by Melissa Grey
Echo’s back stiffened. Dorian reached for his sword, but his hand fumbled at the void where it normally hung on his hip. The Avicen had been wary about letting a Drakharin roam the halls armed, so a compromise had been reached: Dorian got to keep his sword, but he had to leave it in his room.
Jasper shot Quinn a withering look. “We are not delivering Echo to Tanith’s doorstep.”
“Yeah,” Echo said. “Let’s not.”
Quinn bowed his head gracefully in Echo’s direction. “I meant to suggest no such thing. I was merely pondering a hypothetical. Though it’s not only the firebird the Dragon Prince wants.” He looked at each of them in turn, his gaze lingering on Jasper, who fidgeted under the scrutiny.
“What are you suggesting?” Caius asked. He shifted his weight forward, the motion causing his knee to brush against Echo’s. They both sat on the bed, their backs to the headboard. It would have felt more intimate had Ivy not been on Echo’s other side, each of them providing a warm, comforting presence to sandwich her.
“It’s simple really,” Quinn said. “We’re at a disadvantage because we don’t know what your sister is planning or where she might attack. If she’s telling the truth and she isn’t behind the attack on Grand Central, then that means it was the kuçedra lashing out on its own.” His gaze slid to Echo. “To find you, for whatever reason. But according to Caius’s conversation with Tanith, she’s going to make a move that involves the kuçedra one way or another. We need a man on the inside.”
Caius and Dorian shared a look, as if they were transmitting information telepathically. After a long moment, Dorian offered Caius a brisk nod.
“Care to share with the rest of the class?” Echo asked.
“We have people within the walls of Wyvern’s Keep,” Caius said. “I may have been blindsided by my sister’s machinations, but I was not so foolish as to have ignored the possibility of treason within my court.”
“Is there a way to contact those people?”
“Well, during times of battle, the Drakharin use a form of blood magic to communicate across great distances.”
“Like what you just did with Tanith.”
Caius shook his head, paused, then nodded. “Yes and no. Tanith and I could communicate like that because we share a special bond—we’re twins. But there are other methods that don’t rely on an existing bond to tether two parties together. There are ways to use blood and metal to transmit information sort of like a radio.”
“I’ve read a ton of the Ala’s history texts—at least the ones that she translated—and I’ve never heard of that.”
Something a little like pride flashed across Caius’s face. “It was one of our best-kept secrets,” he said. His expression sobered. “But it requires two items previously bound by magic to create a line of communication.”
“We have my sword,” said Dorian, “but the twin blades to which it was bound were lost in the Black Forest.”
Twin blades? Oh. “Your knives,” Echo said to Caius.
A soft, sad sigh escaped him. “They were fine weapons. Now they’re probably rusting in the mud somewhere,” he said. “We have no way to communicate with anyone inside the keep. When I last left there, we were in a bit of a rush.”
Quinn paced the room, his strides long and leisurely. He stopped near the rolltop writing desk at which Jasper sat and leaned against it. “But what if we could place our own little spy within the keep? If he could smuggle an enchanted item inside, it would open up the lines of communication, would it not? Word on the street is that Tanith is offering a very generous reward for information regarding the whereabouts of a girl claiming to be the firebird or her known associates.” The phrase known associates was accompanied by a pointed glance at each member of their motley crew. It sounded so official. Known associates. Like they were a gang. An old-fashioned gang. A ring of bootleggers in Prohibition-era America. Like maybe they should have old-timey names like Bugsy, or Lucky, or Machine Gun Pete.
Caius nodded slowly. Echo could see the idea dawning in his expression. “She wants you, Echo. But if she can’t find you, she’ll take anyone who knows you, especially if it’s someone important to you. All the better to draw you out of hiding. She knows you’ll do anything to protect your people, and she’ll be looking to exploit that.”
