Page 75 of Tales of a Deadly Devotion
Wanted on suspicion of murder and arson.
Full reward to be paid after capture.
Thankfully the artist who had constructed my likeness hadn’t been employed by the Council. If they had been, I was certain I would have had fangs and claws.
No. Master Hale had paid for the artist for my Council file a few years ago.
Repulsed by the memory of him, I pushed the paper deep into my pocket. Another act of charity to soothe his own guilt.
‘You weren’t raised with Kysillians?’ Gideon asked, the question too short as if he had no desire to ask it but also didn’t enjoy the silence.
‘My mother was mortal. My father wished to protect us from Kysillian scorn.’ I answered. Why we settled in the north. Where beings didn’t care for the sin of impure blood mixing. ‘If only he knew how futile the endeavour was.’
The words slipped free until I could fully contemplate the weight of them. The horror of everything that had followed as I left the north.
How strange it was to have such secrets free after winding them around my ribs for so long.
‘I’m sorry that you were there.’ Gideon’s words were almost lost in the wind. Genuine sadness in his profile. The hint of regret in the tight press of his lips as he considered the market beyond.
Daunton. Of course, Gideon wouldn’t have known until that Council chamber.
‘I’m here now.’ I smiled despite myself.
Those sharp eyes came back to my face, lips parting as if he wanted to say something else. Only to be distracted by nearing footsteps. The dark form of Emrys slipping into the shadow of the alley, his grey coat catching on the breeze as he ran his fingers through his damp hair. Jarring me by how those scars down his face stood out more in the daylight.
‘What were you doing?’ Gideon demanded, voice low as if being left in my company was a taxing punishment.
‘Making myself seen,’ Emrys answered.
‘You could have said that.’ Gideon muttered, moving closer to the mouth of the alley as if to watch for a threat on the streets. His arms folded tightly across his chest, that metal of his arm groaning.
Emrys came to stand before me, presenting me with a small brown paper bag. ‘For Alma,’ he offered. I didn’t need to open it – by the weight and the feel I knew it was chocolates.
He’d remembered what I’d told him about her others. I couldn’t help but smile as I caught his chin with my thumb, bringing his face closer so I could kiss his cheek in thanks.
‘Ancestors deliver me,’ Gideon grumbled like a petulant chaperone, despite his back being to us.
‘I can grant that wish,’ a female voice spoke. Emrys went tense as his attention and mine turned towards that voice.
She stood exactly in the middle, somehow there despite making no sound. Four cloaked figures behind her, blades glinting and faces obscured by dark masks.
Reavers.
The woman was unmasked. Although dark paint was smeared around her eyes as if she’d been wearing one, metal studs through her nose and lip in decoration. She was tall and broard, her dark skin damp from the mist of rain. Blonde hairbraided back as the pale white horns that curved back against her scalp caught the weak sunlight.
‘Gideon Swift. I heard a rumour you were back from the dead.’ She folded her arms over her fitted leather jacket, her blonde braids falling over one shoulder.
There were ink designs across her knuckles that had nothing to do with magic or summoning. As sharp teal eyes ran over our small gathering with displeasure. ‘From the looks of things … you should have stayed dead.’
‘We have an invitation, Sigrid.’ Emrys moved in front of me, holding up his hand, and there between his two fingers was a folded piece of paper. Like a street urchin performing a magic trick.
‘Do you remember the name of all the beings who’ve tried to kill you, Blackthorn?’ She took the letter from him.
‘Old habit,’ Emrys offered darkly.
Those words made my magic rise within me like a summoned beast. Awakening something primal within my blood, at the mere threat of them. The woman called Sigrid scanned over the letter, before a muscle moved in her jaw.
‘This female will be the death of me,’ she muttered, folding the letter with a sharp slap.
