He holds his hand out for the pill, and confused, I hand it back to him. “Are you not going to let me take it?”
“No,” he says harshly, dropping the pill onto the distressed wood of the table and then crushing it to dust with his palm. “You will never take these pills while under my roof. If you know what’s good for you, Na’vazēm, you won’t take them at all.”
His jaw tightens.
I part my lips to ask the question burning at the back of my throat—dancing at the tip of my tongue—but then I close my lips again instead. Not sure I want to know the answer to it.
What are the pills for?
As though reading my thoughts, Kincaid says, “They are not what you think they are.”
Suddenly, the food I’ve eaten weighs heavily in my stomach, and I have to press a palm to it to quell the urge to be sick.
“What are they for?”
Kincaid turns his yellow eyes back on me, and in them I see an unfettered fury burning wild and hot. “They’re poison,” he spits. “Diablim take them to null their abilities. To suppress their demon blood so they may walk among humans undetected. Take enough of them, and apparently you can live undetected on the other side of The Hinge for almost two decades.”
I don’t ask how he knows my age. I assume he got the information however he got the other info about Silva and what happened to me. Which means he may have somehow gotten access to my file. A burning urge to tell him what he found there isn’t true, that I’m not crazy, rises like fire in my gut. I snuff it out though and keep my lips sealed tight. I have nothing to prove to this Diablim.
Let him think I’m certifiably insane.
Maybe he’ll keep his distance.
“You’re sure?” I ask, still digesting the news that the pills Ford has made me take all my life were not for my illness.
That it’s likely true I have no illness at all.
That he probably died by Diablim hands trying to obtain more of them—though that part at least brings me comfort.
“Yes, Na’vazēm. It’s true.”
Bile rises in my throat and hot, angry tears burn in my eyes. “I’m not sick.”
It isn’t a question, but Kincaid answers me anyway. “No. You are not. At least, not in the way you were led to believe. The poison surely made you weak. Made you feel ill. But soon, what remains of it in your blood will be gone.”
He doesn’t say any more, but I can tell he wants to. I can almost hear the words he resists putting out into the world.
Once the poison is out of my bloodstream, there will be nothing to stop whatever part of me is Diablim from coming out.
The room Kincaid gives me is the one I snuck out of two days before. It doesn’t escape my notice that a new window has been installed. More modern, without any latches or locks. No way to open it at all.
Joy.
At least there is a window. It isn’t a luxury I had in my room back home.
No. Not home. It was never home.
I wish I’d been specific in my bargaining for a proper room and had asked for one with a bath instead of a shower, but it’s a little late for that.
To make it tolerable, I wad up a swath of my toga sheet and stopper the drain with it. The shower has a small square base and glass walls. The base is large enough that I can fill it with about five inches of water from the showerhead.
So that’s what I do. Once the drain is plugged, I twist the handle and step away, waiting for it to be filled with my pulse skittering in my ears and a tight, hollow feeling in my gut. Once it’s near to spilling out the door, I reach in quickly and turn it off.
The MacGyvering does the trick. It’s hardly pleasant, but at least when I come out smelling of the Diablim’s honey-lavender soap, I’m the cleanest I’ve been in nearly a week.
Thank fuck because honestly? I was starting to itch.
There’s only one towel and my toga is in tatters from using it to stopper the drain. With limited options, I wrap myself tightly in the towel and exit the bathroom in search of something else to put on until Kincaid makes good on his promise to get me clothes.
I really hope the fact that I wasn’t more specific about what sort of clothes I wanted doesn’t backfire. If Kincaid has a thing for trickery, he could get me clown clothes. Or skimpy little bralettes and booty shorts. Thankfully, I don’t think he’s the sort to do either. But I’ve been wrong before.
I’m still thinking about all the ways Kincaid might be able to mess with the terms of our bargain when all my thoughts go tumbling from a cliff. I’m readjusting the towel, holding it wide to tuck one side of it more firmly to keep it from sliding down when I come face to face with Kincaid.
He’s sitting on the sheet-covered bed, one elbow perched on a knee, his thumb and forefinger stroking his chin. His golden-yellow eyes catch the glint of sunlight streaming in from the window. The light makes his irises look like polished yellow sea-glass. Or warmed honey.
I nearly slip, my wet feet sliding over the old hardwood, but regain my composure, snapping the towel back shut as a scalding blush crawls up my neck and into my cheeks.
“Fuck!” I shout, surprising even myself with the volume of the curse.
“You have an interesting way of taking a shower.”
My knuckles whiten with my grip on the towel, and I breathe deeply to lower my blood pressure.
“Humans are such prude creatures. It’s a shame you weren’t raised properly, among your own kind.”
I glare at Kincaid. Trying not to think about the fact that I just full-on flashed him. It’s too mortifying.
“You could have knocked,” I practically growl. “Or waited outside.”
He says nothing, and his gaze never once strays from my face.
Sighing, exasperated, I turn around to fix the towel, tucking the corner deep in between my breasts to make sure it stays put this time. “What do you want, Kincaid?”
“I’ve come to make good on my promise. We’re going to purchase clothing.”
I turn, needing to see his expression—to make sure he isn’t joking. “We?”
His brow lifts. “If you’d rather I select them for you, that can be—”
“No,” I rush to say, the word coming out maybe a little too forcibly. “No, that’s okay. I’ll go.”
No way I’m letting him decide what I’m going to wear if I can help it.
“Good,” he rises to leave.
“What about the boy?” I call after him before he can step out the door. “The healer?”
He pauses but does not turn.
“I’ve made the inquiry. Now we must wait.”
A start, I suppose. I’m about to ask how long he thinks before he’ll get an answer when he vanishes from the room. His rich voice booms from the hallway outside, “Be downstairs in five minutes.”
That’s when I notice what he set next to him on the bed and grimace. It’s my clothes. My jeans and black tank top. The left strap of the tank is torn. The jeans are covered in blood, dirt, and grass stains. So much so that it almost looks like some morbid work of abstract art.
Almost.
The smell gives them away as being just as dirty as they look.
I glance between them and the door, briefly considering asking Kincaid if he wouldn’t mind my borrowing something of his, but decide against it.