“Was the glass cracked? Did you maybe come close to standing underneath it?” Quinn asked.
Brand said, “Give me the paintball gun.” Quinn held it out. Brand took it and fired a bright pink shell into Quinn’s leg. Quinn was too stunned to even yelp.
Brand said, “And while we’re on the subject, if you knew Max might run, why didn’t you just call and tell us? You need to start fucking communicating better. If you ‘see’ anything, you tell us. Period. Do you understand?”
“I’m just trying to help,” Quinn objected.
“So are we,” I said. Brand was right. This was too serious to leave alone. “Quinn Saint Nicholas, look at me. Brand is right. We need you to work with us on this. Not go rogue. I would like your word.”
“I do. I will. I give it,” he said, and wiped at the paint on his pants. He gave us the sort of wounded look only a fifteen-year-old could do so effortlessly.
The smell of toast woke me the next morning. Since Queenie had the day off, I was curious, so I threw on a pair of sweatpants and padded downstairs.
Brand was standing by the kitchen counter with his arms crossed. He was showered and combed, and wearing a tight T-shirt that said, “Jesus loves you except when you act like an asshole.”
When he saw me, he rolled his eyes and tipped a plate of toast into the trash. “It was bait,” he said to my outraged expression.
The toast had landed on old coffee grounds. And the bag on the counter only had two end pieces left. “What the hell,” I said.
“I don’t have all fucking day for your four-hour morning routine. We need to plan.”
I lowered my head in resignation. It was going to be another long day. Leaning against the refrigerator, I gave Brand my best serious look, and plotted my next move. “Tell me what you’ve come up with.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. “Rune, so help me, if you don’t stop thinking about fishing that piece of toast out of the trash, I will punch you in the eye.”
“I just don’t understand why you needed to throw it away,” I complained. “And while we’re on the subject, have you noticed how much stronger our Companion bond is getting? I’m not used to you reading my mind this well.”
“I don’t need telepathy to guess what you’re like before you have coffee. Sit the fuck down and get your shit together.” But I think he felt bad about the toast, because he went toward the coffee pot and began brewing some. He even used an extra scoop.
“I keep thinking about what you said yesterday,” he told me. “To that Jirvan.”
“Which part?”
“About Max’s lack of prospects. About why the Hanged Man wants Max. Do you know what it reminded me of?”
“It’s the same thing we wondered when we got Max,” I guessed.
“Right. Lady Lovers’ little drug-rape kingdom was falling around her, and one of her last moves was to find Max a home? We never figured out why.”
“The Tower once told me that when Max was born, his grandmother had—” I bit my lip and glanced over my shoulder. This wasn’t the sort of conversation I wanted Max to overhear.
Brand snorted. “They’re still asleep. They were up all night bitching at each other. Max even came downstairs for a while in a fucking lather because Quinn moved the wardrobe in front of the window.”
“The wardrobe?”
“Max said that Quinn said that sometimes Max stepped on Quinn’s face climbing out the window. Which, if we didn’t have enough to worry about, means that we need to have a stronger talk with Max about the value of a fucking promise. His grandmother what?”
“She had high hopes for him. Max was supposed to have potential. When he didn’t meet her expectations, she pawned him off on her son— Max’s uncle.”
“Max has plenty of potential,” Brand said angrily.
“He can shape-shift, but it’s transformationally limited. He’s got fae genetics, but he’s not full-blooded. He can use cantrips well enough, but he doesn’t yet have the knack or training for sigils. There’s nothing wrong with him, but he doesn’t show the sort of innate ability an Arcana would look for in an heir.”
“And that’s what he was born to be? The heir scion?”
“I don’t know. My point is that—for whatever reason—his birth was important to her.”
“So are you saying we need to look into that? Figure out what made Max important?”
