House of Pounding Hearts (The Kingdom of Crows #2)(4)

“Of?”

She gestures to the tavern. “The Sky Kingdom.”

“I like our earthly one better. It’s more colorful.”

Phoebus, who lowers himself beside Riccio, flips his shoulder-length locks back, exposing his peaked ears. Although proud of my friend for not hiding what he is, I worry a Crow will morph into a bird and peck off the points. “She’s only traveled from her bedroom—”

“—cell,” I correct.

Phoebus rolls his eyes. “From her cell to here, so she hasn’t seen much of it.”

“I’ve seen more than enough.” I pile my hands in my lap, atop the scratchy pants Giana lent me after she arrived with Bronwen. They balloon around my thighs, which have grown as reedy as they were before my first blood cycle.

Even though Nonna is not a curvy woman, my thinness would horrify her. All things considered, though, my gaunt body would probably give her little pause in comparison to the news of my lineage. My heart gives a painful squeeze at the idea of her finding out.

“How have you been?” Antoni’s voice springs me out of my glum contemplations.

“Deeply annoyed. And you?”

“Impatient to receive my boat.”

“I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you. Lorcan doesn’t need you anymore, so he has no reason to get you a boat.”

The few conversations buzzing around us stop after I utter the Sky King’s name.

Mattia’s bushy blond eyebrows bend. “He promised us one, and he’s kept his other promises. Why so negative?”

“I don’t know . . .” I shrug. “Could have to do with the fact that he’s holding me hostage.”

“Because you’re the only person who can handle both obsidian and iron, Fallon.” Riccio raises a tankard of something to his lips.

Thanks to Sybille nudging her drink in front of me, I find out it’s wine, but it’s not bubbly like the one we drink in Luce; it’s flat and earthy, like sun-warmed berries crushed against loamy soil. Delicious.

Obviously, if asked, I’ll pretend to thoroughly dislike it. I drain the contents of the metal goblet before smacking it down on a tabletop that’s so black I assume it’s obsidian, but the surface is grainy and full of knots like wood. Not to mention that obsidian is poisonous to Crows.

“Hey, Connor,” Phoebus calls out to the brown-skinned male with blackened eyes who’s carrying a platter of drinks to a nearby table. “Tuiladh fìn ag bìdh mars’adh.”

As Connor replies with a nod, my fingers tighten on the stein, the foreign syllables running on a loop inside my mind—twilaw fine ag bye marsaw. Not one is familiar, but then again my knowledge of my father tongue consists of ten words or less. “Since when do you speak Crow?”

“Since yesterday. Connor is giving me lessons.” Phoebus trails the barkeep—tavern owner?—with his eyes. Does anyone own anything in this realm or does everything belong to Lore?

“Why?” I ask.

“Because I thought it was the congenial thing to do while we live amongst them.”

Sybille presses her mouth to my ear. “Also, Pheebs is trying to get into that male’s pants.”

I blink at Phoebus. “What about Mercutio?”

He stabs his fingers through his golden hair. “What about him?”

“You liked him.”

“Well, you liked Dante.” Phoebus turns back toward me. “And look how that turned out.”

I sandwich my lips. “Except Mercutio didn’t discard you into the enemy realm.”

“Crows aren’t the enemy, sweetie.” Sybille wraps one hand around mine and squeezes my fingers gently.

I steal my hand from hers and return it to my lap. How can she say this when they’re keeping me locked up here?

“I’m glad you finally saw Dante’s true colors,” Giana says while Antoni watches my face for a reaction.

Since I neither want to think about Dante nor dissect our obsolete relationship, I change the subject. “So, what else have the lot of you been doing besides converting to Crowism?”

Riccio snorts. “Crowism.”

“Resting, exploring, meeting new people.” Gia steals a crumb of cheese off a wooden platter littered with fruit rinds and blackened vegetable stems. “Communicating is challenging as most Crows don’t speak Lucin, but the few who do help us translate.”

A girl with braided, inky hair and inkier eyes glides through the tavern as though she were more serpent than bird. She stops beside our table and smiles. It’s not that I was expecting her to growl or caw . . .

All right, I was.

“Gia, álo.”

Giana snaps her gray eyes onto the newcomer. I don’t miss the fierce glitter that turns them silver. “Hello, Aoife.”

“You room for one more?”

“Of course.” Giana shuffles to make room for Eefah.

“You must be Fallon. Such a pleasure to make meeting.”

“To meet you,” Phoebus corrects her.

“Ah, tà. To meet you.” The words unspool with accents on all the wrong syllables. Where Lucin sounds like harp music, Crow sounds like rocks jouncing down a riverbed—raw, wet, and guttural.

The woman’s smile exposes teeth that are slightly crooked yet don’t take away from her overall attractiveness—a beauty that both Giana and Riccio have clearly noticed.