Page 139 of Psycho Pack
A flash of white by her left wingtip catches my attention.
A scarf.
It's white like the others, but instead of gold threads throughout the silky fabric, the accents are silver. The geometric patterns the silver accents form are sharp and triangular.
Almost like knives.
It's as if this scarf had been made for me.
The attendant's words about "adjustments" echo in my head just like the spectral bird's words. My fingers twitch as I hesitate for only a moment before reaching out and lifting the scarf off the altar. The fabric feels like liquid moonlight against my skin, so fine I can barely feel it. Nothing like the coarse military-grade shit I'm used to.
The massive bird mosaic seems to watch me with those impossible eyes as I bring the scarf to my face. Her eyes gleam with something that might be amusement. Or judgment. Hard to tell. I was never good with divine beings.
Even imaginary ones.
"Don't look at me like that," I mutter, carefully wrapping the fabric around my lower face. "You're the one who said I was called here."
She doesn't respond this time.
Probably for the best.
The scarf settles into place with unnatural ease. I hate wearing anything remotely similar to a muzzle, but the silk is cool enough against my skin that I manage to keep it in place without tearing it off and throwing it into the flickering candles. I breathe in, expecting mustiness or the cloying sweetness of the temple incense.
Instead, I smell nothing.
Clean.
Pure.
Like freshly fallen snow.
How fitting.
I catch my reflection in one of the polished brass censers. With my hair, eyes, and scarf all gleaming with the same silver, I almost look the part. Almost like I belong in this impossible place with its impossible promise. Almost like I'm not an escaped abomination that became a serial killer because I didn't know what else to do with my mess of a life.
I can't help but laugh.
How bizarre.
The Surhiiran goddess's words echo in my mind.
Just cracked in all the right places to let the light in.
Fucking perfect.
Now I'm taking life advice from hallucinations.
Chapter
Twenty-Four
IVY
My bare feet pad silently on the plush carpet as we make our way back to the guest wing, Whiskey and Plague following from somewhere behind me. The air feels different here than in Plague's chambers. Lighter somehow, less weighed down by ghosts and memories.
But when we round the corner, I stop dead in my tracks.
Valek stands below the arched entrance to one of the halls, a white scarf with silver accents wrapped around his lower face. The geometric patterns woven into the fabric catch the light like tiny blades.