Echo fidgeted. Her people. She supposed they were, after all. They were her friends, as unlikely as some of them seemed. Caius met her eyes and offered her one of his rare smiles, the ghostly kind that was so fleeting you’d miss it if you blinked. Her stomach did something stupid. It always did something stupid when he looked at her like that. Her mind did something stupid, too, especially when she entertained the doubts that fluttered at the back of her head like restless moths. Doubts about whom he was smiling at. Whether that smile was meant for her or for another girl, one long dead.
“Okay, so she’s fishing for info,” said Echo. “How does that help us?”
“The plan,” Caius said, “which I reiterate is insane, is to use Tanith’s desire for information, or rather a source of information, to get inside the keep. Dorian and I set up a network of people within the ranks of the Drakharin military who are loyal to me.” Caius paused. He frowned. “In case of coups, like the one I didn’t see coming until it was too late.”
“Hindsight’s a bitch,” Echo said.
Dorian snorted. Caius cleared his throat. “As I was saying, if we can place someone inside the keep, then we can communicate with them. Right now Tanith’s defenses are raised. She’ll see me coming from a mile away, but she’ll be less likely to suspect a prisoner.”
“How do you figure?”
“She’s arrogant. That’s always been her Achilles’ heel. If she thinks she has the upper hand, if she thinks she has the power in a situation, she won’t be as cautious. She’s my sister. I know her. She used my blind spot to her advantage. Now we’re going to use hers.”
“What was your blind spot?” Ivy asked.
“Her.” The word was clipped, like it cost Caius something to admit. “I loved her, and she used that to ascend to the throne. She’s flying high on power right now, and that’s going to go to her head. If she thinks she’s winning this chess game, she’ll get cocky.”
“How do you plan on getting this person into the keep?” Echo asked. “Other than by being really, really sneaky?”
Quinn pushed away from the desk and swaggered to the center of the room. He never walked. He swaggered. He strode. Occasionally, he slunk. His lips cracked into a sideways smile and he gestured to himself. “That’s where your not-so-trusty warlock comes in.”
Echo frowned. Quinn’s smile didn’t waver. “I already don’t like this plan,” she said.
“Warlocks are a selfish breed. There are few things we prize over power, magic, and wealth. It’s kind of our hallmark,” said Quinn. “I’m going to deliver”—he spun around the room, his hand waving at each of them in turn—“one of you to her door, all wrapped up in a pretty bow.”
“Okay,” Echo said. “So we get someone inside, then what?”
“One of our agents inside the keep will make contact. There’s a standard call-and-response known only to the people within Caius’s circle. We can tell them to be on the lookout for people coming and going from the keep. There’s a message we can leave, subtly, in the forest on the patrol route that wouldn’t mean anything to anyone who didn’t know what to look for. Then that person will guide and protect whoever we plant inside to acquire information that might assist us in our fight against the kuçedra and help our plant escape with the information we need.”
“And what information is that?”
“A book,” Caius said.
“What kind of book?” Echo asked. “And why can’t you just remember what it said? I mean, you read it, right? You’re an even bigger nerd than I am.”
Caius looked mildly affronted. “My mind is not a steel trap, Echo. I discovered it when I was looking for the firebird. It’s part of a collection of
texts that contained information about the nature of the firebird and its related mythology. The kuçedra falls under that umbrella. I didn’t pay that much attention to it at the time, as it seemed peripheral to my primary focus, but I remember it distinctly. The lore was…discomforting.”
A pall fell across the room. There was no need for him to specify what was so disturbing. They had seen it in Grand Central, and the ones who hadn’t seen it firsthand had witnessed its effects: the black veins that even now were spreading across the skin of those it had touched.
“But why do we even need to get into the keep?” Echo asked. “Surely we can find that information somewhere else?”
Caius’s gaze drifted down. His fingers drummed on his thighs. Echo was beginning to recognize his tells. Some she had cataloged herself; others she remembered in that distant way that meant the memories weren’t really hers. Rose knew Caius and all his tics. And now Echo knew them too. This one meant there was something he had to say, but he didn’t want to say it.
