Page 142 of Swords of Soul and Shadow
But there was that little voice in the back of her mind that wouldn’t be quiet, the one that said she wasn’t good enough for Kase. She didn’t come from money. Kase hated his father, and someone like Hallie would be the perfect person to drive the wedge further between them.
Then there was what her mother had revealed—that Kase had shown up drunk and injured from a fight. Might’ve been unrelated, but her gut told her they were.
Hedidhave a temper, and drinking would loosen any man’s tongue. It was one of the reasons she herself refused to drink alcohol.
The man might have been lying about the game, but when Hallie crossed the larger cavern and found the one Mr. Gray had indicated held Kase’s tent, she spotted exactly what he’d promised: a dark brown tent with an older soldier whose face did indeed look carved from marble.
Half of her wanted to ignore Mr. Gray’s words. The other half wanted to confront Kase about it. She should do that. It was always better to get the worst part over with and have opencommunication. Hallie’s morning had already been trying, and she was late for her shift.
She hesitated, her feet confused as to which way she wanted to go. If she went and talked to Kase right then, if she convinced the guard to let her in, then she could get answers…but then Petra would pry when Hallie finally arrived. She’d pry anyway, but what if her mother and Mr. Gray were right?
Kase wouldn’t lie to her. He’d tell her what happened and wouldn’t sugarcoat it. But could she handle the truth if it matched Mr. Gray’s account?
If it’d only been his words, she could’ve easily dismissed them. But her mother’s were harder to ignore.
She moved out of the way as a younger couple pushed past her and entered the tent next to Kase’s, saying something about swiping more whiskey that night. Chewing on the inside of her cheek, she turned and left the cavern.
Maybe it was cowardly, but she wanted at least a few more hours of believing the best in him before it all came tumbling down.
Chapter 29
A HANDSHAKE
Jove
JOVE WASN’T REALLY A SHACKLEY. His father had been adopted. The family legacy felt like a lie, so it was no wonder Jove was destined to fail. He’d risen to one of the highest offices in the land partly based on his merit and more importantly, though he wouldn’t admit it out loud, his family name.
But that was a sham.
It was probably a good thing he’d thrown that all away.
However, that wasn’t the most troubling part. Harlan had lost his entire family, had seen the massacre that had been Ravenhelm and had been the one to stop it at the mere age of twelve. It was a miracle he was as sane as he was. Cold and cruel, yes, but Jove didn’t know if he would have survived at all if he’d been dealt his father’s hand.
Jove had lost a sister to a fire his youngest brother started. He’d sent his best friend to die on the other side of the world, and he’d turned to alcohol to numb the pain.
Now what would become of Jove?
He had to find Clara. She was the only one who could keep him from spiraling. He just hoped that he survived long enough to get himself out of this hole, literally and figuratively.
But if he found that she and Samuel hadn’t survived the attack on the capital…
He prayed to Clara’s God and begged for her to be okay, because if she was gone, Jove hoped they never rescued him from the depths.
He prayed for days.
Maybe that was an answer. They’d been down here so long Jove was starting to question his sanity.
His mother had fallen into a fitful sleep, curled up on the jagged stone beside him. He’d made her take his jacket for a pillow. He shivered. Anderson still hadn’t awoken, but at least he still had a pulse. Jove bit his nails. He’d worn down the ones on his right hand in the time they’d been down here without any cigarettes to calm his nerves. The lack of smokes only made him more anxious. It didn’t help that one of his friends was probably dying before his eyes, and he couldn’t do anything. If the Yalv with the magic healing powers couldn’t fix him, then who could?
Kainadr sat on the other side of the cavern, murmuring to himself after throwing pinches of his dust in the air.
“I’d say you’re wasting that dust of yours.” Jove wasn’t trying to be unkind, but he winced at the gruff tone. “Best to save it for light. I don’t trust that crystal.”
The malevolent-looking thing in the middle of the room writhed with darkness at that. Jove wasn’t sure if it was coincidence or if the thing heard him. Turned out he was too cold and too worn down to care either way.
The Yalv turned slightly, his face a reflection of Jove’s feelings—haggard and losing hope. “What good is being named after the greatest Yalven warrior only to be relegated to minor healings? I’m useless.”
Not this again.
