Seeker (Riders #2)(87)

He surprises me by smiling.

"What?"

"This is new for me," he says. "I've never done anything like this-bared my weaknesses. But I want to be honest with you to prove to you I've changed. I suppose I'll wind up telling you all of them before this is over."



       
         
       
        

"I won't live that long."

He laughs, taking my comment as a joke, instead of an insult like I meant it. I'm about to correct him-but I don't.

"Shall we keep on?" he asks. "This isn't the most welcoming part of Gray Fort."

We continue down the corridor. Then up the corridor as the ground slopes higher. We take several more turns. I try to remember them-it seems important that I should be able to retrace my steps-but our path seems too random and my composure is a tenuous thing, requiring my total concentration.

Finally, we reach wooden steps. Beside them are casks of wine, I think, judging by the pungent smell, and sacks of potatoes or grain. Samrael climbs the steps and pushes a hatch in the ceiling up with his shoulders. It slams open, detonating clouds of dust.

"Sorry," he says, frowning. "I should've warned you, it's dusty."

Yes. Because dust in my hair is a major concern for me right now.

We climb into a dim storeroom-a pantry. The door at the end is ajar, and the light spilling through illuminates the shelves against the walls stacked with ceramic bowls, wicker baskets, and thick glass jars. Smells invade my nose. Thyme, basil, and garlic. Other herbs and spices that remind me of home-cooked meals and holidays, which jars me. Nothing about this is comforting.

We enter an old-fashioned kitchen with an open cooking hearth, a long heavy wood table at the center and several more along the walls, all lit by candlelight.

"I thought there were other people?" All I want to see is a search party, gathered and ready to go.

"Asleep at the moment. You'll meet them in the morning. We'll organize then."

A cast-iron pot hangs over glowing embers of the cooking hearth. My traitorous mouth waters as its smell wafts over. Some kind of savory stew or soup. The loaf of bread on the table doesn't help. There's also a haphazard pile of fruits and vegetables scattered across the wood surface, like someone tucked the best of the day's yield into their shirt and poured it out.

"Are you hungry?" he asks.

"No."

He knows I'm lying.

"I don't want to eat."

"Tomorrow, perhaps." He hands me a candleholder, takes one for himself, and then leads me out into a foyer with sweeping dual stairs. Details glimmer from the darkness-chandeliers and crystal sconces. Ornate chairs, and fabric walls swirling with gold thread making elaborate designs. This place must have been grand once, but its glory has faded.

I wonder at its origin. The Smith Cabin is somewhere behind me, in the depths of the forest. It came from me-my life. Is this house Samrael's? From some ancient corner of his life? 

"There are plenty of spare rooms on the second floor," Samrael says, stopping at the base of the stairs. "Mine is the first on the left. You can have your pick of the rest. With Sebastian gone, we'll be the only ones here."

"It's just us?" I don't like this arrangement. It's a huge house-it should be alive with other people.

"Sorry to disappoint."

"It's fine. Which room was Bastian's?"

"Turn right at the top. Then it's at the far end on the right."

I don't know what to say to him-Good night? Thanks for letting me stay in your creepy house? So I climb the steps without a word, conscious of his attention on me.

I slip into the room at the far end on the right. Inside, I turn the lock. Test the knob. Repeat both steps. Then I look at my new room, which was Bastian's for so many months.

The decor is like the rest of the house. Ornate but tired. Furniture spiraled and claw-footed, as though it could spontaneously animate like everything else in the Rift.

I thought that maybe by taking this room it would feel warmer or more known somehow, but it doesn't.

I'm not sure what I expected. It's not like Bas was able to bring photos from home to personalize this space. There is a guitar in the corner that I'm sure he used while he lived here, but it's an odd-looking one, the body round instead of curved. When I pluck one of the strings, the tinny sound it makes sends a shiver down my spine.

I find a connected bathroom with rudimentary exposed plumbing. A claw-foot tub, of course. But I can't imagine bathing here. Or sleeping here. Or spending another minute here.

There's a mirror-and I scare myself with my own reflection. I look savage. Feral. Determined. And wounded.