“There is only one copy of the text,” Caius said, his voice soft, like he was telling her, and only her, a secret. Like he was confessing something. “I destroyed the others. I didn’t want anyone else to access the information, lest they find the object of my quest before I did.”
“Beat you to the punch by just a hair,” Echo said with a small laugh. The air in the room felt heavy. The others didn’t seem to notice. It was as though the two of them were having a private conversation in public.
Caius’s lips smiled, but his eyes did not. “Indeed you did.”
“And no one else knows what’s in that book?” Echo asked.
“No,” Caius said. “I made sure of that.”
She had to ask. She didn’t want to. She had to. “How?”
“By killing the people who owned the book before I did.”
She knew he had killed. He’d been fighting a war long before meeting her. Before she’d even been born. And, she knew, one did not become the Dragon Prince by being nice and kissing babies like a politician currying favor from a fickle constituency. The Avicen spoke of the Drakharin’s bloodlust as if it was a biological truth—an innate desire to hurt and kill. The truth wasn’t as neat as all that, but there was a reason that perception existed. Among the Drakharin, strength and ruthlessness were considered virtues. In their leaders, they were necessities. Caius, at one point, had been seen as the embodiment of those virtues.
“Does that disappoint you?” he asked, again with that soft, private voice. His confessional voice. The question sounded like a challenge. Her answer, Echo realized, mattered to him. It mattered a great deal.
She labored over the right words. He was not the person Rose remembered—that phantom who existed in her mind. The softer Caius of Rose’s memories had been hardened by loss and rage, and Echo could not hide from that truth. But then, neither could he. The sin wasn’t hers to forgive, but she sensed that was what he needed from her.
“Well, it would have made our job a whole lot easier if you hadn’t,” she said, striving to keep her voice light. It was strained, but only slightly.
“Yes, well,” Caius said, “hindsight’s a bitch.”
“That’s all well and good,” said Dorian. “But who would we send into the keep? It can’t be you. Or Echo. It would need to be someone Tanith wouldn’t see coming.”
“It would.” Caius’s tone was laced with reluctance. There was no guaranteeing what Tanith might do to whoever was deposited on her doorstep. Echo couldn’t bear the thought of any of them willingly putting themselves in that kind of danger.
“I’ll do it,” Ivy said quietly.
Echo sputtered, objections bottlenecking in her mouth. “What? No. No, that’s freaking insane. No.”
Ivy worried her bottom lip between her teeth. “Think about it, Echo. I’m the only person who can do it.” She pointed at Caius. “You’re obviously out of the question. Tanith wouldn’t want to risk you forming an insurrection right under her nose, especially if there are still people loyal to you in the keep. And you, Dorian, she’d just kill outright. As a professional thief, Jasper has a reputation for being untrustworthy—”
“I resent that,” Jasper interjected.
“You earned that,” Ivy said. “And, Echo, you’re way too valuable. I’m the only one who makes sense. Tanith knows we’re friends. I’m valuable to you, and because of that, I’m valuable to her.”
Caius tilted his head in consideration. “It could work.”
Echo could scarcely believe what she was hearing. “Have you all lost your minds? This is Ivy we’re talking about.”
Ivy shot Echo an aggrieved glare. “What’s that supposed to mean? You don’t think I can do this?”
Un-freaking-believable. To think this had anything to do with Ivy’s injured pride. “I’m not worried about whether or not you’re capable, Ivy. I know you are. But you could die. For good. There’s no firebird to resurrect you. No do-overs.”
“We could all die,” Ivy countered. “And if we don’t do something to try to stop Tanith and the kuçedra and whatever else the universe feels like throwing at us, we will.” She drew herself up, a feat complicated by her seated position. “It’s my life, Echo. You’ve risked yours for us so many times. I can’t do any less.”
“I don’t like it,” Echo said, but the mood in the room was tilting toward Ivy’s suggestion.
“You don’t have to like it. You just have to not fight it.” Ivy offered Echo a forced smile and added, “It’s a plan. And it’s the best chance we’ve got to get one step ahead of Tanith.” She shook out her long white feathers, a nervous tic of hers that made something seize in Echo’s chest. “Just another day hanging out behind enemy lines. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Quinn said. “Death. Maiming. Excruciating torture.”