I wasn’t sure what I was saying. That was the whole problem. We didn’t have a starting point. If we spent all our time chasing down one lead, we’d be ignoring a whole other branch of possibilities. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I could be completely off target. Maybe it has nothing to do with Max at all. Maybe the Hanged Man just has a bug up his ass about losing a potential consort. There’s a lot of talk about his consorts—he has a thing for them.”
“What thing?” Brand asked.
“He likes pretty young men and women—late teens, but younger than their majority. He marries them, and then removes them from the public eye. He keeps them in his compounds, completely covered in robes, like a religious order.”
“Removes them from the public eye?” Brand repeated. “What the fuck. Are we sure he’s not mounting their heads in the room at the end of the hall like fucking Bluebeard?”
“I haven’t heard anything like that,” I said. “People would talk if they vanished altogether.”
“Then what’s with the robes? Could—” Brand’s fingers twitched in and out of fists. “What if they’re all scarred under the robes? Like Jirvan?”
“I don’t know,” I said quietly.
Brand closed his eyes and took a few breaths. When he’d steadied himself, he said, “So he’s got a harem. So Max may or may not have potential. Does knowing that help us?”
“I don’t know what’s helpful at this point. That’s the problem.”
“No. Follow me. So what if Max has hidden gifts? So what if the Hanged Man has a taste for teenagers? It doesn’t change the fact that he’s after Max. I think we’d be wasting our time figuring out the why,”
After a moment, I nodded. “We need to worry about the how, then. We need to figure out a way to make him relinquish his claim. We’re back to politics.”
“Maybe,” Brand hedged.
Something about the way he said it made me narrow my eyes. “This is usually the point where you tell me you’ve already figured out our next step.”
“Maybe,” he said again, only less confidently. He went over to the butcher block. A nylon accordion folder I’d never seen was on top of it, leaning against a bowl of bananas. He picked it up, and sat it down next to me.
“What is this?” I asked, pressing on the clasp. The snap released, and the top yawned open. There were about a dozen manila files inside.
“People who want to hire us. The cases we haven’t officially picked.”
“We have cases we haven’t picked? When did we get this organized?”
“We didn’t get organized. I’ve seen your closet. Play to your fucking strengths, Rune.”
“Okay. When did you get this organized?”
“After you blew up a cathedral in the Westlands. Your name was in the papers. Pro bono shit came out of the woodwork. People who can’t afford to hire the big firms.”
“I have many questions,” I said after a pause. “I could be eating toast while I ask them, but I’m not, so how about you just skip ahead to the good stuff.”
Brand pulled a file out of the portfolio and handed it to me. “I think this is our entry point.”
I opened it. Inside was a printed email from someone called Corinne Dawncreek. I’d barely scanned two sentences before the Hanged Man’s name jumped off the page. “Brand?”
“This woman is the caretaker of three kids. One of the kids is a runaway. A nineteen-year-old. He was last seen spending time in the Gallows.”
“Why . . .” I shook my head. “Brand, I told you, this is political now. There are rules. We can’t go after the Hanged
Man openly yet.”
“But you can investigate a runaway who may have vanished inside the Hanged Man’s court.”
“I’m not sure I can. It’s too thin a cover.”
Brand hesitated. “Read the second paragraph.”
I looked back at the printout. The second paragraph said,
Until the death of your father, I served as Companion to one of his loyal supporters. We were members of your Court in good standing. My Companion is gone now, but his children are my responsibility, and I’m not too proud to make use of this old connection. I need help.
I’d barely made it past the first sentence when I stopped breathing. Now, light-headed, I took a noisy breath. “Oh.”
Brand came up next to me. He stood so that our arms were pressed together and said nothing.
I closed my eyes. “I don’t know how I feel. I don’t know how this makes me feel.”
“You don’t have to,” Brand said. “I wish I didn’t have to spring this on you.”
“This . . . these are my people.”
“They were your people. I know that means something to you, but don’t make it mean more than it needs to.”
