Read Online Daughter of Smoke and Bone by Laini Taylor - Free Book Online Page B

guilt. What was she doing, defying Brimstone, spending wishes on mean things like forcing innocent backpackers out into the rain? She flopped onto the couch. Her head ached, her hair was clammy, she was tired, and she couldn’t stop worrying about the Wishmonger. What would he say?
    The entire time she and Zuzana were eating their goulash, her gaze kept straying to the door.
    “Watching for someone?” Zuzana asked.
    “Oh. Just… just afraid Kaz might turn up.”
    “Yeah, well, if he does, we can wrestle him into this coffin and nail it shut.”
    “Sounds good.”
    They ordered tea, which came in an antique silver service, the sugar and creamer dishes engraved with the words arsenic and strychnine .
    “So,” said Karou, “you’ll see violin boy tomorrow at the theater. What’s your strategy?”
    “I have no strategy,” said Zuzana. “I just want to skip all this and get to the part where he’s my boyfriend. Not to mention, you know, the part where he’s aware I exist.”
    “Come on, you wouldn’t really want to skip this part.”
    “Yes I would.”
    “Skip meeting him? The butterflies, the pounding heart, the blushing? The part where you enter each other’s magnetic fields for the first time, and it’s like invisible lines of energy are drawing you together—”
    “Invisible lines of energy?” Zuzana repeated. “Are you turning into one of those New Age weirdos who wear crystals and read people’s auras?”
    “You know what I mean. First date, holding hands, first kiss, all the smoldering and yearning?”
    “Oh, Karou, you poor little romantic.”
    “Hardly. I was going to say the beginning is the good part, when it’s all sparks and sparkles, before they are inevitably unmasked as assholes.”
    Zuzana grimaced. “They can’t all be assholes, can they?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe not. Maybe just the pretty ones.”
    “But he is pretty. God, I hope he’s not an asshole. Do you think there’s any chance he’s both a non-orifice and single? I mean, seriously. What are the chances?”
    “Slim.”
    “I know.” Zuzana slumped dramatically back and lay crumpled like a discarded marionette.
    “Pavel likes you, you know,” said Karou. “He’s a certified non-orifice.”
    “Yes, well, Pavel’s sweet, but he does not give of the butterflies.”
    “The butterflies in the belly.” Karou sighed. “I know. You know what I think? I think the butterflies are always there in your belly, in everyone, all the time—”
    “Like bacteria?”
    “ No , not like bacteria, like butterflies , and some people’s butterflies react to other people’s, on a chemical level, like pheromones, so that when they’re nearby, your butterflies start to dance. They can’t help it—it’s chemical.”
    “Chemical. Now that’s romantic.”
    “I know, right? Stupid butterflies.” Liking the idea, Karou opened her sketchbook and started to draw it: cartoon intestines and a stomach crowded with butterflies. Papilio stomachus would be their Latin name.
    Zuzana asked, “So, if it’s all chemical and you have no say in the matter, does that mean Jackass still makes your butterflies dance?”
    Karou looked up. “God no. I think he makes my butterflies barf .”
    Zuzana had just taken a sip of tea and her hand flew to her mouth in an effort to keep it in. She laughed, doubled over, until she managed to swallow. “Oh, gross. Your stomach is full of butterfly barf!”
    Karou laughed, too, and kept sketching. “Actually, I think my stomach is full of dead butterflies. Kaz killed them.”
    She wrote, Papilio stomachus: fragile creatures, vulnerable to frost and betrayal.
    “So what,” said Zuzana. “They had to be pretty stupid butterflies to fall for him anyway. You’ll grow new ones with more sense. New wise butterflies.”
    Karou loved Zuzana for her willingness to play out such silliness on a long kite string. “Right.” She raised her teacup in a toast. “To a new generation of butterflies, hopefully