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There’s something wrong with the hold of the airship. It’s not that anyone is in there – Imogen would be able to feel them – but the silence has its own strange quality. Like the space in the gum where a tooth should be: empty, soft, painful to the touch. Wrong. She doesn’t say anything about it during dinner, but she goes back to prod at it again and again; Orym notices, Laudna notices. Neither of them give her crap about it, but they both watch her with the same identical furrowed brow of worry. I’m fine, she whispers in Orym’s head, and in Laudna’s she whispers there’s something weird with the ship.
Really? Laudna hums back, even though her mouth is full of soup. Should we investigate? Is it Dus—Yu, do you think?
Oh, no.
It probably is.
It probably isn’t, Imogen says. Maybe just rats.
Laudna sits bolt upright at that, startling Fearne out of her lavish description of the Feywild; everyone turns to look at them, Imogen and Laudna. (What a relief it is.) (To be Imogen and Laudna again.)
“What’s wrong with you?” Ashton says.
“I think Pâté may be polyamorous,” Laudna blurts, and Imogen bites down on the smile – Laudna doesn’t even know what’s going on, but she’ll still cover for Imogen. Also, she may have earnestly been thinking about setting Pâté up with rats from the cargo hold. Which is sweet.
“Well,” Letters says, “good for him. There’s all sorts of healthy ways that relationships—”
“What about…” (Orym seems wildly in over his head.) “Uh, the puppet—”
At the same time, Laudna, Imogen, and Ashton say: “Sashimi.”
“…right, is she…also polyamorous?”
“You know,” Laudna says cheerfully, “I haven’t asked. I’ll…inquire.” And she pulls out her bag and rummages around, finding Sashimi, making a horrible clatter that leaves a space big enough for Imogen to climb through and leave the conversation. She knows Orym sees her leave; he’s sweet to her, he doesn’t follow. They all let her go. Down below the deck, and a level lower than that. The cargo hold is filled with boxes and barrels whose contents are a mystery to Imogen; some of them have the ingredients to make soup, surely, and the rest…contraband? Explosives? Fae shit that they shouldn’t let an assassin anywhere near? All of the above?
And speaking of.
Yu has settled into a crate full of furs; they are painting their nails with sticky black polish from a beautiful crystalline bottle. When they hear Imogen’s footsteps they perk up – Imogen thinks of Laudna, feels sick, tries to stop – and then they see Imogen, and wilt again.
“Oh,” they say. “It’s you.”
“Yeah,” Imogen says, “it’s me. Sorry it’s not one of the dateable members of the party, I guess. What do y—”
“Imogen,” they say, their voice settling immediately and luxuriously into a purr. “Are you jealous?”
“No,” Imogen snaps.
“Because you seemed very preoccupied with your own cute little relationship drama, so I didn’t want to intervene – but if you wanted to spend some…time together—”
“Shut up,” Imogen says. “Do you ever stop talking? No, I just want to know what the hell you think you’re doin’ here.”
Yu stares at Imogen: the endless black void of their eyes. Slowly, they look down to their nails. They look back up to her. They open their mouth.
“If you say I’m just paintin’ my nails, Imogen, I will scream at the top of my lungs.”
They close their mouth, splay out their hands in the universal gesture of fine, fine, geez. “I told you I would be following you,” they say. “What had you expected, exactly?”
“That you wouldn’t be able to keep up.”
“That’s offensive. I’m a professional, you know.”
Imogen can feel her hands closing into fists. “Some professional. You didn’t even do your job because – what – you were, you were attracted to—”
“Would you like me to do my job?”
“No.”
“Hm. Then it seems it’s actually for the best that I was attracted to…whose name were you going to say there?” Before Imogen can say anything, they laugh. The sound is a thrilled and throaty growl. “You don’t have to answer. It doesn’t take a telepath to know, darling.”
“That wasn’t,” Imogen says, “I wasn’t—” but it’s too late: they have shifted into Laudna. Laudna. Laudna, sprawled out in the middle of all those furs, her nails half-painted. A smile steals up her face, sparkles in those black eyes.
“Imogen,” Laudna says, “were you thinking of me?”
“Change back,” Imogen says, and she pushes with her mind; the spell hits Laudna, knocks her off-kilter for one brief moment before she blinks and returns.
“Change back to what?” she says. “Imogen, are you feeling alright?” She sits up, leans forward. “Let me feel your forehead,” she says, and she presses the back of her bony hand to Imogen’s forehead – she has done this before, how had Yu known that she’s done this before? Nadigarh, the spring rains. That dizzy moment of touch – Laudna had reached out and touched her – like it was nothing, like it was easy. Like people touched Imogen all the time. Had that been the first time? Was that the moment when that thing in Imogen’s stomach woke up, when it named itself what it was: hunger?
And Laudna’s fingers have snuck into her hairline, are brushing so tenderly against her skull, and Imogen feels herself relax, slightly; she reaches out for the soft and lovely hum of Laudna’s mind—
—and meets only silence, what, wait, shit, her eyes snap open, she stumbles a step backwards. Laudna makes an offended sound in the pit of her throat and leans forward after her. “Imogen,” she says, voice soft and wounded, “what are you doing? We—”
Delirious, hurting, Imogen reaches out telekinetically and smacks Yu in the head with their own nail polish bottle. “Ow,” they say, in what is still a damn convincing imitation of Laudna’s voice. “Imogen, you know I’m fragile.”
“Change back,” Imogen says shakily, and she tries it again: she tries to press her command into their mind, like a burning hot brand. Like her words could leave a mark on them. And somehow, it works: they flinch, shift back. They go opalescent – beautiful – horribly beautiful. Not like Laudna, who is beautifully horrible. Imogen remembers that she hates them again. The feeling is such an absolute relief.
