“There she is,” Daria laughed. “Queen Blastra. Go ahead, darling, burn me again. At least I’d be even,” she muttered, pulling the sleeve of her shirt back. A river of pink scars ran over her tan skin between tattoo ink and hatchling scratches.
“Healed fine,” Astra whispered, shame clutching at her throat.
“She get you yet, Commander?” Daria smirked. His eyes closed briefly, a million unreadable thoughts pulling at the corners of his lips. “Oh gods. She did, didn’t she?”
“It was self-defense,” Luxuros said, shrugging.
“It always is,” Daria returned, a hollowness to her tone that felt rather like a punch to Astra’s gut.
“Enough,” Ameera said. “We found Lumas.” She pulled a ledger from her bag and tossed it onto the ground before Daria’s cell. “We’ll be out of your hair tomorrow.”
Daria, for perhaps the first time in all their years together, had nothing more to say.
Chapter
Nineteen
Ameera drew in a sharp breath as they broke through the underground door to the surface just a block from the Crescent Manor.
“She almost made it twenty-four hours without showing her ass. I’m impressed,” she said, graciously waiting until they were out of rebel earshot to start her attack.
“She’s a fool, Ameera. That’s never been up for debate.”
“Well, we should stay out of her way. She’ll be miserable to deal with.” She slipped the bag off her shoulder and offered it to Astra. “Are you sure you’ll be okay tonight?”
“Of course. You deserve some fun,” Astra said, her eyes searching the street. “Be safe.”
“I’ll see you back home.” Ameera skipped off toward the treeline of the city’s center park, disappearing on a path toward the temple. Astra should have crossed the street and gone straight back to the manor, but she wasn’t ready to bury her head in books for the rest of the night. Ellume certainly wasn’t the city it once was, but it still had much more to offer than the palace.
“Tavern?” she asked as the commander’s mashed eyes squinted against the lamplights. “You look like you could use a drink, Commander.”
She didn’t wait for him to agree, but he followed her dutifully down the street and around the corner, into a dark tavern with a moonblossom carved into the door. The woman behind the bar looked surprised to see them and Astra worried she recognized her as part of the royal family, but a glance at Luxuros solved the mystery.
He was easily a head taller than anyone else in the room, and just about every angle of his face looked as if it had been mashed against the cobblestones outside. Many, many times. Astra pushed him toward a corner booth, stepping up to the bar.
“Two moonshines and can I get water and a clean rag? Oh! And two bowls of whatever that is,” she chirped, pointing toward a pot heating behind her. Whatever it was smelled plenty good enough for dinner. “Thank you.”
The bartender’s nerves flared in copper sparks as Astra took two steins of moonshine back to the booth, setting one in front of the commander, who looked about as ravaged as her bones felt. She returned to the bar and snagged the bowl of water and clean rag she’d asked for.
Luxuros held up a hand. “I’m fine?—”
“Shh,” Astra dismissed him. “This isn’t out of the kindness of my heart. The bartender’s ribs are going to crack from anxiety due to the bloody warrior brooding in the corner. Bad for business.”
She dabbed at the split in his eyebrow, the blood making it look much worse than the shallow cut was, thankfully. She moved on to a larger gash below his cheek, and then to his lip, his jaw tensing under her grasp.
“The hatchling scratches will have to be medicated. You don’t want an infection from those little fuckers. The maidens will have something back at the manor, I’m sure.”
Astra slid into the booth across from him as two bowls of stew appeared, the bartender’s eyes widening at the sight of the bloodied rag on the tabletop. As she turned around, Astra let the heat in her fingers sear, sending a spark to the edge of the cloth and incinerating it as Luxuros watched.
He did not say anything as the ashes crumbled to the floor. Instead, he focused his attention on the bowl. Astra tried to do the same, but the volume rose as dozens of frayed souls poured in after a long day’s work. Reds and oranges and yellows flickered as they decompressed, drowning her lungs and twisting her stomach.
“Breathe,” the commander said around a bite of stew, his eyes still glued to the bowl.
“I’m trying,” she insisted, swallowing against the bile rising in her throat.
“You’re panicking,” Luxuros said, setting his spoon against the rim of the bowl.
“I’m not panicking. I’m… sifting. Organizing.” She tried to tuck all the colors in the right boxes in her mind—exhausted purples in one, irritated reds in another—but they kept slipping away from her.
