The Tattooed Heart (Messenger of Fear 2)

He snorted. “Why, so I can understand?” His tone mocked the very idea.

“You don’t want to understand?”

He shook his head. “We’re trapped. The messengers are our jailers. The books are their way to convince us to accept our fate like it’s all part of some great, cosmic plan.”

“You have an alternative?” I asked, closing the book.

“You have anything to drink? I’m parched.”

Wearily I rose, walked to the kitchen, found a bottle of sparkling water, and brought it to him.

“Shame there’s nothing stronger,” he said. “If anyone deserved a glass of, I don’t know, something, it’s us.”

“I’m not feeling deserving,” I said shortly.

“I hope I’m not intruding,” Haarm said. “I wasn’t sure what the protocol was. No phone, not even a front doorbell to ring . . .” He grinned in what he surely meant to be a winning way and said, “I was half afraid I’d pop in here and you’d be changing clothes or just getting out of the shower. Well, half afraid, half, you know . . . hoping.”

I stared at him. I had a feeling I knew where this was going. Sure enough . . .

“You’re a very pretty girl,” he said.

“You’re kidding.”

“No, you are. You really are. I’ve always had a thing for Asian chicks.”

“Are you seriously hitting on me?”

“Look, we’re together, right, and it’s not like either of us has a lot of other options.”

I was having a hard time believing he was actually doing what he was clearly doing. Until he got up and came over to sit beside me on the couch. And then turned to face me.

“Are you seriously hitting on me?”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, you’re really cute and—”

“Are you insane?”

He drew back.

“What? Seriously? You’re going to fix my loneliness, are you? I’ve had better offers,” I snapped.

He laughed again. “From him?”

“From Oriax,” I said. “And believe me, whatever this is that you think you’ve got”—and here I waved a contemptuous hand in the general direction of his body—“however amazing you are in your own mind, believe me, Oriax is all that times a thousand. And I’m not even into girls.”

He stood at last. “Who’s Oriax?”

“You haven’t met her?”

He shrugged. “Maybe I did, I don’t always remember people’s names.”

This time it was my turn to laugh. “Believe me, Haarm, if you’d met Oriax, you’d remember. Now, get out of here. Really. Now.”

He shrugged, shook his head as if amused by my resistance, and disappeared. I retrieved Isthil’s book and though there was no mark on it, I brushed it reverently with my fingers before placing it carefully back on the table.

After the obnoxious apprentice was gone did I feel the silence and emptiness around me even more keenly? I am embarrassed to admit that I did.

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