Page 117 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

“Roremar!” That angelic voice was panicked now. It told him he should be panicked, too. But he didn’t have enough fight in him.

And he went under.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Desmond

Desmond had tried really fucking hard not to come here. He’d taken himself to four different taverns and two incense dens and couldn’t even get himself to have a drink or smoke at any of them. The first had been too loud with warriors overflowing from the chariot races, the second the chairs were too stiff, and he couldn’t even remember what was wrong with the rest.

Fucking Fates, nothing was wrong with any of them, he scolded himself. The entire time he was there, there was only one place he could imagine being.

One place he’d wanted to be all fucking week but kept fighting himself on.

And while he knew it was the worst starsdamned idea to ever grace the realms, he stood in the foyer of the Chancellor’s manor now, his boots leaving mud stains on the finely patterned rug thanks to the sporadic storms. Some staff member in a perfectly pressed dress with the eleven-starred Starsearcher sigil stitched into it ran off to find whom he needed, and he was left to listen to the old clock ticking away, second guessing all his decisions as he watched the rain plink onto the stone path outside the windows.

“Desmond?”

That voice. It rolled down his spine and reached into parts of his spirit he’d locked away.

It had been way too long since he heard her say his name—too many years of having to live with the memory of it all on her tongue. His name, her laugh, his secrets. It all came crashing back to him now as he turned and lifted his gaze to the second story landing.

“Hey, Lola.”

Her fingers tightened around the polished wooden rail. Angels, he remembered those hands, too. Never got to experience as much of them as he would have liked, but he knew them. The shape, the curve when she painted, the ghost of her nails across his skin as she passed a brush.

He didn’t remember that wisteria tattoo on her wrist. Each time he saw it, it was a punch to his gut to know someone else had inked it.

“What are you doing here?” she hissed, looking around. Probably for that fucking guard. Was he on duty outside her bedchamber? Or even worse…inside?

Arenothos’s fucking forge, he couldn’t let himself think about that.

Why is she still standing up there? So far away.

“You’re really asking that, Lols?” Saying her name in a room where no one else was watching felt like he was coming out of a haze. Like he’d been shackled and freed and could finally drop the act.

But Lola didn’t move. She still stood up there—still gripped the railing. “Yes, I am,” she breathed. It was a breath he wanted to feel against his bare skin.

“You know why I’m here, sweetheart.”

At that word, Lola looked around. Then, she finally moved. Flew down the stairs, tugging her black silk robe tighter around her. “You’re supposed to be with Emmeline, Des.”

“That took care of itself.”

“What does that mean?” She stepped closer, checking the adjacent corridor again. As she whipped her head back around, her silky hair fanned between them, and Desmond pinched a strand. It didn’t quite match the onyx shade of her robe as it used to. Now it had a different sheen to it—blue, he knew, despite the dim foyer light. He’d spent every minute of this past week memorizing it.

“Desmond,” Lola snapped.

He tucked her hair behind her ear and met her gaze. “It means Emmeline isn’t alone, and she’s taken care of, so I’m not risking anything by coming here.”

“What—” Her eyes widened briefly, head shaking. “Oh, he didn’t. That fool.”

“Funny, I told him the same. But you know him, Lols. Dedicated to a fault.”

“That fault will be his damn death if anyone finds them together,” she muttered, eyes closing. “How did he even get out?”

“Your guard friend likes me.”

“You’re both idiots.” She sighed. “That doesn’t answer why you’re here.”