Page 16

I n the morning, sounds from the kitchen implied a rodent had dislodged every metal pot and pan from its hook.

Ambrose went to investigate and found Emery wearing pajamas and a black apron covered in flour.

It had writing underneath an embroidered picture of a cockerel.

He was in the process of kneading dough by stretching it against the flour-covered counter and occasionally slamming it down with an impact like a tree being felled.

Ambrose got the impression he was taking out some of his rage from yesterday’s failure on the yeast.

“What are you making?” Ambrose asked.

Emery leapt out of his skin. Katzica, begging at his heel, hadn’t alerted him to Ambrose’s presence. “Sweet hell, I need to put a damn bell on you.”

Ambrose wasn’t trying to be stealthy; he was naturally light-footed.

Emery turned around. “Cinnamon buns. I’m making cinnamon buns for Morcant’s stupid charity fundraiser tomorrow, so he can make a stupidly good impression on all the stupid faculty who believe his benevolent saint schtick.

All of us in the guild are required to participate.

Whatever, ignore the buns.” He grabbed a potion bottle of glimmering liquid off the windowsill and held it out to Ambrose.

His fingers left dustings of flour on the surface, and an oily, navy-blue decoction sloshed within.

A tag had been written and tied to the neck of the bottle, but Ambrose couldn’t read it.

“What’s this?” he asked, hoping Emery wouldn’t point to the label.

“It will help with your hormones,” Emery said.

“Whore … moans?” Ambrose repeated, trying not to appear as confused and insulted as he felt.

“Hormones. One word. Whatever magic the witch king used, it’s no longer effective. Plenty of trans men use this now.”

“Trans men.”

“That’s the word used nowadays. For men like you.

” Emery rambled, becoming more aggressive with the dough.

“Although, there’s other language and labels, and I won’t decide yours for you.

If you want a treatise on modern queer labels, we can check one out of the library.

That just seemed the most apt given what little you’ve shared. ”

Ambrose didn’t really catch the rest. He couldn’t stop rolling the word around his mouth like a new flavor, tasting its bitter sweetness with the same reverence as the chocolate.

In his life, there had been whispers of sainted monks who’d been born women and turned into men as acts of God, but there’d never been a name for them.

Not that he knew. Some people celebrated them, but most took a darker view of their existence, and it had been safer—given his position—to keep it secret.

To hear that there were entire books devoted to the subject left his heart torn between mourning and celebration.

“I had to brew it myself,” Emery said, dusting flour from his hands. “Getting a prescription may be … tricky. Given you’re, well, you . I’m quite adept with potions, though, and the formula is easy. I can’t guarantee the taste, but, well—”

Ambrose looked at Emery. A smear of flour painted a white streak on his cheek. His hair was damp from a sweaty night’s sleep, sleeves rolled above the elbows, fine-boned fingers flexing and stretching the dough, exertion making the veins stand out on his forearms.

He had a compelling physicality. Built like a fawn—tall and lanky—at once delicate and powerful. He often put forward an inhuman demeanor. Unfeeling.

Now, he looked messy. Real. He spoke idly, as if his generosity was inconsequential.

It was hard not to look a long time and see him anew.

“Thank you.” Ambrose tried to sound as grateful as he felt.

Emery paused, looking uncertain. “It was nothing.”

He busied himself kneading dough again.

Emery’s sweeping penmanship on the potion’s label mimicked the swoop of Ambrose’s heartbeat as he uncorked the bottle. He wasn’t afraid it was poison. Emery needed him. He wasn’t afraid it would put him under some thrall. The collar already did that.

He was afraid these moments would make him like Emery.

It was a risk Ambrose deemed worthwhile to ensure his body didn’t melt into one he didn’t recognize.

He downed the potion. It tasted like bonfire smoke, neither delicious nor repulsive.

“You’ll need them weekly.” Emery had rolled up the dough and stuffed it in a bowl, covering it with a thin see-through material.

He opened the refrigerator, absently searching for something to eat while he talked.

“I’ll batch-brew them later. For now, I wanted to discuss yesterday.

The plan didn’t work. The tomato Morcant ate, was it the hexed one? ”

“I don’t know,” Ambrose said.

“Mm, hard to track them rolling across the floor, I suppose. When he choked, I thought maybe—Yet he’s hideously alive and well.

” He pulled an apple from a drawer, rubbing it against his shirt.

“I wonder if he has a ward or talisman protecting against hexes and poisons, but he could have just as easily eaten a clean one.”

