It’s surprising and not at the same time. Wingers aren’t supposed to kill humans in the cities, but the rich and powerful of Strata like being on friendly terms with the supernaturals. It pays—in demon gold or ephilium wine or whatever fat profits are being passed around from the latest trade deal. Not that the average Stratan ever sees any of that coin.
But it means that when a winger slips up—and they do; everyone’s heard stories—often the only consequence is that some money exchanges hands, and it’s swept under the rug. That’s not what’s written in the Concords, of course. A winger breaking the rules is supposed to be punished by his own people and the proof handed over to the other two realms.
Except I’ve never actually heard of it happening until now.
“So after you whipped him, you sent him back to Strata?” I ask.
Syrus nods. “For his punishment to be verified by human and ephilium witnesses, yes.”
I think of the way Quill counted those lashes, the control in Syrus’s posture as he delivered them. It was an act of legal punishment rather than naked cruelty. The demon needed those scars to prove he’d faced judgment and that Infernum didn’t let murder go unchecked.
But if the demons weren’t manipulating people into handing over their souls, there wouldn’t have been any injustice in the first place.
Syrus turns toward the door. “Come in, Viz.”
The skull-faced demon enters. “I’ve got the healer. She’s waiting in Rose’s room.”
This conversation hasn’t done anything to lessen the throbbing in my jaw or the pain in my side, and I’m eager to get away from Syrus’s anger. But Vizmodeus’s use of my name seems to trigger a thought for the Lord of Malice as I stand up and head to the door.
“Who is Leah?”
I freeze mid-step, heart lurching.
How could he know? Did he hear something in my mind during the fight? I have to admit it’s possible. It’s hard to guard your thoughts when they’re getting knocked around your head with someone’s fist.
And even now, I’m too exhausted to lie. Especially when he probably already knows the answer to his question.
“I am,” I say.
“I suppose Radley isn’t your real last name either?” he asks.
I sigh and give a little shake of my head. I don’t know what he wants from me. Surely, he doesn’t think he can threaten me, imprison me, and then demand honesty.
Apparently yes, because although his jaw isn’t clenched any more, his eyes still have a dangerous glint to them. I feel a prickle across the back of my neck, and then his voice caresses the inside of my mind.
“You know, I could just make you tell me who you really are.”
I shut my eyes for a moment, locking most of my thoughts away from him, leaving only a request.
“Please don’t. You don’t need it.”When I open them again, I find his gaze.“You don’t need to know anything about me.”
He doesn’t say anything, but he slips back out of my mind, drifting from it like a mist on the plains. This time when I move toward the door, he doesn’t stop me.
Syrus
“Yealey wants to speak to you,” Viz says, returning after taking Rose to the healer.
No, not Rose.Leah.
It suits her better somehow. There’s nothing wrong with Rose, but it feels a little obvious in what it represents. Beauty. Passion. It’s clear she has both those things. But roses are delicate, ethereal. Blooming today, withering tomorrow, fading away without a fight. That’s not her. I’ve been inside her mind enough to know the fire that burns there, the strength and determination. There’s beauty in that, but not beauty like a rose—beauty like tempered steel. Like something that has passed through flames and come out stronger.
You don’t need to know anything about me.That’s what she said. And she’s right. Except I keep learning things against my will. Like her deductive streak, trying to connect the dots of the Morphos troubles. Then there’s the way she handles pain—not hiding it under bravado but not wallowing in it either.
And the arranged marriage…it’s absurd, how badly I want to know why she still wears a ring from a man she thinks might’ve tried to kill her.
Viz walks with me to the lake. Even though there are plenty of keepers to watch over the Morphos, Yealey rarely leaves it, so we must meet him there.
“Did he mention what it’s about?” I ask.