“What does that even mean? How can it not mean more than it needs to? They’re my father’s people, and they’re in trouble, and I didn’t even know they existed. I never—I don’t—I never think about them. I never think about the houses who lost my father’s protection when his inner circle was killed. I never think about where those families ended up.”
“Rune, trust me, there are a hundred fucking things you should feel guilty about. I’ll make a list. But this isn’t one of them. You want to feel something? Feel good that you’re in a position to help these people now. Feel good that helping them may help us.”
“Maybe.” I looked at the letter. Which of my father’s supporters had this Companion been bonded to? What would she even think of me? I hadn’t been strong or old enough to raise the Sun Throne’s standard after my father died. I hadn’t been able to reassemble a court out of the impoverished remains. “Or maybe I should be examining a more direct approach. Maybe I could seek an audience with the Hanged Man.”
“That’s one idea. But first, let me tell you a story that will demonstrate my thoughts on the matter.” He put his mouth against my ear and said, “No!”
I glared at him and wiggled a finger in my ear. “It may not be the best choice, but it’s a choice. We don’t have any time, Brand.”
“We still need data. We need to understand our enemy. A case like this will bring us into the Hanged Man’s sphere without the appearance of a direct attack. Right? It’ll give us cover?”
It could at that. I could very easily twist the case into a shield for our own agenda.
Since I knew Brand better than I knew myself, I said, “What time did you set up an appointment with Ms. Dawncreek?”
“I wanted to check with you first,” Brand said, all innocence.
I stared at him.
“Fine,” he said. “One o’clock.”
I tucked the folder under my arm. I’d read it in my sanctum while I prepared my sigil load.
“Um, guys?” Queenie said from the back porch. Her nose was pressed up against the screen door. She wasn’t allowed inside on her day off—for her benefit, not ours. She said, “I smelled toast? I was wondering if, um, Rune was using the stove?”
Brand grinned at me, because I got no credit, and they both treated my cooking like vaudeville. I ignored them and went into the living room, just as Max and Quinn thundered downstairs, each of them trying to push into the lead.
“He moved my wardrobe,” Max said.
“To keep you from climbing out the window,” I said.
“To keep me from maybe climbing out the window,” Max argued. “Just like maybe sometimes Brand is a girl, and maybe sometimes you only wear tuxedos made of plaid flannel.”
Over the last few months, Max and Quinn had developed a complicated relationship. They were nearly the same age, and both of them, in their own way, were outcasts. Quinn adored Max, in much the way Quinn adored anyone who didn’t treat him like a freak. Max, though, had a tendency to be jealous at the space Quinn took up in my life. Sooner or later he’d realize that Quinn had somehow become his best friend.
I wasn’t about to get sucked into their argument. I narrowed my eyes at Quinn and said, “Did you call your brother?”
“Oh no.” Quinn shook his head emphatically. “He’s very mad at me.”
“Well, yes, I suspect he is. That’s my point. You need to call him.”
“I called him earlier,” Brand said, coming up behind me. “He’s already on his way.”
“But,” Quinn said, his face falling. “That wasn’t the plan. Sometimes I stay all morning and there’re waffles.”
“There will be waffles either way,” Brand said. “Queenie is making breakfast. She’s giving up her day off, again, because Rune and Max are spoiled and don’t know there’s such a thing as fucking cereal.”
“Okay, everyone outside,” I said. “Max, set the picnic table. Quinn, pull some extra chairs from the shed. Go. I need coffee and quiet.”
I let Quinn scurry past, but grabbed the collar of Max’s T-shirt at the last second and pulled him against me I leaned into his ear and whispered, “I am your guardian. Your vows are my vows. If you break your promise, it will be as if I did, and my magic will suffer for it. Would you do that to me?”
“No,” Max stammered. “No! I won’t. I promise. I just want to help.” “Then I better not hear any more about climbing out of windows. Go. We’ll be outside in a moment.”
