Malakai and Mila had explicitly asked a different Storyteller about it, and she’d claimed there was no record of an Angelcurse. Yet Aimee had given us clues. It had bothered me ever since; there had to be a reason.
“After learning more about Mila’s Reflector magic, I got thinking about godly powers and how they lingered on Ambrisk today through things like Storytellers,” I elaborated in a low whisper that had Tolek leaning in. “I was talking to Erista about Xenique’s demigoddess abilities, too, and how they connect to Artale. The Goddess gave her extra protections and blessings. Knowing more about those could help us figure out how to combat whatever demigods Echnid and the gorgons throw at us.”
Not to mention that I’d been desperate to speak with Aimee ever since I’d woken up in Damenal over a month ago. That need squirmed within me as we got closer.
Tol nodded, scanning my body and taking a step toward me. With a desire-drenched stare, he skimmed my neck with his fingertips. Goose bumps erupted as he whispered, “Let’s find ourselves a Storyteller, Alabath.”
And then he turned down the hall, leaving me with a frustrating craving burning through me.
I groaned, Tolek laughed, and we wound our way through the labyrinthine corridors, not stopping as we had last time. Not until we were once again in the Storyteller nest, plush divans, ornate chandeliers, and rich silks adorning the wide space.
No writhing bodies pleasured themselves in here. Only clusters of shawl-wrapped Storytellers and those who listened to their tales. My heart thudded in my chest as we scanned the group, Tolek’s hand firm in mine.
Last we were here, Aimee had hinted us toward the Gates of Angeldust. And if I was correct, she’d seemed apprehensive. I hadn’t understood at the time, but perhaps she’d known what I’d unleash by going there.
Perhaps shefeared it.
The possibility had been nagging at me more the further I got from Echnid’s influence. The more I tried to unravel a way to slay the heart of his schemes. Aimee had to be the answer.
“Do you see her?” I muttered to Tolek.
My heart rate increased with each unfamiliar face I searched. Each creased brow or wide-eyed stare that met mine.
“I don’t,” Tol said, stretching out the words like he was reluctant to say them. Like the distress clawing at my chest was seeping off me with the ether that tumbled around my wings.
“She has to be here.” My voice piqued, anticipation pinching my lungs. I pulled Tol deeper into the room, our boots scuffing over the silks trailing the floor. “She has to.”
Something tugged at my hand, and I spun to a stop.
“Breathe,apeagna,” Tol said, cupping my cheeks. I hadn’t realized I was panting. “We’ll find her.”
He was so calm, the counter to my harried panic. My gaze flicked between his eyes, searching his expression as he pressed my hand to his heart and let the beat restore my own.
A gold tendril peeked above the collar of his leathers, and I focused on it. On the tattoo he’d gotten for me—one that may not be imbued ink and may not bind our souls but sealed a promise between us.
With that thought, my pounding heart slowed.
I looked around the room with fresh eyes and met the intrigued stare of a sandy-haired male Storyteller leaning beside the door, arms crossed and heat in that piercing look.
“There,” I muttered, tugging Tolek after me.
“I remember you two,” he greeted as we approached. His gaze draped across us, lingering on Tol. I curved my wing behind him, pulling him a step closer.
“We’re looking for someone,” I snapped.
The man lifted his brows, amused. “Who?”
“Aimee. She’s a Storyteller here.”
The man tilted his head. “There’s no one here by that name.”
I groaned.Of course,she wasn’t here. “Will she be returning soon?”
The man straightened, hands slipping into his pockets. “You misunderstand. There is no Storyteller here by the name of Aimee. There never has been.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Ophelia
