Page 82 of Reaper's Quest

Guilt over having laid the burden of Raven’s injuries upon her fought to break through the surface of his resolve, yet he refused to give the emotion any leverage. Despite his surprise and irritation—to name a mere drop in the well ofhis inner turmoil—at finding Raven as he had, he’d managed to hold his controlled mask in place.

He had a handle on this. Whateverthiswas.

This thing with Raven and her companions had turned out to be a glorious, intriguing puzzle he would master. Far too much time had passed since he had something new and challenging to set his focus upon.

Especially someone as devilishly stimulating as Raven.

Camilla set a cup in front of him with a heavy hand, and her usual scent of fresh linen and daisies, mingled with hints of rosemary, mint, and sage, fought with the new additions of Raven’s arrival?blood and disinfectant. “I suppose you expect me to care for the girl until she’s well enough to walk out of here on her own accord?”

He understood Camilla’s anger. Anger directed at him for bringing Raven here. But in the moment, he hadn’t known what else to do. Carry Raven all the way back to the pub? Allow her to bleed out on the street?

Neither had been an option.

Leaning deeper into the chair arm, he rubbed his chin and stared at Raven in the next room, as if a longer gaze would produce answers to the questions swimming in his head.

He was certain she was no trader. Nor was she a smuggler. The fact that Aoes sensed a familiarity in Chace’s personal energy to something that had visited the citadel some twenty years ago left far too many questions regarding the other members of the party—the old male and Raven.

“Well?” Camilla pushed. “I’m not a healer or some scullery maid.”

“I know. And I’m sorry. But can you please help me?” Hemet Camilla’s gaze for a split second, then he shifted his attention back to Raven. “Help her?”

“What is she to you anyway?” Camilla crossed her arms and took a seat across from him.

With her lips pursed and her expression pinched, if Winter hadn’t known better, he would have suspected Camilla of being jealous.

A notion he found utterly ridiculous, because she loved another.

Still, she would miss a day of work because of him. And should she agree to help nurse Raven back to health, she would likely miss more days—more wages. He would pay her, of course. It was the least he could do.

But to answer Camilla’s question…

“She’s…”

He studied Raven. Although she slept, the slumber didn’t appear blissful. She jerked and twitched more often than not. How he wished he could see whatever visions plagued her. Her dreams, or nightmares, might answer a few questions—or pose many more.

“A mystery,” he finally replied. “And I haven’t enjoyed a good mystery in a long while.”

“Who has?” Camilla deadpanned. “Aside from…”

She tipped her head.

Aside from the mystery of Winter’s missing brother—father to Camilla’s twins. Winter’s family would never acknowledge the connection. But he did.

His brother August had been missing for ages. So long, in fact, that Winter liked to believe August had been outside of the citadel when the curse and subsequent defenses were activated. That he’d managed to live a normal, happyexistence beyond the stagnation. One not trapped in the forever of not dying or not aging.

The only positive Winter could see in the citadel’s current state was if August had still been around, his extracurricular activities wouldn’t have borne him any more illegitimate children because the curse also brought the inability to produce future generations.

The Citadel of Veritas had long ago become both vegetated and deceased.

At least I’m not forever trapped at the tender age of eight, like the twins. Thank the immortal gods for that small favor.

In the next room, at Raven’s side, one of the girls giggled.

Winter shifted his chair so that he could reposition the twins into his view. They’d finished braiding Raven’s hair and had moved to a new vigil position on the far side of her resting body. Since Myla refused to leave Raven’s side, they both remained close.

As twins, the girls shared many things—birthdays, likenesses, mannerisms, clothing, and toys. As if they shared a brain, they would speak identical words or jump into matching actions at the same time. But the day Myla fell ill, those many things shifted and changed. Her skin had paled, her eyes glazed.

She’d lost interest in most things outside of drawing, then she withdrew into herself and began using her sister as her communicator and buffer against the world. Aoes called Myla partly dead, but Winter couldn’t bring himself to think of his niece in that manner. She was ill, and someday she would get better.