He bit into the apple, and abruptly his expression metamorphosed, the color draining from his face. He rushed to the sink and spat into it, dropping the apple in the process.

It rolled at Ambrose’s feet. He picked it up, examining the bitten spot, but there wasn’t any hole for a worm or sign of rot.

“What’s wrong?”

Emery shuddered, stomach heaving. “I’ve been hexed.”

Abruptly, Ambrose remembered the spell Hellebore cast as they’d left the catacombs last night. He’d been too distracted by the betrayals of his own body to recall, and felt a stab of guilt for not mentioning it sooner.

Rather than admit to it, he said, “Hexed how?”

“That tasted like … like—rotten would have been a mercy.” He hacked, ran the water in the sink and went to take a drink, only to spit that out, too. “ Everything tastes vile.”

It was beyond vile. If Emery couldn’t keep down food or water, the hex would kill him.

“Sod this,” Emery said. “He dies tomorrow. We need a plan. Maybe we shouldn’t rely too heavily on magic.”

Ambrose agreed, but killing Morcant wouldn’t remove this hex if the spell had been cast through a focus, like the one Hellebore used. “What do you propose?”

“Making it look like a heart attack didn’t work, so let’s try making it look like an accident.”

Ambrose understood that meant violence, and the hunger, which had been mysteriously quiet since yesterday, roared in his ears like a dam unleashed.

Beneath that, Ambrose had a scheme of his own.

After today, he owed Emery a debt. He was going to find that hexed object Hellebore had and destroy it so Emery need not suffer any longer.

The weather threatened rain on the day Morcant held a charity fundraiser for children with learning disabilities. Tents and stands had been erected in the gardens of Bellgrave’s castle grounds, selling crafts, jewelry, and baked goods.

Ambrose hung back invisibly beneath a tree in sight of Morcant, who stood beneath an enormous statue at the center of the garden.

It depicted a woman on rearing horseback, her hands gracefully flexed to cast a spell.

Ambrose could imagine the hand served as a torch, but for the moment it went unlit.

The sculptor had captured the majesty and regal nature of their subject well, but something about the face of the woman struck a familiar chord for him.

Emery stood next to Ambrose, leaning against a tree.

Over the past day, he’d eaten nothing and managed a few sips of water.

He looked sallow and weary for it. Ambrose found it difficult to parse his need to return Emery’s generosity with his instinct to protect the one who held his tether, but it unsettled him to see Emery so unwell.

He needed to find Hellebore and hope she kept the hex focus on her person.

It was not his only purpose here today. Emery had gone over the plan with him in detail.

He was to wait until Morcant gave a speech declaring how much money had been raised, and while he was standing beneath the statue, Ambrose would drop it on his head.

He’d need to use his abilities to destabilize the structure and bring it down.

Emery said, “It was a statue of the witch king, once.”

Ambrose shot him an incredulous look, then considered the statue again.

He saw the resemblance. The features had shinier areas where they’d been sheared down, and there were parts of the body where it appeared someone had smelted another material over the stone to form a bust. Some areas had been neglected, though, and Ambrose’s heart keened at the familiarity of the hands.

“Morcant’s always been obsessed with the witch king. I think he fancies himself a successor.” Emery’s mouth twisted. “Ironic that I found you first. He’d love to have you, instead.”

“And who is it now?”

“Hm?”

“The statue.”

“Ilonara Thorn. The witch king’s killer.”

It took monumental willpower not to grab Emery by the arm and demand more information, but Morcant’s water deer had clipped around the statue, its doe-eyed stare fixed on Emery. Morcant’s gaze soon followed.

“That’s my cue,” Emery muttered as he turned to go. For a moment, he paused, a hand in his pocket. Ambrose thought he could feel Emery’s finger traipse the length of his leash.

Emery hadn’t, so far, given him a compulsion order to kill Morcant. They’d discussed the plan, the methods. Was he debating whether to trust Ambrose or use the arcane collar?

Ambrose waited. Hunger rumbled like a distant storm in his gut. Emery pulled his hand out of his pocket and said, “Make sure you don’t miss.”

He stalked off. He didn’t go far enough to strain the tether of magic connecting them, but Ambrose still felt the minor distance as a subtle pull.

A whisper in his ear said, It doesn’t matter whether he orders you or not. We need Morcant dead if we’re to be reunited.

A flood of relief brought Ambrose up short. The witch king had returned.