uncomfortably. “I don’t know that I do.” And he wasn’t telling her what she’d purchased those powers with, she couldn’t help but notice. “Why me?”
He shrugged. “Call it a whimsy of my character. I have certain preferences for my warlocks.”
“Warlocks?” she said, emphasizing the plural.
“You aren’t exactly my first,” he said with a chuckle.
Farideh started to ask him who the others were—whether they, too, were caught in the net of their own fears and wants, whether they were afraid of him, whether they were pretty—and stopped herself. She didn’t want to know.
He set his hands on his hips. “Come now,” he said after a moment, “what are you thinking?”
“That you don’t seem dangerous,” she admitted. “Which makes me suspect you are very dangerous.”
“I hope that is not a logic you apply to your everyday life.”
“No,” Farideh said. “Just devils … and the like.”
“I’m only half a devil.”
“That’s enough like a devil.” Her voice hitched, and she pressed a hand to her mouth, willing herself not to cry again. But it was too much and the tears overcame her.
“Oh Hells,” he said, holding out a hand, “come here.”
She didn’t know how he snatched her wrist away from the layers of the blanket, how he pulled her free of it and to her feet, but as soon as she realized he was moving and she should stop him, Lorcan had her tucked against him, her back pressed to his chest, his arms wrapped around her.
“You’re freezing,” he commented. Fortunately he was warmer than the fire.
She stiffened, and kept her eyes resolutely on Mehen’s sleeping form. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Proving you haven’t doomed yourself. Really, I’m a pleasant enough fellow if you give me a chance.”
She was sure in her heart of hearts that Lorcan would say anything if it meant she’d stay bound to him. But that night, far from home and far from any future, she was still seventeen, still a girl, and still desperately lonesome. She stayed where she was.
“Why me?” she said. “You said … ‘the king of the Hells’ own blood.’ Is that why?”
“
All
tieflings have the blood of Asmodeus,” he said. “Regardless of who first dirtied the well. An effect of the ascension—it’s terribly boring. Don’t worry about it.”
Farideh pursed her lips. “I don’t like people telling me what to think.”
“Fascinating. How do you feel about people telling you what to
do
?”
He snatched up her hands in his own. Her breath caught—her double concerns twining over each other. She’d heard stories enough of people who lost their souls by not paying close enough attention to canny devils.
But at the same time no one had ever grabbed her hands like that. Lorcan’s hands were strong, and she found herself considering how much larger than hers they were.
If he held tight, she didn’t think she could break away.
“Close your eyes,” he said.
She gave a little shake of her head. She didn’t want to, and yet she did. She wanted to see what he was going to try—it wasn’t as if anyone had tried anything on her—but she wasn’t a fool and she knew he was up to no good.
“Close your eyes. Think about your burn,” he said. “And think about the world.”
“The whole world?”
“Yes. Think about Toril.”
Tempted, Farideh tried, but it was like trying to think about how to walk or how the color yellow looked—Toril was Toril. She opened her eyes.
“I don’t know how—”
“Stop talking,” he said, “and concentrate.”
Farideh closed her eyes again, and instead, thought of the ground. The way it felt to stand solid and to spread her weight between both feet in one of Mehen’s fighting stances. She thought of the cold, dry air and the wind that stirred the snow over the solidness of the mountains. She thought of the sun and Selûne looking down at her, and the color of the moon goddess’s light on the rocks and the snow.