mother, rose like a storm cloud to face them, but it was too late. They used breakbloom to break the tethers.”
“Grey,” he said, so tenderly it hurt. “You don’t have to tell me this.”
She felt the tears on her cheeks, hot and endless. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried. “I remember the sound. Their boots. I remember their blood. Sev’s hands—he held me so tight it left a bruise, the only thing left of him when I made it to Scaela.
“I know everyone thinks it was my mother who took the Isle down, but she and my father were already dead. I felt them the second they died, like great torches extinguished. And I think… I think Sev knew what he was doing, what it would cost.”
