“Hence the peace sign,” I mutter. “How thoughtful.”
“It's why they haven't sicced their other covens on us while we're licking our wounds,” Chad adds.
Corvin nods. “They're playing it safe because they don't know what they'd be walking into. Still, five Heathborne goons with a grudge could wreak some havoc.”
“Let them try,” Chad mutters.
His cocky attitude is somewhat contagious. The corridor opens into the reception hall where those creepy hooded statues loom—black marble nightmares casting shadows that seem to reach for your ankles. Security guards in black uniforms swing open the doors. Good thing we've got backup stationed outside, ready to rain hell if needed.
“No need to advertise that our wards are basically running on fumes,” Corvin murmurs.
From our military institute’s front steps, it's a short walk to the main gates, which are currently open. Chad and I fall in behind Corvin like good little soldiers, though I can practically feel the tension radiating off my coven-mates.
I do wonder where Chad’s getting his intel from. He has yet to reveal his sources.
I side-eye Chad. “So your mystery buddies at Heathborne have no clue where dragon-boy flew off to?” I whisper. “Or whose team he's playing for?”
Chad glances at me. “That's right.”
“And this intel is rock-solid because...?”
“Because it is.”
“Oh, well, when you put it that way—how about an actual source I can trust?”
Corvin's head whips around. “Chad's information has been gold so far. Drop it and focus, Salem.”
“Fine. But why am I even here? I'm basically deadweight in diplomat-speak.”
“Chad's the brains. You're the brawn.”
I snort. “Brawn?”
“After that training session?” Chad smirks. “Don't play modest. It doesn't suit you.”
“You were both here,” Corvin cuts in. “That's reason enough. These clearbloods don't need to know you're greener than spring grass.”
The gates loom ahead, and between them stand five Heathborne goons with sticks so far up their asses they could be mistaken forscarecrows. Their leader's all sharp angles and sharper eyes. “Master Corvin,” he says with a voice like expensive whiskey. “Lieutenant Archer. These are my colleagues?—”
He rattles off names I immediately forget. The two mountains flanking him—Gordon and what's-his-face—look like they bench-press small cars for fun. But it's the quiet ones at the back that make my skin crawl, their eyes darting everywhere like they're memorizing our defenses for later.
They stand there like creepy mannequins, hands behind their backs—except Archer, who's waving that white flag like it's his prom date.
“What brings you here on this fine night?” Corvin asks, all fake politeness.
“We've come to talk,” Archer says. “About what happened at Heathborne.”
“What is there to talk about?”
Archer scoffs, his smile about as warm as a morgue freezer. “Cut the nonsense, Corvin. We all know you had a hand in it. You planted a spy in our midst. You put a Salem in Heathborne. I'd congratulate you on the ballsy move if we weren't a dragon short now. We need to find him before it's too late.”
“I don't think the dragon wants anything to do with you anymore,” Corvin fires back.
Chad catches my eye with a subtle nod that screams “stay cool.” Like that helps when we're flanking Corvin while five clearblood psychos stare us down. Especially Archer with his weaselly face that practically screams “I kick puppies for fun.” His aura's so toxic I can practically taste it—like licking a battery wrapped in rotten eggs.
For all their “pure blood” superiority complex, these clearbloods are shadier than the underside of a bridge troll. My heart's doing the cha-cha in my chest, and every muscle in my body's coiled tighter than Chad’s jaw.
“The cat's out of the bag anyway,” Archer sighs like we're all just such a disappointment. “I figured honesty would get me further than lies. Yes, we had a dragon. We've kept him for half a century.But he was ours. Your Salem wonder-brat had no business taking what belongs to us.”
