Page 39 of A Crown of Lies

Mercia frowned. “Then I’m at a disadvantage. You know who I am, but I know nothing about you. Is it considered in bad taste to ask for the pleasure of your name?”

One side of her painted lips quirked up and she eyed Mercia up and down. “Names can be weighty things in D’thallanar. Clans rise and fall if the wrong ones are uttered in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

The bartender returned with two curved glasses, each full of a bright yellow drink topped in pink ice.

The elf took both and held one out to her. “Taste.”

Mercia did as she was bid, the sweet taste of some citrusy fruit coating her tongue followed by some exotic spice she couldn’t name. Her eyes widened. “This is amazing.”

“I told you!” the elf beamed and took Mercia by the hand, guiding her to a nearby table. “Come. Sit with me. I want to hear all about your impressions of my beloved city, and your journey here.”

Thirteen

Arynstoodontheother side of the main hall, watching Mercia from afar. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised that Mercia would be okay with this. She’d always been adventurous, willing to do nearly anything for the good of Brucia. Yet he was unsure of what to make of how easily she settled into this role.

It means nothing, he told himself.This is work. She’s working.

Yet something about watching them together was strangely enticing. There was a part of him that liked the idea of Mercia being with another woman. But not another man. He wouldn’t share her with a man. Perhaps it was a double standard, or some lingering sexism, but he couldn’t make himself comfortable with the idea, not even if it was for work. He’d suffered through watching her fuck her way through nearly every tavern in Brucia for months before they finally got together. He didn’t think he could bear watching that again.

The back of his neck suddenly tingled with the weight of eyes. He turned his head and scanned the room. A male elf stood alone in a darkened corner. Deep blue eyes stared at him from behind a silver mask with an intricate design etched into it. Fingers bearing gold rings clutched an empty champagne flute. There were no clues to his identity in the plain but fine clothes he wore, but Aryn didn’t like the intense way the elf was looking at him. A predatory gaze, something that screamed he should flee, that this was not an elf to be trifled with.

Aryn turned away and slid into the crowd, exiting the main room for the crowded outer courtyard. A band played near the center, all the band members wearing animal-themed masks. He scanned the dancers, but it was a pointless endeavor. They were already paired up. He needed to find someone who hadn’t yet found a partner for the night and get what he could out of him before he had to meet back up with Mercia again in a few minutes.

There, Aryn thought, his attention settling on an older gentleman reclining alone on the far side of the garden under a cherry tree. Far from the party’s most attractive offering, he supposed, but it didn’t matter. He was old, and alone, which meant he’d had all night to observe the party, and he’d be desperate to get involved at this stage.

Aryn had made it halfway across the short side of the rectangular garden when he felt the familiar weight of those eyes on him again. He turned his head, locking eyes with the elf in the silver mask again. He’d followed Aryn into the courtyard. If he wanted any chance of getting information from anyone, Aryn was going to have to shake his pursuer, and fast.

He started up the long side of the garden, moving under the awnings and into the shadows. The silver-masked elf prowled along the opposite side of the garden, watching him from a distance with his hands folded behind his back. They glanced at each other across the courtyard. A sea of laughing, dancing elves stood between them, a good hundred feet, and yet the space narrowed to nothing as their eyes met. Aryn’s heart sped up, confusing their game for the familiar thrill of stalking prey. But he wasn’t the one doing the stalking.

As they both wove in and out of the shadows at the edge of the courtyard, Aryn quickly lost track of who was hunting whom. Who had the upper hand? Was he leading the chase, or was the other elf simply engaged in an unhurried pursuit? How far would he follow?

And what would happen when their little game ended? What did hewant?

Aryn paused at the far end of the courtyard. There was nowhere left to go. He’d passed the old man he’d targeted, having lost interest in him. If he kept going around the edge of the courtyard, he and the silver masked elf would inevitably meet in the middle, but Aryn wasn’t ready to give up so easily. He turned to the right, disappearing into the shadows, to grip the sliding door of the nearby room, the one second to last.

Aryn slid into what must’ve been a small storage room, though the shelves had long ago been emptied. They were coated in cobwebs now. A large spider made its home in the window high on the wall, silver threads gleaming in the moonlight filtering through.

He could hear people in the room next to him, a group of three vigorously moaning and fucking. The walls were so paper thin, he could see their shadows clearly. There were others nearby too, some in groups of four, some more. He’d heard them all as he came down the row of rooms and chosen the last empty one on purpose.

Aryn shrank into the deepest shadows of the room and closed a hand around his hidden blade. He’d woven a trap for the hunter, just as the spider wove hers in the window above. His heart thumped loudly as footsteps came close, stopping outside the door. For a moment, nothing happened, and then the door slid open, and a masculine form stood as a shadow against the silver moon.

The masked elf looked around the room, standing in the doorway for a moment before stepping inside and sliding the door closed behind him.

The room was so small, and they were standing so close that Aryn could have easily slashed the other elf’s throat without leaving the shadows. Every breath the other elf took whispered against Aryn’s face. He waited for the other elf to speak, but when he didn’t, Aryn broke the silence. “Why are you following me?”

“Because you ran from me.” The other elf’s voice was so velvety that it made the hair on Aryn’s neck stand on end. “Is it not in a wolf’s nature to chase the hare when it runs?”

“And what makes you think I’m a hare?”

“You’re not, are you?” The masked elf stepped closer, planting his hands on either side of Aryn’s head against the wall behind him. For a moment, he just stared at Aryn, his deep blue eyes dark as the surrounding shadows.

Aryn’s pulse raced in his neck as the masked elf’s gaze dropped, taking him in with the lazy gaze of a predator sizing up its prey.

The masked elf lowered one hand, slowly dragging his finger over the pommel of the dagger in Aryn’s fist. “You’re the Shrike, are you not? Come to lure me to a quick death, perhaps? Or are you here to learn a new song, little bird? One you plan to carry back to your master?”

“I am no longer the Shrike.” He told himself the feeling coiling low in his gut was irritation, anger at being called that again, but it wasn’t. Even as he was angry at this elf—whoever he was—he’d enjoyed the chase enough to entertain him for a few minutes. It’d been a long time since he’d felt the spark of this sort of danger. Since before he’d slain Omashii-Kuno.

The masked elf stopped toying with the hidden dagger, gripped Aryn’s chin and lifted his face. “A pity. I’d like to hear your song, I think. Shrikes have such beautiful songs.”

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