Page 61 of The Girl Who Should Be Dead

“Far more regular than you think,” Gurlien says, and for a split second, there’s a hint of panic behind the false mask of boredom. “Zoel and I had a…conflict…and I was on the wrong side of it.”

It’s wholly incomplete, but she just puzzles another sip of the drink.

“I’m still having trouble imagining him in ‘conflict,’” she says, and Gurlien looks away, out at the shop instead of her, and she doesn’t like that. “Do I need to be on the watch out for any Wights?”

“What?”

“Do I need to protect you from them? I can,” she says. “Even limited, there’s no way I wouldn’t win in that battle, and I can guarantee I’ll fight dirtier than any Wight ever would.”

“I believe that,” Gurlien replies dryly. “No, I don’t think I’m in any danger from them. They just don’t like me, and it’s for a reason I don’t like me either.”

She tilts her head at him, and her stomach drops.

“They’re far more likely to ignore me than hurt me,” he continues. “Which I can’t see them, so it’s fine.”

“You should like you,” she murmurs.

“That ship sailed a while back,” he says, sarcastic, before he rubs his eyes. “I don’t want you to fight for me.”

It’s similar enough to his freak out about using her as aweapon, so she doesn’t quibble about the differences in what she meant.

So she just takes another drink of the overly sweet concoction, and even though she makes a face at it reflexively, she doesn’t stop consuming it.

“I’m going to, though,” Ambra says, after a long moment of quiet between the two of them, in the bustle of humans moving around the shop, ever changing in volume and stasis. “Especially during this…” she points to herself. “If someone attacks you, I’m gonna attack back. You’re a necessary part in all of this, and I’m not going to lose that just because you’re weird with Wights.”

His lips twitch up at that.

“Though you’re statistically going to be in much more danger from other humans,” she continues, eating more of the sandwich after dumping another generous few shakes of the hot sauce on it. “Both as a reality of being human and because we’re gonna go after them.”

This shakes him from his slump, and he sits up straight, pulling out his phone.

“So Nalissa,” he starts, and she doesn’t flinch at the name, somehow, as he taps away, pulling up a few documents and spinning the phone around to her. “Axel pulled up these plans and Mel translated them.”

It’s a map of the catacombs, with the wide sprawling caverns marked with stages and crowd areas, and the skin on her arms prickles. There are gaps, large ones they’ll need to fill, but it’s a start.

“She loves music,” Ambra murmurs. “Always played it during the experiments.”

“Ghastly,” Gurlien remarks dryly. “Look.”

He points on the phone, at the ghost drawing of runes on the floors. Nalissa’s protections.

Wholly incomplete, but still, something to work with.

Stopping weaponry, controlling the sound to just the area, amplifying people on the stage but protecting their ears. Alarms for anyone teleporting in—there goes that idea—and alarms for anyone who is trying to attack the musicians.

“She thinks the musicians are in the most danger, not her,” Ambra says, and he nods, like he came to the same conclusion.

Which if he could read sketches of runes so easily, that’s good. It’s more fluency than most humans she’s encountered.

“She has to have heard about Johnsin, though,” Ambra says, and Gurlien equivocates. “Anyone would look at that attack and know it’s me.”

“His so called ‘public event’ is tomorrow,” Gurlien says, leaning back in his chair, and Ambra’s eyes are immediately drawn to him, at the straightness of his shoulders and the draw of the light to his skin from the color of the shirt.

Nobody else is watching him, which sits wrong. He’s striking in a room full of mundane, solid when everyone around seems transient.

“So if she finds out, it’ll be then.”

Ambra breathes out of her nose, shaking off the sudden lack of attention she had. “So we have to expect her defenses will strengthen.”

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