Speaking to it?
The question followed me like a dare, soft and incredulous, and I almost laughed out loud—right there in the dark of my room where the window threw a pale strip of moon across the floorboards.
Darius had said it as if it were obvious, like noticing when a candle went out. Speaking to it. Speaking to someone in my head.
Of course he would suspect.
My first impulse was to tell him to mind his own prophecy-haunted business. My second was to consider, for a heartbeat too long, whether I should tell him the truth.
I snorted at myself in the next second. Why would I ever trust anyone with that—worse, with him?
Yes, there was kinship there, maybe, a mirror of age and weariness that might lure the gullible into confiding; it almost lured me into imagining explanations of what El was, what I possibly was. Almost.
