Page 8 of Immortal Longings
Fuck.
Calla swoops for the nearest sharpest thing she can find—a set of keys—and encloses it within her fist. In the Palace of Heavens, they trained her to use everything. Blades and arrows, explosives and projectiles, even the occasional firearm when they could scrounge up the gunpowder, despite its rarity in San-Er. They needed to prepare her, in case their kingdom went to war with its neighbor to the north, and Calla was to take a sector of Talin’s army and march through the provinces.
Instead, she used everything she was taught against them. That was their own fault.
“Who is it?” Calla asks Chami, following her out. “Palace guard? Leida Miliu?”
Chami shakes her head helplessly. The captain of the guard is known to switch bodies often, but would Leida come for Calla personally?
“I could take a guess, but… you may as well see for yourself. He asked for you by name and told me not to play stupid when I denied it.”
Calla stops right before the kitchen door. The keys cut into her palm. “Okay. Stay here. If I scream, drop to the floor immediately.”
Before Chami can finish making her strangled noise, Calla has marched out, braced for battle. The diner appears as normal—smoke and movement and chaos, chopsticks clinking against ceramic bowls and teacups tapping against the glass table covers.
Then, Calla spots the anomaly. At one of the far booths, a man sits alone, his hair cropped close to his neck, a color unnatural to the people of Talin. It takes bleach and hours of chemical work for a blond so fair and gleaming. Within the borders of Talin, where jumping bodies is signaled bya change in eye color, dark hair is the one consistency against eyes running in every hue.
A palace brat, then, Calla decides immediately. No one outside the luxury of nobility would have the means otherwise. Yilas touches up her bangs with a cheap new color every few weeks; the elderly slather coarse dark dye onto their gray. But the frequency of fine treatment needed for glistening perfectblondis something only the palace can afford.
She strides closer, taking in the burgundy silk shirt, the myriad of jade rings encircling his fingers when he lifts his teacup to his mouth. Material observations rarely offer anything conclusive in a city where people can swap bodies at will. Here, though, there are enough details that Calla has gathered an unfortunate suspicion.
Not just any palace brat.
She approaches the booth. Slides into the opposite seat. When her companion’s eyes flicker up, they are black, outlined with the barest blue that is only visible because Calla is looking for it.
“August,” she says evenly. She puts the keys in her pocket. “It’s been a while.”
“Five years,” Prince August replies, setting his cup down.
His voice is deeper than she remembers, his movements almost lethargic. Had she searched her memory, perhaps she would have recalled that this never-smiling face is August’s birth body save for the new hair, but she wouldn’t have expected him to approach her with such precious cargo. His personal bodyguard must be waiting outside. Or inside one of the bodies nearby, ready to spring to his defense at the smallest breach in safety.
“I trust you’ve been well?” he continues.
Calla leans back into the seat, resting her arm on the booth. Take her by surprise once, fine. A second time—that won’t do at all. This is August Shenzhi, the golden boy with a one-track mind for climbing the palace ranks, no matter who he had to step on to get there. They didn’t interact enough in their teenageyears to become friends, but they’ve shared enough diplomatic visits that Calla has learned how the crown prince of San behaves—learned to ooze ease around him and let nothing be used against her.
“I’ve been better,” she says. “It can’t compare to life as heir to the throne, I’m sure. How’s Galipei? Still in love with you?”
August’s eyes narrow. His gaze darts to her wristband, dangling in full view of him.
“Bold of you to be saying such words when I could have you executed.”
“Bold of you to threaten to execute me when I could gut you this very second.”
“Ah,” August sighs, reaching for the teapot. He pours Calla her cup, but she makes no move to touch it. “Here I was, thinking your bloodlust would fade with time.”
Calla stares at him, saying nothing. If anything, she is only more unhinged now.
August taps his finger on the table. The order receipts and paper-thin menus tremble from the movement, trapped underneath the slab of glass.
“Did you think I wouldn’t recognize Chami Xikai registering for the lottery? Or that I wouldn’t remember she could barely bump into a wall without apologizing to it? You dug your own grave, cousin.”
“I dug my own grave?” Calla leans onto the table, her elbows pressed to the glass. “I amdead, by the Palace of Union’s own declaration. The funeral was a little lackluster, I must admit, but it was nice of King Kasa to broadcast it on every station. Even if you recognized Chami’s name, why connect it to me? Perhaps my former attendant is interested in the games.” She splays her hands. “No, my grave is perfectly untouched. Someone sent you to look for me.”
The only signal of August’s annoyance is the twitch of his sharp jaw. Before he speaks again, a waitress approaches with notepad in hand, rubbing flour off her nose.
“Can I—”
Calla shakes her head, and the waitress takes the gesture smoothly in stride. She lowers her orange-brown eyes and tucks the notepad into her apron, then leans in to check the teapot before whisking it away for refill.
