Page 27 of Never a Hero

‘Sorry,’ Joan said. ‘We’re a bit lost.’

‘Use your map app,’ the guard said dismissively. He turned to leave.

‘We’re looking for the Wyvern Inn,’ Nick said.

The guard stopped. Joan saw then what Nick had already noticed. The guard was in an ordinary dark security uniform, but his mousy-brown hair was slicked back, 1950s greaser style. The people in the office might be human, but this guy almost certainly wasn’t.

The man looked them both up and down in reassessment. ‘You’re not the usual clientele.’

Joan wet her dry lips. She’d have felt relieved, but the reality hit her suddenly. This was the lion’s den, and they were about to step into it. ‘My gran said to come here.’

‘And who is your grandmother?’

‘Dorothy Hunt.’

The man’s unwelcoming expression didn’t change, but he stepped closer. His eyes were unusual: bright blue with dark flecks that made Joan think of cracks in ice. He wore a thin-chained necklace, silver and delicate and feminine. A silver charm sat at the hollow of his throat. Some kind of bird? An eagle?

The man peered at Joan, and she remembered with a jolt her own warning to Nick not to get close enough to see the colour of anyone’s eyes. ‘Who is your grandmother?’ the man asked Joan. And it was strange that he was asking again, but Joan found she didn’t mind. He had a beautiful voice—a sweet tenor, full of frankness and warmth. She had the impression that she was standing in front of the most honest man she’d ever met. She felt eager suddenly to return that honesty with her own.

‘Dorothy Hunt,’ she said again. ‘And my other grandmother’s human. She—’

‘I don’t need to know about the other one,’ the man said, and Joan closed her mouth. The silence felt comfortable, like she’d found a new close friend.

‘Joan?’ Nick said. He sounded weirdly concerned. He caught her arm. ‘Joan!’

The man shifted, and his pendant flashed sharply in a spike of sunshine. The little figurine had the head and wings of an eagle, but the body was something else. Something furred. It was a griffin.

Joan’s head cleared slightly. ‘You’re from the Griffith family,’ she blurted to the man. Griffiths reveal, the nursery chant went. The Griffiths could induce truth.

‘Do you have a right to be in this inn?’ the man asked. This time, Joan could feel him exerting his power on her. It wasn’t like the cuff Corvin had used—a forced desire. Instead, Joan was warmly comfortable, as if she’d known and trusted this man all her life. You can’t trust him, she told herself, but her own mental voice sounded hollow in contrast to the gut feeling of safety. Joan knew she could be honest with him. ‘I don’t know if I have the right,’ she admitted.

‘Give me your name. Do you have a sigil?’

Joan fumbled for her bracelet until the fox charm showed. ‘Joan Chang-Hunt. I’m half—’

‘All right, then,’ the man said, cutting her off.

It was like being hit with cold water. Joan took a stumbling step back, bereft. The impression of meeting an old friend was gone; the man’s eyes were a hard stranger’s again.

And then reality truly hit her, and her heart was suddenly hammering. He couldn’t do that to Nick—he’d expose Nick’s humanity.

‘Hey,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m the only one going in. I’m—’ But it was too late. The man’s attention was already turning to Nick.

‘Give me your name,’ he ordered. Away from the influence of his power, his true tone was impatient and hostile. But to Joan’s dismay, Nick’s shoulders lowered, his face relaxing. ‘I’m Nick.’ Joan braced herself for Nick to add his surname. A beat went by. Another beat. Nick’s mouth stayed closed.

Joan blinked. How had he resisted even that much? She hadn’t been able to resist at all. She’d given the man more information than he’d asked for.

The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘Tell me the rest,’ he said to Nick sharply.

‘Nick doesn’t have a family!’ Joan blurted.

Nick’s expression didn’t change. He looked more relaxed than the man, who seemed taken aback. ‘He what?’ the man said.

‘I do have a family,’ Nick said, and Joan’s heart sank. It had been a long shot anyway. But Nick was already adding easily: ‘They haven’t seen me in years, though. Far as they’re concerned, I’m dead to them.’

Joan stared at him. He might have looked hazy, but his mind was sharp, even under the influence of the Griffith power.

She waited, tense, for the man’s response. This surely wouldn’t work if he asked Nick a more direct question: Are you human? But the Griffith was hunched—as if Nick had disclosed something he hadn’t wanted to hear. ‘You never had a family power?’ he asked. It didn’t seem part of the standard questioning.

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