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“No,” he replied flatly, gathering his swords.
When he neared the door, she said rather sadly, “Can’t you feel anything?”
The poignant hit of the question reverberated through his every cell. The rawness of it. The chill it brought with it was bracing. Sirus glanced at her over his shoulder, and without a shred of hesitation or emotion he replied, “The dead rarely do.” Then he left.
Chapter Eight
Sirus was in a dark mood when he found Barith and Levian in the modified library, well on their way to being lost in their cups. Fae wine was a foul drink, sickeningly sweet, but it proved an effective catalyst to mend fissures between the dragon and mage. So it’d been for centuries.
“Ah! The Hound returns,” Levian chimed with a wry smile when she saw Sirus enter. She knew he disliked the moniker, and she’d used it just to get under his skin. It was how much of the Folk referred to him. The Hound of Hell. “How’s your little kitten faring?”
“I like her,” Barith cut in after a long swig from his bottle. “She’s something.” Sirus bristled at the comfort in the dragon’s voice. The warmth.
Levian sniffed haughtily. “She’s adorable. You would like the poor thing. I hope you didn’t peacock too much? What am I saying,” she caught herself with a snarky laugh. “Of course you did.”
The dragon cut her a scathing look.
“You’ve made peace,” Sirus observed, trying to push past the topic of Gwendolyn.
Barith snorted. “She bribed me with wine,” he explained, pointing to a small pile of already empty bottles near his chair. “I think we can trust her, but I’d like her to say it anyway. So, can we, Vi? Trust you?”
Levian’s face twisted like she’d chewed on a lemon. “Don’t call me that,” she bit out. The dragon glared at her expectantly. She sneered, her nails digging into the arm of her chair. “How had I forgotten how much I loathed both of you?” she snapped with pure venom.
Barith smirked, happy to get the rise out of her he’d been after. “And here I was, actually starting to think you’d missed us.”
She barked a laugh. “Miss what? Being irritated to near death or you drinking all of my wine?”
“You did seem to dislike the fact that I didn’t seek your help,” Sirus pointed out, rather uncharacteristically stirring the pot. He wanted a distraction. Wanted to focus on something other than Gwendolyn, who seemed to haunt his senses even now.
Levian went rigid at his words; her fidgeting ceased. Barith choked on his wine. “Wait, are you actually—jealous?” he managed through a cough. “You, the almighty mage, who always thought you were too good for this kind of work?”
The mage glared daggers at Sirus before turning her focus to the dragon. She cocked a well-practiced brow. “You think I wanted to be involved in this?” she huffed with superiority. “I have far better things to do with my time than get involved in some silly little contract work.”
“Like make drunken bets with a daemon prince?” Barith bit back with smug satisfaction.
Levian’s eyes flared with magick, causing the tattoos on Sirus’s skin to prickle with warning. The mage glared darkly at the dragon, and for a moment he feared he might actually have to intervene if she sent a spell hurtling toward Barith’s head.
Despite a rising tendril of doubt, Sirus’s instincts told him Levian was, for the most part, being honest. And as much as he wished to distract himself from thoughts of Gwendolyn, there was work to be done. “What do you really know?” he asked her flatly, cutting the tension to refocus on their purpose.
She downed what remained in her glass without taking her deathly glare off the dragon before she stood to square off with Sirus. “I know the zephyrs are after her,” she replied, attempting to mimic the chill in his own voice. She came nowhere close. Her eyes narrowed, as if a thought had suddenly struck her. “Is it Nestra?” she guessed acutely. Sirus gave no hint of confirmation; he didn’t need to.
“Aye. The High Priestess,” Barith confirmed for him.
Levian’s expression shifted to one of cocky amusement, silently telling Sirus that if he’d wanted to keep any of the details secret, he should have known better than to tell Barith. The mage glided to the table to refill her glass. “The zephyrs’ High Priestess it quite tactful, as I understand it. I’m surprised she let things turn so sloppy as to be discovered. Her king is going to be less than pleased at all the attention this has drawn.” She let out a deep breath and turned more contemplative. “Your little kitten must be something for Nestra to go to so much trouble. To risk so much. It’s all very puzzling.”
She nibbled at her bottom lip as she became lost in her own thoughts. “How did you and Barith get involved in this, anyway?”
“That’s irrelevant,” Sirus cut in before Barith could open his mouth to reply. Not that the dragon knew any specific details regarding Marcus or the deal they’d struck. Sirus had only told Barith what would get him to agree to help him, which, thankfully, had been quite little.
Levian rolled her eyes. “Fine. Don’t tell me.”
As she said it, something flickered at the rim of Sirus’s senses. Something—familiar.
Levian tapped her sparkly purple nails on her glass. “She’s not just fodder caught in the fray. Her essence is unique,” she divulged. “Which is ever more curious, since she seems to know nothing of magick.”
Gwendolyn was far beyond unique, but Sirus kept that thought to himself. He tensed as he recollected how her flare of magick had coursed through him back in New York. He craved to feel it again, that little shudder of power that had tempted him so acutely.
“She didn’t even know she lived amongst witches,” Barith confirmed after a large belch, drawing Sirus back into their conversation, where he should have been all along.