Echo felt Ivy shiver. She knew the memories of Ivy’s time in the dungeon of Wyvern’s Keep simmered as closely to the surface as her own nightmares did. But Ivy gave no voice to her fears. She curled her hands into fists, as if readying to beat them back by force if necessary. Echo rested a hand on Ivy’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. Ivy relaxed her tense muscles slightly.
Jasper delivered a solid kick to the warlock’s shin. “Shut up, Quinn.”
Echo pulled Ivy into a hug, burying her nose in the soft white hair-feathers at the nape of her friend’s neck. “You have to promise me you’ll come back,” she whispered. “I can’t lose both the Ala and you.”
She felt Ivy nod against her shoulder, though the movement was a little too rapid, a little too jerky.
“I’ll come back,” Ivy mumbled into Echo’s shoulder. “I promise.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Quinn lingered in Jasper’s bedroom after the others had left. Jasper began the process of sorting through the limited wardrobe he’d thrust into a backpack before they left the warehouse. While he hadn’t had time to consider his choices as carefully as he would have liked, the relative monochrome simplicity he preferred in articles of clothing meant that everything pretty much matched. With hair and eyes as vibrant as his, anything more visually arresting than a white T-shirt and jeans was often too much of a distraction. There was little point to unfolding and refolding the clothes, but it gave his hands and mind something to focus on that wasn’t the heavy weight of Quinn’s presence.
Soon, the silence became too much to bear. He had to break it. There was something about the warlock—there always had been—that wreaked havoc on Jasper’s otherwise indestructible nerves. “What do you want?” he asked, as uninvitingly as possible.
“Oh, come now,” Quinn said. “I can’t catch up with an old friend? We’ve hardly had any time to chat since our reunion.” There was a shift in his tone that made Jasper suspect Quinn had winced, but since Jasper refused to turn around to face him, he couldn’t be sure. “Admittedly, said reunion was somewhat less than stellar.” Quinn pushed away from the door, a movement detectable by
the sound of the wooden floor creaking beneath his feet. He was standing behind Jasper now, the faint trace of magic that clung to him like cologne pressing against Jasper’s back. The air shifted, as if Quinn had reached out a hand to touch Jasper—maybe his shoulder or his back, but really any body part was as unacceptable as any other—yet the touch never came. Perhaps Quinn had dropped his hand. Perhaps he’d grown as a person. Perhaps hell had frozen over.
“Is it too much to ask for us to start over?” Quinn asked. If Jasper hadn’t known any better, the hint of sincerity in the warlock’s voice would have sounded believable. Fortunately for him—and unfortunately for past-Jasper—he had learned that Quinn was not to be trusted. Not now, not three years ago, not ever.
Jasper shook out a soft black sweater he’d already folded, taking pains to refold it carefully so as to minimize wrinkling. “You and I both know the answer to that question, and it is a resounding, emphatic, indisputable yes. That is far too much to ask, especially after everything you’ve done.”
“Does that long list of sins including healing you?” Quinn asked. “Because, if I may remind you, I did that out of the kindness of my own heart.” He said it as though this were the most selfless thing he’d ever done. For all Jasper knew, it was. “And at the expense of my own comfort, I might add.”
Now, that was classic Quinn. Hoarding good deeds for the sole purpose of shoving them in someone’s face later. Their entire relationship—six months of Jasper’s life that were unforgettable in the worst possible way—had been like that. It had taken Jasper an embarrassingly long time to wise up to the various methods of emotional manipulation in Quinn’s arsenal. Being a bad boy had been part of Quinn’s appeal, but the extent of his badness was something that Jasper had been woefully unprepared for at the tender age of sixteen. Now he knew better.
“Go away,” he said, his refusal to turn around, to give Quinn the satisfaction of seeing the unease Jasper knew showed on his face, as staunch as ever. “I’m busy.”
