Page 158 of Fallacies

“You know,” he starts, the curve of his accent carrying across the room, “I was thinking about just shoving them under the bed.” Salem gestures to the massacre at my feet. “But this is much better. Truly.”

I scrub my hands over my face, kicking up feathers as I move towards him. “Did you find the sources?”

He gestures to the massacre again. “So, we’re not going to talk about that?”

I glare at him.

He fights a smile.

Planting both hands on the back of the couch, I grit out, “Did you find the sources or not?”

Salem lifts his chin. “Yes, I did, and I’ll tell you all about them.” He leans forward in his chair, sliding something across the coffee table. “Over dinner.”

My eyes dart to the full plate before him, then fall to the empty one on the floor at his feet. Inhaling a deep breath, I hold it for a few seconds, then exhale through my mouth—a shitty version of a breathing exercise that Ivy’s Nana taught me when we were little.

When it leaves me just as irritable, I decide food might very well be the cure.

Unclipping my vest, I slide it off my shoulders and lay it over the arm of the two-seat couch. The thick material of the armor has been digging into my armpits all day, so the relief is instant, cool air reaching my heated skin through the breathable fabric of my undershirt.

I take a seat on the small couch and drag my plate towards me, muttering a thank you before raising the first bite of chicken to my mouth.

I hadn’t realized how hungry I was. I’m not even sure when I ate last. Somewhere between killing sources, rescuing Captures, and curse-breaking, the need to eat must have fallen to the wayside.

“So, the sources?” I probe between bites.

Salem nods. “The Umbra, the Countess, and two members of her inner circle. Each a descendant from one of the five original Rogue bloodlines.”

“And you’re sure?”

Bright blue eyes drag to mine, a hint of annoyance in them. “Yes,” he huffs. “I’m sure.”

I slow my chewing, watching him as I swallow a mouthful of roasted potatoes. I can’t imagine what that must be like—to catch the scent of bloodlines and emotions and who knows what else. Is it something he can turn off if he wishes? Like Callan’s infiltration of memories. Or is it something he’s forced to live with? Like the way Kimber sees spirits, whether she wants to or not.

My wondering gets the better of me. “What do they smell like?” I ask aloud.

His brows pinch, but when he realizes what I’m referring to, his expression softens. Salem sits on the question, vivid eyes going distant. I’m not sure if he’s trying to recall the smell or trying to figure out how to best explain it to me.

“Rogues characteristically smell like smoke,” he starts. “However intense the smoke, is how I gauge their power. The worst of them, they smell…” he shakes his head, lip curling back in disgust, “...rotten.”

My stomach rolls, and not with the memory of a bad smell.

Breaking his stare, I push my plate away, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

Out of my peripheral, his head tilts. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“You didn’t finish your food.”

“I’m not hungry anymore.”

He says nothing. Not a single thing. He simply props his elbow back on his chair, rests his chin in his palm, and stares at me. It’s unnerving—like he’s observing me from the other end of a microscope—and the longer he looks, the more I believe there's something written across my forehead. A big stamp of what’s actually wrong.

Every few seconds, he breathes in through his nose and exhales slowly. Smelling for whatever I’m feeling, no doubt. But nothing shifts on his face. Whatever he’s detected, he remains completely stoic with the information, and I can’t take the silence anymore.

“Fine,” I huff, falling back against the couch.

He perks up at that.