Page 48 of Devour the Dark

As soon aswe’re inside the warehouse, I know we’re not alone. After all these years, I’ve honed the sixth sense of knowing when I’m being watched.

A man comes out of the farthest aisle of crates. I scan his face first, then his clothing. He’s wearing a black wool jacket, no markings. There’s the outline of a dagger strapped to his right forearm. He must be left-handed. No other weapons. No swords, no pistols.

His trousers are fitted, his black boots freshly polished. A flash of silver around his neck reveals a necklace, but the pendant at the end is tucked beneath his black button-up shirt.

There’s a tattoo on his left ring finger—two interconnected Ms.

Myth Maker.

He has the olive complexion, tawny hair, and broad, aristocratic nose of the founding line of Makers—the del Coir family.

“Malachi,” Roc says.

The man smiles. “It’s been far too long, Crocodile.”

I think over what I know about the Myth Makers. If I remember correctly, Malachi is third-rank Myth, so not on theCouncil, but if he has del Coir blood, he’ll rule eventually, provided he can find his way back to Lostland.

The Myth Makers on the other isles like to pretend they are homeless, their island lost to the mists of the sea. But I don’t buy that. I think they enchanted Lostland a long time ago so their enemies couldn’t find it. They position themselves as vulnerable, without a place to belong, all while they plot and infiltrate. I didn’t learn enough about the Makers until I’d left home, but sometimes I wonder if I returned to my palace if I would find a Maker’s mark within the walls. My former husband couldn’t have pulled off his coup without help.

“Please do tell me,” Roc says, stepping forward, “why you have broken into my warehouse.”

Malachi pushes away from the stack of crates and clasps his hands behind his back. He isn’t as tall as Roc, but his shoulders are thicker, more muscle rippling beneath the taut lines of his jacket. Still, a Myth Maker isn’t as powerful as whatever Roc is, so I’m not worried about a confrontation.

In general, I’m rarely worried about brawn. It’s the intellect, the secrets that concern me.

“I heard you were busy in Everland.” Malachi smiles.

I glance at Wendy and give her a quick nod, gesturing for her to step behind me and Roc, just in case.

I know she can hold her own, but depending on Malachi’s intentions, Wendy could be a target and her powers are offensive, not defensive.

She sees my gesture and takes a step behind me.

“I’m always busy,” Roc answers. “You know me, idle hands and all that.”

“Yes. And Mareth?”

There it is. He already knows Roc devoured the witch.

“Let me ask you again.” Roc takes another step. “Why have you broken into my warehouse?”

“I never knew you to be so impatient.”

“I have an itch that I need to scratch and you are prohibiting me from scratching it.”

“The hat.”

A ripple of consternation rolls through us.

None of this is a coincidence.

All of the levity is gone from Roc’s voice when he says, “Where is it?”

“Not here.”

Darkness kicks up around Winnie and Vane. Vane tightens his hold on her.

I’ve never seen their shadow at work, but the way the hair is rising on the back of my neck, I’d say it’s a force to be reckoned with.

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