“How many more times can you do that?” Yu says, the omnipresent amusement back in their voice. “Wait, don’t tell me. I can’t be trusted with your secrets, can I?” And, awfully, they wink.
“You can’t,” Imogen says, “so – so I won’t. Get out before I—”
Yu fully groans, their head thrown back, their white shining throat bared to her. “Honestly, I thought you were over that,” they say. “You must know that you can’t kill me without invoking the wrath of my court. And you can hardly throw me off the airship. Your threats are empty.”
“Then I’ll tie you up,” Imogen blurts. “Gag you.”
“Ooh, Imogen, I didn’t know you were that kind of—” This time she lifts a whole barrel, holds it above their head; they look up, stop talking, blink. Their eyelashes are so pale. Why is she thinking about their eyelashes.
“Are you going to drop that on me?” Yu says softly. “That’s going to be very loud. I’d imagine everyone will come running to see if you’re hurt.”
“Good,” Imogen says.
“Is it?” Their eyes drift down from the barrel, land on her again. Imogen feels a single bead of sweat, cold and pointed, on the back of her neck. “If you wanted them here, you would have called for them. Do you know what I think?”
“I bet you’re gonna tell me, even if I don’t ask.”
A smile curls across their mouth. “I’m so glad we understand each other.” And they lean their elbows on the edge of the crate, regard her with such sparkling satisfaction that she wants to rip off their face with her teeth. “I think that you’re going to be very quiet, because you don’t want your friends to know I’m here. Not all of them hate me as much as you want them to.” They tilt their head to the side, teasing. “Or maybe just one of them in particular doesn’t hate me. How close am I, Imogen?”
She gently sets the barrel down with her shaking, jittering mind. Gods, she hates them for being right. It’s just that – Laudna didn’t – and the way she looked, when Yu said their own weird goodbye. Oh, I meant it. I meant it. Their mouth on her knuckles. And if she saw them here, their nails painted to match hers – would she – oh, Imogen is so stupid. She’s so stupid. And yet here she is: quiet.
“For the record,” Yu says, “I think you’re very dateable, Imogen. Like I said, I just didn’t want to interrupt your little tiff.”
“You felt fine interrupting it for her,” Imogen says, her throat scaled with rust.
“Well,” Yu says, and they beam. “She needed someone to lean on, don’t you think?”
Imogen turns on her heel, paces three angry steps away, pivots and comes back. Is drawn back. Is pulled back. “I,” she says. “You.”
“Yes, that’s my name.”
“You’re so annoying!”
“Oh, absolutely. And…” The affect drops, for just a moment; the assassin regards Imogen through those sharp black eyes. “I’ll kiss you back.”
Imogen’s stomach lunges upwards, falls back down. “What?”
“Don’t what me,” Yu says, and they recline back into their makeshift throne. “You knew I was here. You came to see me. To spit empty threats? I think not. I think we both know exactly why you’re here.
“We can pretend it isn’t true,” Yu says, before Imogen can get the words out of her broken-down throat. “I can tell you need help pretending. That’s alright, I’m very good at it. I’ve had a lot of practice.” And they shiver, shift again into Laudna. Laudna. I don’t like it, she’d said, when they’d turned into her – into Imogen – and Imogen’s stomach a riot of sound and color—
“Imogen?” Laudna says now, and Imogen’s eyes slam closed. Another migraine, maybe, except for how it isn’t.
“What,” she says.
“Ooh, you’re grouchy. Bad dreams?”
“Would you?” Imogen says, eyes still closed, body still hunched up. Waiting for the blow.
“Would I what, dear?”
“Kiss me,” Imogen says. “Kiss me back.”
“Of course I would,” Laudna says softly. “You’re beautiful. Who wouldn’t want to kiss you?”
Oh, it sounds so good. It sounds so incredibly good. The word kiss in her mouth. Imogen has been wanting to hear that word for such a long time.
“You,” she says. “You wouldn’t.”
She hears the soft huff of a laugh, sputtering and involuntary, and then – before she can think about it too much – Laudna’s hand closes in the fabric of her vest, tugs her closer. Imogen stumbles, comes back to her. (She always comes back to her.) “I would,” Laudna says. “I’ve wanted to for such a long time.”
“You have?”
“Mmmhm,” Laudna says. She’s closer now; Imogen can feel the warmth of her breath. (But Laudna doesn’t breathe.) And that hand, that bony thumb, stroking the hollow of her throat.
“I want to give you everything you want,” Laudna says. “Won’t you look at me?”
Imogen opens her eyes, and there she is: Imogen’s best friend, the woman she’s been hopelessly in love with for almost two years. When she sees Imogen looking at her, she smiles.
“There you go,” she breathes, and she leans forward and kisses Imogen. Soft, sweet, just the right amount of cold. Imogen’s stomach erupts into butterflies; she grabs Laudna’s face, she kisses her back. Laudna makes a sharp noise of interest and commits to the kiss, full and heady, and it feels so good so good so fucking good so overwhelmingly good. It overwhelms the guilt, burns it out. All that’s left is hunger. And she is so hungry; she’s starving.
“Let me,” she gasps, and she scrabbles into the crate. The furs are soft and warm; Laudna’s body is made even sharper, even colder, even lovelier. Imogen’s heart claws up into her throat and bites at her over and over and over again.
“Imogen,” Laudna breathes, and she kisses her a second time. Imogen’s best friend. Her best friend. Her best friend.
“Laudna,” Imogen says helplessly, and she gives herself over to hunger again.