Chantal released a bitter laugh. “Iknewit! That’s why you were there helping. I thought you were done with rebellions.”
“I am, thank you.” Blai sat up. “I’m just not above having friends in all places, especially if those friends are charming and roguish.”
“You got this because of a crush?” Chantal asked flatly.
“Absolutely.” Blai stood, brushing themselves off.
Chantal smirked like she knew something. Blai avoided her gaze like it was true. And Nik was more confused than ever.
“What the hell is it?” he asked.
They exchanged another glance before Chantal sighed. “It’s a mark for the rebellion. It’s how they communicate. And before you get all indignant, Elara got it years ago out of rage for someone killing her mom. Sound familiar?”
He’d doted on the mark with kisses last night, barely a thought for what it meant.
“And Blai has abandoned their original plans for a cute face,” Chantal teased.
“It was too poetic to ignore!” they groaned. “I traveled half a world to escape a rebellion, only to land myself in another. I had an opportunity to write a new story, one where I and my troupe lived happily ever after. That sharp-tongued, easy-eyed Travers made me realize how wrong I’d been. My people lost because I hadn’t believed in the right word.”
“What word?” Chantal asked.
“Revolution.” Their eyes sparked. “Rebellions are brief, violent, and often unsuccessful. They are bursts of energy and passion that cannot be sustained. But a revolution…” They pressed a hand against thetattoo and closed their eyes. “A revolution is when a rebellion lasts and changeseverything.”
Those were beautiful words from a beautiful writer… a rebel. And Nik believed in them.
“Come on, hero.” They pressed the tattoo harder. “Answer me.”
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“If we want to win this,” they said, “we’re going to need help.”
An hour later, there was a quiet thud on his roof.
Nik led the slow crawl upstairs, a kitchen knife weighed in his palm. It made him think of Elara in the carriage, holding a butter knife to his throat. Her memory was everywhere, clouding his focus.
The rustling in his office grew louder.
He opened the door.
Two thieves who’d been rummaging through his things froze, pistols aimed to kill.
Blai lifted their hands. “Fernand Travers, my sultry crusader come to rescue me.”
“Where’s Lafontaine?” When no one answered, the one on the right removed the mask, revealing a man maybe a year older than Nik with ruffled, curly hair and an exasperated expression. “You don’t have him.”
“No, but we can maybe get you to him.” Blai nodded at Nik.
“You were Elara’s…” Nik couldn’t finish. Ex? Lover?
“And you’re Lafontaine’s errand boy,” Fernand shot back.
Blai waved them both off. “You can measure traumatic pasts later. Right now, Elara and this city need our help.”
“Elara?” Fernand perked up.
“What happened?” The woman with him ripped her mask off.
Chantal gasped. “Nicolette. You’re okay.”
