House of Pounding Hearts (The Kingdom of Crows #2)(3)

Like the vines Phoebus can grow from his palms, my smile matures, its roots sliding through my rib cage and capturing my heart. Just as they begin to buoy the deadened organ, a Crow plummets through the same hatch opening Lorcan carried me through days ago.

I hold perfectly still, hoping the shapeshifter will be a stranger. Odds should be in my favor since I know all of two Crows—well, one, really. I tighten my grip on Phoebus’s biceps when the black feathers melt into smoke that congeals into a man with citrine eyes. Out of all the Crows in the Sky Kingdom, why must he be the first I see?

Lorcan’s gaze sidles up my body. “Feeling rested, Behach ?an?”

I cast my attention on one of the torches hooked into the stone wall, pretending the royal monster isn’t standing there, mere breaths away.

“Don’t mind her.” Phoebus pats my hand. “Her mood’s always rotten before she eats.”

I ferry my widened gaze over to my friend.

Former friend.

Phoebus pins my arm under his to keep me from shooting back into my cell. “We were about to remedy that.”

If he invites him to join us, I will—

Another Crow lands beside Lorcan and shifts into skin. My heart holds still again, and I pray to the Fae gods—even though they probably won’t listen to me since I’m not one of their children—that it isn’t my father.

Lo and behold, it isn’t.

A woman with long black hair that gleams sapphire like Lorcan’s, and features as sharp as her alter ego, rises from a crouch, and although her shoulders don’t graze her king’s, she stands close.

A little too close for a subject, if you ask me.

Which, I’m aware, no one is asking me.

She doesn’t smile at me or thank me for being instrumental in her return. Maybe she hasn’t regained the use of her voice. She pivots toward Lore and says something in their tongue, proving that her vocal folds are, in fact, in tip-top shape.

He nods, eyes not leaving mine. “Imogen, meet Fallon. Cathal’s child.”

Her eyes taper on me, so I narrow mine right back. Childish, I’m aware. Finally, she nods; I don’t.

He steps toward the archway under which Phoebus and I stand. “I hope you’ll find our food to your liking, Fallon.”

I smile up at him, making sure it’s all teeth. “You know my love for carrion.”

A slow smile spreads over his mouth, and although he shows no teeth, I can feel them pressing into the curve of his lips. “We stock plenty of birdseeds. Phoebus, make sure she gets a generous ration?”

My friend, who isn’t my friend anymore, grins.

“Imogen, my chambers. Now. We’ve work to do.” I don’t watch him leave, but I do watch her follow.

She sticks so close that if he were in his other form, her head would be up his tail, lodged somewhere in that indent I once mistook for a detonating switch. I shove the visual aside and yank Phoebus forward. “Let’s leave them to their work.”

“Someone sounds—”

I elbow him in the ribs, cutting off both his speech and breath. Even though a door claps shut, these shapeshifters have exceptional hearing.

Besides, I’m not jealous.

I’d have to care about the winged male, and I absolutely don’t.





Two





The Sky Tavern, or Awhawben as Phoebus tells me it’s called, is excavated in the gray rock of Monteluce. Wooden beams support thick ropes strung with rows of glass lanterns. Every wick burns with a flame, providing light in the otherwise dusky cavern. Yes, there are windows, but they’re as minute as the ones in my cell.

Like the mural behind my bed, the walls are decorated with landscapes of chalk and ink. I study them thoroughly, and not because I find them pretty; I don’t. Just like I don’t find the wooden mezzanine with its driftwood furniture lovely in the least.

This prison may sit in the sky, but it’s still a prison. No amount of starlight will ever make it sparkle. To think I begged Lorcan for a glimpse of it the day we crested the mountain.

“Oh my Gods, you got her to come out of her room!” Sybille’s voice bangs against my eardrums.

I find her waving from a table in the corner—if an egg-shaped room can be considered to have corners. I’m glad to see the table sits under the mezzanine and not smack-dab in the middle for all to peer at, because all are peering. The room grows so quiet I can hear the sweeps of eyelashes amidst the charcoal-streaked faces twisted toward me.

Overwhelmed by the attention, I burrow into Phoebus’s side and tug him toward where Syb sits with Antoni, Giana, Mattia, and Riccio. “You didn’t warn me there’d be people,” I hiss.

“Not only is it mealtime but it’s a tavern. Since you used to work in one, I assumed you’d figure that out on your own.”

For some reason, it didn’t strike me that we’d run into anyone but my friends and a couple casks of wine. Said friends are watching me just as quietly as the rest of the patrons. Although it’s only been three days, I feel like Giana, Antoni, Riccio, and Mattia have aged years. The stress of the last few weeks have clearly taken their toll on the lot of them.

Sybille shoves Riccio aside so I can slip onto the bench between them.

Giana smiles at me from across the table where she sits beside Antoni. “So, what do you think?”