I let him stumble off as the doorbell rang, followed by a firm, polite knock. I went to the eyehole—set apart from the fake eyehole—and spotted Addam on our doorstep. A black town car idled at the curb.
I opened the door, and he smiled at me. I smiled back at him, because it was hard not to smile back at Addam. His burgundy eyes crinkled as he slowly leaned in for a kiss. “Hero,” he said against my neck.
“Sorry about the Quinn thing,” I said.
“He and I will speak later about it. I’ve brought his medicine.”
A month ago, we’d hired an alchemist recommended by Ciaran, a powerful principality who’d become a friend. Principalities were the island’s version of courtless Arcana—all the power, none of the burdens or blessings of a throne.
Ciaran’s alchemist had tailored an elixir that dampened Quinn’s prophetic magic. It was the best option we had for keeping the teenager sane. Prophetic magic—especially his kind—was a cruel gift, slowly grinding the idea of a normal life to dust.
“It makes me not want to eat,” Quinn complained loudly from the kitchen. He came into the archway with a bag of paper plates.
“Your appetite will return,” Addam said patiently.
“But there are waffles,” Quinn said. “We don’t have to go before waffles, right?”
“We can have waffles first, if Rune and Brand have offered.”
Quinn gave him a guilty look. “Thank you. And I didn’t mean to worry you. Are you very mad at me? This really wasn’t as bad as the papaya incident. I didn’t go to a foreign country at all.”
“As I said, we will speak later,” Addam told him.
Quinn sighed and went back into the kitchen. From the other side of the archway, I heard the clatter of pots, and the click of the gas burner. A classical radio station was turned on—Queenie’s polite way of offering us the illusion of privacy.
“Have you made any decisions?” Addam asked quietly.
“We’re debating whether to find a sneaky way to investigate the Hanged Man, or whether the direct approach is better.”
Brand bristled. “No, we’re not. You’re not making an appointment with him, Rune. That piñata is fucking dead. Move on.”
Addam said, “This sneaky approach. How will we proceed?”
I stumbled a little over the we. Addam was the son of a different court; my battles were not his battles
. His mother, Lady Justice, would not thank me for drawing her son into the Hanged Man’s orbit.
“I have become familiar with that expression,” Addam said, pointing at my face. “I am in your life, Rune. This involves me.”
“You have obligations. Political boundaries. I need to respect them.” “I do have obligations. You are correct. But you do not seem to understand what they are.” He gave me a cool look. “Quinn can wait. Perhaps it is you and I who need to have a talk.”
“Okay,” Brand said, “I’m going to find somewhere else to be, and let you think I haven’t already made the decision for all of us.” He went into the kitchen.
“I know you can handle yourself,” I said. “You know that, right? That’s not what this is about. But . . . Addam. We’ll be challenging the Hanged Man.”
“I will not stand aside.”
“I’m not asking that. Not really. I just . . . For now, I just want to limit your involvement. Can I do that, at least?”
“And what are my,” he said, and now his accent came out like a tiger’s single, popped claw, “limits?”
“Brand and I are going to meet with someone this afternoon who could provide us indirect entry into the Hanged Man’s court. I don’t want Matthias to come with us, and I don’t want to leave him and Queenie alone. Will you stay here and watch them?” I put my hands on Addam’s arms as he opened his mouth to protest. “Their safety means everything.You have no idea how much it means, that I’d trust you with them.”
Addam continued to stare at me for a good five seconds, but finally dipped his chin.
“Come over here,” I said. I slid my hands down his arm until our fingers touched. I led him over to the wall, and lifted his palm so that he was touching it. “In the basement is my mass sigil. I store a powerful defense spell in it. You remember?”
“Of course. You saved our lives with it, in the Westlands.”
“Can you feel it? It’s buried. Search it out.”
Addam furrowed his brow. I felt the faint buzz of his willpower. After a moment or two, he nodded at me.
I covered his hands with my own and said, “I share this sigil with you freely. Its will is also your will.”
The Hanged Man Page 6
