Page 5 of These Godly Lies
The grin he wears is crooked, but the warmth in his eyes softens the teasing edge. “Not in the least.”
Anna huffs on a laugh, shaking her head and brushing the dirt from the knees of her overalls. “Yet you still sit there and watch me.”
“You’re a pleasure to watch.” He folds the paper and sets it aside, the breeze teasing the pages. “You enjoy this life. It looks beautiful on you.”
“I’m covered in dirt.”
When she steps close enough, he laces his fingers with her own, not shying away from the soil blackening her fingernails. Despite being without a jacket, his hands feel blissfully warm. “Hence why I have no plans of joining you. I will, however, happily run you a bath when you’re finished.”
“How chivalrous.”
“My motivations are much more selfish, I’m afraid. I have high hopes of joining you.”
She shakes her head, but her cheeks ache from the force of her smile. “I haven’t finished clearing out the beds. I want them to be ready for spring.”
“Spring is months away.”
“But it’s drynow.” She grants him a quick kiss before returning to her work. “I only have a few more to do, anyway.”
The sigh he gives is petulant. “Very well.” He eyes the way she’s bundled in her coat, the scarf high on her neck, and the humor in his voice drains away. “You look cold.”
“Itiscold,” she laughs, already wrapping her hands around a stubborn stalk and pulling it up by its roots. “But I’m fine.” She sets it aside and moves to the next one. “I’m just thankful the temperature never drops low enough for it to snow.”
She can feel his eyes on her, but the weight feels different. More studious than admiring. “Gloves would help,” he suggests, the offer unspoken but audible all the same.
He would bring her everything she could ever need or wish for if she let him. Since he’s returned to her, the garden has become more of a passion project than a chore; the food she gathers more for pride than necessity. She’s already had to remind him several times that shelikesproviding for herself in at least some capacity. Likes the way it fills her days and rewards her efforts with results she can measure.
“They’re cumbersome,” she says, but the words don’t fully capture her feelings. Her hands feel clumsy in gloves and, while they would provide her with warmth, they do little as far as protection. She can sink her hands into the earth without fearing what might be hiding beneath it. Once, her hand closed on a rock so sharp she’s certain her palm would have split if not for the immortal magic that flows through her.
The prick of pain only lasted a second. She’d much rather risk the occasional jab if it means being able to take comfort in the feel of soil parting around her fingers. Gloves may save her some discomfort, but they rob her of the feeling of connection, too.
“Why don’t you tell me a story?” she says, sending him a smile, her cheeks flush from the chill. “It’ll keep my mind off the cold.”
“You just want to keep me busy so I’ll stop needling you about going inside.”
Anna doesn’t bother denying it. “That had crossed my mind.”
His lips thin, but he leans his chin on the heel of his hand as hewatches her. He’s silent for so long, she begins to think he’ll refuse. When he does finally speak, his voice holds a weight that makes her go still.
“The First’s favorite son is his strongest,” he says. “Malik controls fire, births it from his palms and breathes it off his tongue the way dragons of myth and legend burned cities down to ashes.” He shrugs, leaning further into his seat and looking out over the horizon. “Dragons aren’t real, of course, but the damage he left in his wake was. He would burn his way across countries before The First finally put him on a shorter leash. He is the weapon he cannot control.”
“He’s also what Eira feared I would become,” he confesses with a wince. “The First gave him power before he was old enough to wield it. A child prone to destruction. No one could touch him without paying a price for it. According to Eira, he set fire to everything he touched his first century, and with everything that burned his anger grew.”
Anna swallows. Her hands lie limp in her lap. She’s not sure when they stilled, when she became more engrossed with Khiran’s words than the work in front of her. “Why are you telling me this?” The story feels too pointed, too random, to be without purpose.
“Because that’s one of the soldiers he will send.” The answer is wrapped in resignation. His gaze slides away. “And because I realized I have allowed my bitterness to leave you completely unprepared. You should know who we will be facing.”
Anna turns, sits with her back against the wooden trusses of her raised bed. The cold from the ground seeps through her denim, but with the anxious, prickling heat she feels in her chest it’s almost welcome. “Who else?”
He tells her of The Huntress and her ability to track magic the way a hound tracks a scent with just a touch. The Bladesmith who melds metal with her own blood to create weapons that can pierce gods. The Heartsinger who can snare any heart and play them like a puppeteer plucking and pulling at strings. The Timekeeper who can make a moment stand still.
Something nags at her. “Does Malik not have a title?”
He pauses, eyes dark with memories she’s afraid to know. “The Calamity.”
There’s an edge in his voice, a tightness in his expression, that sets her on edge. “You fear him.”
“We all do. He’s quick to temper and always catastrophic. There’s no controlling him. No reasoning with him. He’s a bomb waiting to go off and none of us are immune to his flames.”
