“She’s a liability,” Fulton replies, just as serious. “She stands out.”
“That’s the point.” He releases her wrist and she crosses her arms. “You said you’d hear me out. If you’re not comfortable by the time it’s all said and done, I won’t blame you. Your team has already done enough.”
All this cryptic talk is well and good, but I’m tired of being left out of the conversation. I clear my throat, grinding my teeth against the soreness it causes.
“This is Fable Fulton,” Charade introduces. “She and her friends have been helping me with some things recently, and hopefully they’ll help us again. You already know who Kaye is, don’t you, Fulton?”
She looks me up and down, and it’s not anger I see there but appraisal. Recognition of an equal opponent. A threat.
I hold out my hand, feeling for all the world like I’m offering it to a tiger ready to bite. “Hello.”
She wraps my palm in solid warmth, her skin smooth and palm dry. The contact lasts a fraction of a second before she turns on her heel and begins walking away. It’s clear we’re meant to follow, but the dismissal throws me enough that I don’t process it until she crosses the threshold between pews and alter. “It’s Fulton—no one called me ‘Fable.’ The others have beenveryinterested to meet you. Milo will be disappointed he missed it.”
“Milo’s not here?” Zane asks. “I was hoping he could take a look at Kaye. I don’t like not knowing what effects a toxin like that could have long term.”
“Milo, Vita, and Agus are busy.” She opens an arched doorway and holds it for Zane and me. Our eyes meet as I pass her. Am I missing something? “I’m afraid you’ll have to take what you can get for now. But if you think you need help, Kaye, call us. We can help.”
The offer throws me a bit. “Thank you, I think.”
Fulton leads us up a steep stone staircase, and the realization of just how deep into the belly of the cathedral we are hits. Gone are the pews, the tables meant for gathering and the candles left burning in prayer. Bare walls surround us now, clean but humble and pious, devoid of decoration.
The end of the hallway opens into a modest study, decorated in rich burgundy and leather. A shuttered antique writing desk waits quietly in one corner. The back of an armchair, stuffing leaking at its seams, idles before it. An old leather couch and matching chairs surround a coffee table piled with what I assume to be religious texts. A fire burns in the grate, casting shadows even under places lit by petite sconces lining every few feet of the walls. The overall effect is cozy, even as cracks and scuffs start to reveal themselves with our proximity.
“I thought I was going to fall asleep before you got here.” A pair of perfectly-maintained tan ankle boots jingle where theydangle crossed over the arm of the couch. A light, earnest laugh follows, somehow melodious even in its criticism.
Fulton stalks over to her prey and I almost feel bad that he can’t see the danger coming. She aims a half-hearted kick that sends his feet sprawling to the ground and a head of dark hair shooting upward. “Stop draping yourself over every flat surface you can find like some kind of soap opera starlet.”
The man’s profile is made up of distinct lines and angles. Warm, brown skin, a strong nose and jaw, and nice cheekbones made stronger by the tightly trimmed facial hair across his chin and upper lip. Thick, straight hair falls in a wave over the left side of his face. But all of that pales in comparison to his eyes. They are true silver and lined in lashes so long and thick they give the effect of being lined with kohl. Maybe they are.
He glowers at Fulton.
“Let it go, Jas. Don’t pick fights you can’t finish.”
As my eyes adjust to the dimmer light, two other heads become visible over the back of the couch: a brunette doing his best to lean as far away from the one with the silver eyes as possible and a man with elf-curled red hair seated between them. They crane their necks to get a look at us, but the redhead lingers.
“You don’t want to embarrass yourself in front of a legend, do you?” he says.
“I’m honored, St. Clair.” Zane presses a hand over his heart, inclining his head. “I knew I was infamous, but a legend?—”
“Not you.” He cuts Zane off. “I don’t even like you.”
“Why do you let Jaspar lay all over you? You should have pushed him to the floor,” Fulton remarks. Neither she nor the man with the silver eyes have backed down yet.
“We didn’t want to deal with the pouting,” the last man answers. His voice is warm and dry, neither deep nor highpitched. It has that soothing middle-tone quality that is always pleasing to the ear.
“Youdreamof my pout,” Jaspar counters. “And you can knock it off Adeon. I already know Fulton would kick my ass. I’m a lover, not a fighter.”
He’s on his feet and taking my hand in his before I fully register that he even moved. For someone who supposedly spends his time draped over furniture, the alacrity he displays is unexpected. His pupils shimmer an echo to the fire behind him as he presses a kiss to the base of my knuckles. His eyes hold mine, then they grow wider for a second, two, before returning to normal.
“Interesting,” he mutters.
Zane makes a choking-cough of a noise. The eyes of the room press in on me.
“Nice to meet you too.” I pull my hand away from him and wipe it on the side of my leg. Fulton’s lips spread into a wide grin.
“Forgive me, Checkmate. You are far more beautiful than your WANTED posters,” Jaspar says.
I’m not sure if I should be amused or offended.
