Madam Lyrie blinks at me. Her eyebrows scrunch, and though it’s hard to tell what she’s thinking, she manages a nod. Her attention flickers from me to Elliot, who is still asleep against the wall. If she notices the blood on his shirt, she doesn’t mention it.
She only nods again and steps back into the house. She leaves the door ajar, and I follow, dragging Elliot behind me. He mutters something incoherent as I guide him to a sofa. Like almost everything in this entry room, it’s dark orange and looks both vintageandexpensive.
Elliot collapses on the sofa, his feet hanging over the end. He blinks heavily at me, and it’s only a few seconds before he’s asleep again, a tender smile on his face. I watch him, jaw clenched so tight I might break a tooth.
He’d done this for me.
I wish you hadn’t, I want to tell him. I wish you didn’t love me at all.
A tear slips down my cheek and I wipe it roughly with the back of my hand. I’m still watching him when Madam Lyrie returns to the living room. She’s still dazed, her steps wobbly, but she’s gripping an empty vial. Remnants of something purple color her lips.
With every blink, she’s more lucid, until she looks less disoriented and more horrified. She looks from me, a Dark One standing in her living room, to Elliot, her only son, covered in blood.
I meet her furious gaze, counting the seconds until she speaks. I’ve almost passed two hundred when she steps closer. She tosses the vial onto a side table and crouches at Elliot’s side. She touches him, hands gingerly moving down his body, tugging at the hem of his shirt. With his stomach and chest exposed, I tell her what she clearly already knows.
“He’ll need a healer,” I say. “The sooner the better.”
“What did you do?” she asks.
I swallow.
Nothing, I could say.
Everything, might be better.
“He came to me like this,” I say finally. It’s a simple truth, easier than the full story.
Shock flickers over Madam Lyrie’s face, but it’s gone in an instant, replaced with a carefully blank mask. She already knew Elliot and I were friends. He came with me to make my official report, after all. She knew her son was someone I trusted, but I doubt she expected he trusted me the same.
Rather than responding, she turns back to Elliot. She smooths his shirt into place, careful not to disturb the wound on his stomach. Then she inspects his arms, the sides of his throat, the top of his head. She’s so intent on him that I doubt she realizes she’s given me her back.
She’s too worried over Elliot to protect herself from me, and it gives me all the confirmation I need. For all the cruelty Madam Lyrie has shown me, she undoubtedly loves this boy as much as I do. I didn’t know that was possible until this moment.
She loves him, and that means I can trust her.
“He killed Harrison,” I say.
Madam Lyrie whirls around. Her hands are still on Elliot, but now, her gaze is wholly focused on me. She scans my body, head to toe, lip curling at what she sees. Even though it doesn’t matter, I impulsively add, “I wasn’t there.”
“And yet, here you are,” she says. Her voice is pure venom as she shifts, facing me. She places herself like a shield before Elliot and the absurdity of it—of her protecting him fromme—should be ludicrous. It should make me laugh.
Instead, the bitter taste of bile crawls up my throat. He clearly does need protection from me. If only I’d let Elliot introduce me to his mama like he wanted, she likely would have prevented any of this from happening.
“Explain everything. Now.” She keeps one hand on Elliot andraises the other toward me. Though I can’t see her magic, I can feel it. It sizzles through the air, stronger than any other I’ve felt, except perhaps my own.
“I don’t know the details,” I say. “Only that Elliot killed him. I imagine there’s a terrible mess.”
Madam Lyrie doesn’t immediately respond. Her jaw works as she looks at me, and her upper lip curls into a snarl. I tilt my chin, leveling her with a stare. I hope she can’t see the way my knees shake, the way my breath hitches
“What do you want?” she asks finally. Her magic pulses again, but she doesn’t strike. She’s too smart. There’s too much at stake. If she kills me, she won’t know how to cover for Elliot. The council might ignore the rape of a Dark One, but they likely won’t do the same for the murder of an augur’s son.
“You need to clean it up,” I say. When Madam Lyrie doesn’t react, doesn’t even breathe, I continue. “I don’t have the right ingredients to conceal his involvement. I’m hoping you do.”
She still doesn’t move. She only stares and stares at me, one hand locked on Elliot’s arm, as if bracing him for impact.
“Why?” she asks.
“Why?” I echo. There are too many questions that could start with that single word. Why did Elliot kill Harrison? Why did he come to me? Why do I want to protect my rapist’s best friend?
