Page 61 of Lux

The tall man watches me exit. His clothing is so dark, he almost blends seamlessly into the shadows, save for a bright metal object that hangs from a loop in his belt. It looks like a silver rod of some sort. A bashing weapon. Yet…

A faint outline cloaks it. Magic, a voice in my head proclaims. Not mine. Not Caspian’s.

I shiver. Then I keep moving, walking past Altaris and the third figure I recognize as Scythe. He is silent but as our gazes meet, he nods once. A polite greeting.

“Well, on with it,” Altaris snaps, his eyes on the tall man. “The only good thing about traveling with a boney is your goddamn gift for quick and efficient travel. It almost makes up for the many areas in which you lack.”

“You’re already on thin ice, Altaris,” the man warns, but he frees his stick from his belt and waves it through the air.

There is a crackling. A sudden tension of energy and air—as though the very life is being squeezed from my lungs. Then, just as quickly, the strange force eases. I gasp, swaying on my feet as Caspian’s grip on me tightens.

“A warning would have been nice,” Altaris remarks, his green eyes shimmering. “My guests are not familiar with this realm and boney ways. You’ll startle them. As we are quickly finding out, these two do not react well to being startled.”

The tall man is already walking away, returning his stick to his belt. “Wait here,” he snaps, before retreating down a long winding hallway. We are suddenly inside of a building I don’t recognize. The walls are an old, faded green. The floors are dark, polished wood. The air in here radiates authority, much like the halls of the Citadel archives do.

But there is a key difference.

In the archives, no one looked at me, directly. No one except Caspian and Day.

Here, the very many people milling about all stop to stare. They gape at me. Some in horror. Some in abject curiosity. Their attention burns and stings. I feel too exposed. There are too many eyes here, and unlike the Circus of Souls, I can’t launch myself through the air, festooned with silken wings to ignore them.

“Patience, my dear ones,” Altaris says, clasping his hands together. “It took a mighty great deal of strings being pulled to get youbothout on bond. How lucky for you that I am a generous and kind benefactor.”

But he is not generous. Not kind. His help comes with a price tag attached. He is transactional in everything, even the dealings in his shop. I hate him. Despise him.

I hate even more that Caspian does not.

He listens to him. Maybe in some way, he trusts him. They are vamryre at their core and speak the same language: collateral, debt, ownership. Contracts and dealings are comforts to them.

Not to me. I loathe the idea of owing anything to Altaris. I should face my punishment alone.

“No,” Caspian snaps out loud, his back to me, his gaze still on Altaris. “You will not. You will not.”

He is warning me, and deep down I know I should heed this one wish. Not for my sake but his. He is afraid for me, I can see that now. Afraid of what I am capable of.

Afraid of what I may have done in his absence.

So am I.

“We will accept your protection,” he tells Altaris. “For now.”

“Oh goody. It appears Marin will be the one to process her paperwork. What fun,” Altaris remarks dryly.

As the woman approaches, he sneers. If she notices, she doesn’t react. She holds her head high, wearing an outfit identical to the other man's down to the silver stick at her hip. I can’t stop staring at her. Her eyes are wide-set and strangely shaped--almost cat-like, with dark brown irises. Paired with her pale skin, she is as beautiful as any fae.

That is, if her expression wasn't contorted in utter disgust.

“This way,” she says before turning on her heel and marching across the hallway. The room we enter next is small and cramped. The silver desk in the center of the room is cluttered with paperwork, and the black walls add a sense of mystery. Theoffices of the council of elders might look like this, if I had to guess.

Though, perhaps, not quite as small.

“Barely a week in the mortal realm and the both of you have wracked up one hell of a rap sheet,” the woman, Marin says, leaning over the desk. She makes a show of flipping through paperwork, but her eyes remain focused on Altaris. He is the sole target of her irritation, no one else. “Who first?”

“Dear Caspian’s matter has already been squared away,” Altaris explains with a smile. “We are merely awaiting his court date. You can commence with dear Niamh.”

“Niamh, is it?” Marin turns her gaze to me, but I notice it is markedly softer. She even speaks in a different tone, stern but nowhere near as cold. “You will need to be questioned. Cyrus Triarc was no saint, but that was some grisly business. Too grisly, in fact, to be explained away as self-defense. We need to know what happened from the start.”

“Unfortunately, dear Niamh cannot remember,” Altaris explains, approaching the desk. He drags his finger along the edge of it and sniffs in disgust. “She is in shock and will not be answering anything without her lawyer present. Seeing as how her lawyer is now Silas Appleby, and he is currently away on business, the soonest she can be questioned is…hmm, Monday.”

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