Page 53 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

“I know, it’s wrong, but⁠—”

She didn’t finish her sentence. The man sprang to his feet and tore from the alley. A pile of ashy herbs floated to the ground behind him, too burned for Emmeline to recognize.

One whiff as they faded into the puddles, and her head spun. She considered trying to take them with her and research what they may be, but they were already disintegrating in the murky water.

Emmeline was about to follow the stranger, but voices echoed up the stairs from the Rogue Spirit’s basement again.

“They said the Second’s a hungry son of a bitch.”

Her spine stiffened, and she dashed down the stairs on soundless feet, careful not to upset the precariously stacked crates. Emmeline pressed close to the door, thankful it was made of thin wood.

“Hungry for what, though?” a second, gruff voice asked.

“Not sure. It’s peculiar. He keeps his head down for years, cuts his networks off at the knees to bring in new correspondents, but never gives up the trade entirely.”

The trade. Her heart pounded as the voices volleyed back and forth about the second-in-command, about the bits they’d learned from the man she’d killed. Apparently, this pair was retired, but with this new intel, they were considering if it was worth returning to the continent.

“You ever met this Second?” one asked as they extinguished whatever they’d been smoking. The burned scent slipped beneath the door, all the way to Emmeline.

“Nah,” the other replied. “Only know what they call him: The Averian.”

Emmeline nearly stopped breathing.

The Averian.

It may not be his true one, but she had a name.

Chapter Eighteen

Roremar

“Roremar,” Emmeline snapped. “Are you listening to a word I’ve said?”

“Every syllable, Miss DeLeoste,” Roremar drawled as they strolled down the Promenade of Revels toward the Eastern Port, the afternoon sun warming the air and birds calling to each other across the sea. At the base of the stone path, wooden docks jutted out into the ocean, a maze of walkways for ships to tie off. Warriors hollered from deck to shore, unloading imports and updating logs based on their wares and who sailed them.

At his claim, Emmeline leveled Roremar a disbelieving, narrowed stare, and he recited, “You’ve been thinking about the tattoos both victims had, but instead of whoever drew them, you’re wondering about the symbol itself.”

The owner of Angel’s Draw still hadn’t returned, and Emmeline and Roremar had spoken to all his neighbors. Everyone had the same story. He’d gone to a neighboring isle to help a sick family member. Roremar was still suspicious of him, even if Emmeline was more convinced of the cult theory.

She nodded in approval of his recollection, and Roremar nearly laughed at her self-satisfied smile. Her long, sky-blue skirt swished around her ankles as they followed the curve in the path, the silver threading reflecting the sun and glinting to match the thrill in her eye.

“Yes, they both bore the twelve-pointed star, right?” Emmeline asked.

“Correct.” Roremar side-stepped a man carrying a wooden crate from the recently docked ships. The lid was near to bursting, a sign on the side declaring precious, confidential cargo within.

Reflexively, his hand braced Emmeline’s lower back as she swiveled through the crowd and stopped beside the wooden railing overlooking the sea, water beating against the stone beneath their feet.

He pretended not to notice how she arched at his touch, continuing, “And one of the points was longer than the rest.” Roremar froze, the breeze off the ocean lifting his waves. “Do you think that was intentional? It wasn’t the same on either.”

On a typical dial of a twelve-pointed star, each spear represented a Fate, but if his exemplary memory served him, the tattoos hadn’t been identical matches. Both uneven in their own rights. He’d assumed they were just done by a messy hand but perhaps not.

Emmeline gazed out over the hectic sea, her eyes narrowing on the boat currently being unloaded. “I was wondering less about the points—though, that’s another route to explore—and more about the purpose of the tattoo in the first place. If this is cult activity”—Roremar opened his mouth to respond, but Emmeline went on—“I know you aren’t convinced it is and want us to keep our attention piqued on all possibilities, but humor me for a moment?”

She looked up at him over her shoulder. The sea breeze lifted the tendrils framing her face, her cheeks flushed, and the many colors in her hazel eyes glowed with anticipation. Though he wanted to insist otherwise, Roremar understood that feeling well. The high of nearing in on a solution to a puzzle sent his blood pounding.

“Keep going,” he instructed, voice rough. Fates, what was happening to him?

Emmeline turned, leaning an elbow on the railing. “Tattoos always have purpose. Most of us have a reason for etching something so permanently on our bodies, right?”