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She half expected him to refuse—she wasn’t clear on how the Presque Mort felt about alcohol—and for a moment, it looked like he would, eyeing the glass balefully.

“If you don’t help me drink this, I’ll just throw back the whole bottle,” Lore said. “I promise you don’t want that. I sing when I’m drunk, and I’m a very bad singer.”

Gabriel studied the glass a moment longer before plucking it from her fingers. “Fine.” He tossed back a swallow, pulling a face. “Apollius’s wounds, that’s awful.”

“But it is better than thinking about the situation in which we find ourselves.” Lore sat back on the carpet with her own glass, crossing her legs beneath her borrowed skirt. “I still don’t know how I’m supposed to get close to Bastian. Or why we had to attend his extremely… eccentric… Consecration.”

“It won’t be hard,” Gabriel said darkly, taking another sip of wine. He avoided the subject of the Consecration entirely. “Like August said, Bastian likes pretty people. Just let him come to you.”

“That could’ve been a compliment, if you didn’t say pretty with the same tone that most people say pus.” Lore tossed back the rest of her vinegary wine and poured more. “But this is the most words you’ve said to me since yesterday, so I suppose I should be grateful.”

Gabriel said nothing, staring down into the crimson depths of his glass. “Being here is… difficult,” he said finally.

They sat in silence for a moment. “I’m sorry,” Lore murmured.

He looked at her, then, brows lowered. “Sorry for what?”

“That you have to stay here. With me.”

He snorted. “You’re not the worst company in the Citadel.”

“You really need to work on your compliments.”

Gabriel lifted his wine her direction, a mock toast. She raised her glass in kind, and they both drank.

It was strangely easy, being with the Mort. He wasn’t one to talk, but his silence was soothing, like sitting with an old friend, someone you’d known for ages.

Lore frowned into her wine. She’d barely known Gabriel for two whole days; their relationship began with a fight in an alley. And he was obviously deeply loyal to Anton, while Lore didn’t really trust the Priest Exalted or his brother. Getting too comfortable with the one-eyed Mort was surely not a good idea—and she knew better, besides. What was it about him that made her want to toss out years of experience teaching her trust was a commodity to be hoarded?

It was probably nerves. Nerves and desperation, making her cling to whatever seemed solid. When Lore was cast adrift, she wasn’t the type to let the current take her. She was the type to scramble for an anchor, no matter how ill-advised it may be.

She waved a hand toward her face, eager for something else to think about. The wine made her land on a less-than-tactful subject. “So. You have one eye.”

“Astute observation.”

“How badly did it hurt?”

His fingers lightly touched the patch again. “Bad,” he said, after a stretch of quiet. Then, low and vehement, “Really fucking bad.”

“You drink and you curse.” Lore arched her brow. “They apparently aren’t sticklers in the Presque Mort about anything other than celibacy.”

“Oh, no, they’re sticklers. But fourteen years of holy life hasn’t refined all the worldliness out of me just yet. A personal defect.” He tossed back the rest of the wine and strode to the fireplace. Cut wood was piled on a golden stand next to it, and he threw a few logs on the bricks, then set about searching for a match. “Holiness takes a while to set in, apparently.”

“If ever.” Lore watched Gabriel’s fruitless search for a match a moment longer, then set down her now-empty glass and headed for the doorway into the hall. “Hold on, there’s an easier way.”

In the hall, Lore grabbed one of the lit candles from the Bleeding God’s Heart candelabra. “Put this in the fireplace, then feed it wood,” she instructed as she came back in the room, passing the candle off before sitting back down on the couch. “Unfamiliar with setting fires?”

“Not necessarily.” Gabriel removed the wood he’d already set, then chose some smaller pieces, holding one above the candle’s flame. “Unfamiliar with stealing candles from depictions of the Bleeding God’s Heart to do it, though. That’s technically a sin.”

“Five minutes, and I have wholly undermined your divine sensibilities. And most of the candles had burned out, anyway, so clearly no one in this turret was feeling pious.”

“That’s the Court of the Citadel for you. If the piety can’t be seen, it doesn’t matter.” Gabriel sat back on his heels, watching flames lick up the kindling, catch on the logs. “So what’s your story, if that’s the game we’re playing? I’m assuming it’s nothing quite so dramatic as having your eye ripped out by the heir to the Kirythean Empire. So was it a more mundane near-death experience? Some accident that left you with power and your family afraid?”

And Bleeding God help her, for a moment, Lore considered telling him the truth. Her mouth was open to let it all spill out—well, you see, I was born in the catacombs and I’ve been able to channel Mortem for as long as I can remember—and she choked the words back just in time.

Dammit. That feeling of familiarity that plagued her when it came to this man was more than irritating. It was dangerous.

She recovered with a sip of wine. “Fell off a bridge, drowned for a minute. Came back. Family wasn’t into it, so they kicked me out when I was thirteen.”