Live to Venture (#0)

26 | The Dread of Adventure

Exhaustion set in as she shut the door to her corner room. Whale was on her pillow, dozing like the useless animal he was. She sat down on her bed and curled her knees up. It was late, and the Avourienne was sailing again. Bardarian's presence had momentarily put out her conversation with her father but now, with the dark, silent space of her room, it was all she could think about.

Her life felt very foreign, all at once. She had no blood looking out for her, no true friends. She was knee-deep in cold uncertainty.

What if she'd been raised by her father? Would she have killed her friends—Milia and Kiera, Edward, too? Would any of those people have become anything? How many innocent people would've had purpose if they hadn't been drawn into her destruction.

Novari thought of Bardarian, of the war he'd set into motion, the easy decision he'd made to switch from caution in the wake of her drama. Never in her life had someone defended her like that.

Novari thought of Everson, with his whispered threats and his aggressive fingers. Of her broken arm in his throat and his miraculous recovery, of her stale position in his bed.

They loved to call her a child, but maybe there was a point to it. She was just eighteen, just a kid in the end. She had too much to her, to early. Too much ambition, too much pride, too much talent.

Novari thought of her mother, dead by the moonpool, body resting on the ocean floor. She thought of Milia, throat slit. Edward's lifeless eyes on the ceiling, Keira's charred body. Her kill ring, so very detailed against her will. Oh, there was just too much to her.

She laid down, fingers out to touch Whale's head like a habit. The cat was useless and absurd, of course, but it was a certain comfort to have him constantly around her, someone that wouldn't ever hate her, wouldn't ever hold her flaws against her.

She closed her eyes, fingers drawing circles on the cat's head. "I don't hate you," she whispered, as if she would care. But it made a difference to her

The cat didn't purr in response, didn't lift his head. Novari glanced down, the air heavy. His fur was cold.

She sat up, leaning forward and giving the cat a little push, but he didn't move. Her heart stuttered as she lifted his still head.

The cat was dead. All of his whiskers were plucked from his nose, and blood matted his throat. He'd been bleeding out onto Novari's pillow for hours.

Novari stared at the cat, frowning. She couldn't believe this; why would someone kill the cat? It was just a harmless cat, but he'd been murdered, cut over the throat.

The cat was so cold, so still. She lifted his lifeless body into her lap, disturbed. Who would kill a cat? Who had a message to send to her, a torturous way about them?

She stood, rearranging the cat in her arms. She turned in a slow circle. What should she do with him? His head fell into her elbow, whiskers gone. She felt her bottom lip tremble a little, but she wasn't sure why. She opened her door and carried the cat down the hallway.

The deck was dark and silent, the waves soft as they reached up to the rail. Feeling incredibly fragile, Novari took the balcony steps. It was his cat; she should tell him what happened, shouldn't she? She knocked on the door.

It was late at night. He might not even be up; he probably wasn't up. But still, Novari waited. She looked down at Whale, so helpless. So helpless and dead. Just a cat, with its throat slit. Who would kill a cat? Who would push a cat off a bed? Who would whisper threats to Novari in the dead of night? Somebody awful, somebody she'd been warned against. Oh, was this her fault, too? Had she been responsible for this death and every other?