Page 75 of Fate Unchained

She sputtered, almost spilling her tea. “With their legs? How else would you measure them?” She laughed, and though she was kind of laughing at him, he smiled too. Making her laugh made him feel even better than he’d felt after the pack defeated a leshak and its army last year.

The clawing inside calmed again.

He shrugged. “Well, they don’t use their legs yet. They’re like potatoes right now. I call them the Taters. Well, I do when Hans isn’t around.” Briony heard him once, and it made her laugh, but he didn’t think Hans would laugh. “Hans made them a—what is it called?—one of those carriages for children.”

“A stroller?”

He nodded. “When it was warmer, the Taters came out to the pack den a few times. I held one of them once. I didn’t drop him, and he didn’t cry, so I figured I did something right.”

The same odd expression was on her face. “You holding a baby must have been something to see.” She studied him a long moment. “But you’re one of the old guard, right?” She asked the question softly, but it was as if she’d shouted it, drowning out all the quiet chatter around them.

He was a vulk and never tempered his words or hid the truth of what he wanted to say. The real answer roared inside him, but for the first time in his life, he refused to voice it aloud. He turned and looked out the window. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about how to have a family of my own.”

A long silence spread between them, and Kyril scanned the room. A few men went through the red door.

It was time to enact their plan.

He put his hand in his pocket and thumbed the toothpick case. Zann should be connecting with him telepathically any moment now, and the connection would remain open so Kyril could give him information on what he saw.

He stood, setting his napkin on his chair. “All right, are you ready? Stay right here, and if you need help, yell. Make a scene. Remember,” he gestured out the window to the grocery across the street where a woman in a red cloak pretended to prod some apples, “Hazel is right there, and you have a weapon if you need it.” He’d given her a dagger matching his own, and she’d tucked it into her waistband the way he’d shown her.

She opened her mouth but then closed it and nodded. “I’ll sit here and sip my tea. Everything will be fine.”

As Kyril walked to the red door, he smoothed his shirt. It was possible Boris didn’t know Kyril could take human form, which would be an advantage. Boris was such an old spawn that he might sense Kyril was an immortal but it would probably take him a minute, letting Kyril get close enough to let the spell loose.

And if he had to, he’d use his dagger.

He reached the man at the door. “I’d like to put a little wager in.” He tapped his pocket where he’d tossed some obols earlier.

The man’s eyes narrowed. “And you are?”

“Lord Hargrove. Staying at The Grande.” He didn’t have a surname, but he used the name of the clan where he’d grown up both at The Grande and now. “I live in the south.” He shrugged. “We bet on the races down there all the time. I heard I could do a bit of the same here.”

It was true. Down in Stok, the sleek desert horses raced across the sand. The lionwalkers had invited him to some of the races, but he’d never gone to watch.

The man’s face lit up. “Ah, I haven’t been to Stok in some time. The races down there are brutal compared to ours.” He grinned. “And the winnings are much bigger.” The man opened the door and gestured him through.

Kyril nodded at him and walked inside.

If the tea shop was all yellow sun, in here was as if the sun had dried up and turned blood red. The room was dim, the walls a dusty red, and cigar smoke curled along the ceiling. Men and women in ornate clothes studied papers while smoking or sipping drinks.

“The next runner will be here in a few minutes to give us the results of the fifth race,” a voice boomed out from the back.

He knew that voice. Kyril wove around a few people studying the racing papers, and there he was.

Boris.

On his right chest was the elaborate crest of Coromesto, a jutting spire with a swirl of yellow piercing it. The three king’s guardsmen flanking Boris closely wore the same crest.

A slight buzz hummed in the back of his mind, and Zann asked, “You in?”

“Yeah.” He scanned the room. “There are about twenty bettors, and there are three guards.” He described the layout. “And,” his gaze went to the roof, “there’s a door in the roof.” A young lad, maybe sixteen, charged through it, stepping onto a small landing. A thin set of stairs, painted red to blend with the room, made a tight spiral from the roof down to the betting room floor.

The kid leaned over the railing. “Winner of the fifth is Keep Your Hat On. Second place is Don’t Eat My Apple.” He yelled off a bunch more names, but Kyril tuned him out. A man next to Boris scribbled furiously, but Boris sat sprawled in his chair.

Kyril stepped closer and took out the toothpick case. He tapped it on his palm. He had to get the guards away.

The longer it took, the longer Lilah sat alone in the tearoom. His shoulders tensed, and he pretended to study a racing form. He needed to figure something out. Now.

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