She can refuse, but she will not. For the battle ahead, she cannot.
Delaying further will cause a Malice conniption, so she straps her bow across her back and squats. A lock secures the starlit manacles. She goes through the motions while questioning her sanity, rummaging for alternate options that she might have bypassed prematurely.
There aren’t any.
Thrusting the tip of her arrow into the bolt’s chamber, she gives a grudging twist, the mechanism wheezing from his ankles. It shimmers, succumbing to the pressure.
Indeed, there’s another way to open barriers. It’s called a damned key. In this case, it’s the tip of any arrowhead belonging to her peers.
What is she doing? What is she doing? What is she doing?
She’s freeing him and condemning herself. She’s making a deal with the devil.
That’s what she is doing.
Another necessary evil is his proximity, his form hovering while she kneels beside him. The air thickens, forcing her lungs to contract as she moves on to his wrists.
It’s no use, for she has to touch his skin. She cannot do this otherwise.
Wonder’s knuckles skim his, her pinky bumping into his wrist. He scarcely flinches, but she pretends not to notice one of his claws straining toward her scars, as if to sketch them. But the fingertip pauses just short of her marred skin, his digit curling in on itself.
If he makes contact, what will happen? How will it feel? How long will the effect last?
She picks open the shackles binding his hands. The clamp yields, its croak resounding through the room. She jerks back, needing to be the first one on her feet.
Peering at her, Malice rises. She stands her ground, choking the arrow in her fist. If she’s not careful, it’s going to snap.
Her gaze drops to where he massages his chafed flesh, the circumference of his wrists larger than she’d noticed. When he drags a thumb along his pulse point, a similar tempo beats in her throat.
“Thank you,” he mocks, the undercurrent of wrath sneaking into her hair and pulling on the roots.
“You’re not welcome,” she says, jamming the arrow into her quiver.
Her response washes the acid from his voice. “Being welcome? Where’s the fun in that?”
Naturally.
He moves with stealth, gathering relics of this place, including his saddlebag, which he stuffs with every envelope from his crate. One flutters to the ground by accident. Because she’s a glutton for punishment, Wonder bends to pick it up, gasping when his grip fastens around her arm, tightening like a vice.
They’re hunkered over, their knees tapping one another. With his free hand, he rescues the envelope. “Come near these again, and I’ll slit your scars open with my fingernails.”
“Where did you get such old paper?”
“Conjured them in the Peaks, back when I was a strapping young archer-in-training and suffering an identity crisis. Did you hear what I said?”
It’s a warning made of silk the color of oxblood.
Glowering, she wrenches her arm backward. Feasting on that glower like it’s his last meal, Malice tucks the envelope into the bag. This time, they gain their feet in unison, the movements synchronized with caution.
His answer accounts for the old envelopes as well as his rickety vintage telescope and saddlebag. While she has seen similar objects before, Malice’s possessions aren’t exact replicas. This fact is a relief as much as a torment.
They abandon the vault, with Malice able to pass through the stardusted bars while accompanied by Wonder. They travel side by side, keeping one another in sight.
At the stair landing, Malice throws back his head and inhales what she imagines is the scent of scholarship. It’s a minor indulgence, a moment of relish before he keeps going. For once, she doesn’t have to marvel at his impulse, because she understands this type of devoted worship.
Moonlight crashes through the windows, glazing the foliage that dangles from bookshelves. He strides down the corridor with a fiendish jut to his hips. Wonder would resent that attribute, but his tenor vacuums her thoughts into a black hole. A humming melody slides from under his breath, absently delivered and barely audible, but it’s enough to shatter her. Her mind fragments, scattering all over the hallway.
It’s only when Malice stalls that Wonder realizes she’s paralyzed, her boots stapled to the wool carpet. He tosses her a sidelong glance. Whatever her expression reveals, it tightens his jaw with rancor, as if she’s just issued an ultimatum.
“You can sing,” she says.
“Not on purpose,” he discloses. “You have a problem with that?”
Yes, she does. It’s too pertinent, too miraculous, too familiar.
Mockingly, he swings his arm, inviting her to join him, and Wonder recovers from her stupor. Navigating the maze of stacks, it takes a while for her stomach to settle. Many people can sing. It’s nothing, merely a fluke.
How long will they be gone? Where in the Peaks will they hide?
They’ll need time. They’ll need a haven.
In the main hall’s circulation rotunda, a central globe perches inside glossy wooden brackets. Malice moseys toward the model and slaps it, making the orb spin. He’d been in such a hurry, yet now he tarries!
What is he waiting for? Where is the hidden contraband?
With a snigger, he says, “Are you ready?”
“Are you daft?” she balks. “The Asterra Flora.”
“Ah, yes. We can’t go without that.” He taps his chin. “I could have sworn, I left it someplace.”
She’s going to scream at him. She’d been under the assumption that he’d been leading them to the mixture’s hiding spot.
But no, his hiding spot isn’t in the library…per se. This fact becomes a sinful, appalling, scandalous reality the moment his hand disappears into the front of his jeans. Wonder’s jaw drops as he plunges and then withdraws a capsule of liquid.
She’s positive that her eyes have inflated to the size of balloons. “This whole time. This whole time, you had it in your…”
“It’s called a prick,” he supplies. “That makes it the perfect hiding spot, since my groin is the only location nobody’s ever been keen to explore. And why didn’t I just use the blend on the manacles and free myself? I’m sure you’ve drawn the conclusion that I need you along for the road trip, so why bother rehashing? Also, making you free me was a lot more entertaining.”
He uncaps and smears a bead of fluid across his palm, painting a glistening tributary over the lifelines. Then he snatches her hand and repeats the process. Finished, he drops the ampoule into his saddlebag and pats it. “I’ll give you the corsage once we get there.”
The capsule in his pants, the flowers and pomegranate in his bag. He’d stashed them in plain sight. Like an amateur, her class has underestimated him for the thousandth time.
Wonder throws up her arms. “Then why did we come here?”
Malice flicks his digits at the repository. “I wanted to say good-bye to my home, away from home, away from home, before we left.” He points to the carpet. “Besides, I’m thinking this is a prime spot to meet our exit.”
“How about meeting your maker, instead?” a stormy voice growls.
Wonder clenches her eyes shut. Dammit.
She cannot decide whether to be relieved or dismayed, to be afraid for their sakes or for the irredeemable dummy causing mayhem beside her. Daring to peek, she finds her class gaping, or glaring, or grimacing, depending on the source.