“Brother?” Ursula’s brow lifted, her gaze sweeping over Aeren. “All right. That tracks. The hair and eyes give it away.” She tapped her knuckles on the table. “And you want in on this?”
“Yes.”
“And Emmaline told you—everything? You know what we’re planning?”
Aeren’s smile was all teeth. “I want my pound of flesh. For both me and Deyric.”
Ursula pressed her lips together like she was weighing options, then shrugged. “Fine. I trust Emmaline’s judgment.”
Emmaline choked on her drink.
“In this, at least.”
“Hmm.” Emmaline hummed, the tension in her neck easing. Maybe these two wouldn’t kill each other after all.
Then Aeren’s eyes snagged on the objects Ursula had laid out on the table, her breath faltering like she’d walked face-first into a wall.
“Who—” The word rasped out, strangled. “Why the fuck do you have those?”
Ursula placed the velvet bag over the grisly collection, fingers splayed wide like she could physically cage the energy seeping from them. “Light users are so squeamish.”
Aeren’s breath shuddered out, her shoulders dropping like a weight had been lifted. Whatever magic had lashed out at her when she saw the items had retreated under the shielding cloth.
Emmaline frowned. “What are they?”
“Trophies.” Aeren nearly gagged on the word, hand gripping the table like she needed the solid wood to anchor her. Her wide eyes cut to Ursula. “Please tell me they’re not yours.”
“Of course not,” Ursula growled. “I am many things, but I’ve never sunk to that level of depravity.”
“Depravity?” Emmaline’s brows knit together. “Ursula, what exactly are we dealing with here?”
The big woman slouched forward, elbows on the table, her bulk folding inward in a way that made her look smaller than Emmaline had ever seen her. Her voice dropped to a whisper that still felt too loud for what she was saying.
“Apparently, the late Lady Allistair had herself a little side hobby of luring supposedly ‘lesser’ fae to a hidden lair, trapping them, and bleeding them slowly for days. She would then bathe in their blood.”
“Lyra’s breath.” Emmaline’s fists planted on the table. “Are all nobles that rotten, or do we just have the good fortune of seeing the worst of them? Besides Margo, of course.”
“Truth. And I’m the dark witch.” Ursula’s smirk was razor-sharp. “Meanwhile, Lady Bloodbath back there was literally marinating in fae guts, and nobody said a thing.” She drummed both hands once—loud and sudden—against the tabletop. “But here’s the kicker. The Patrol was actually planning to close the case once they found out. If Caelith had managed to pin this all on you, you’d be a folk hero.”
“Okay…” Emmaline bit at the edge of her nail. “At least something good came out of this mess, I guess. Her death, I mean—even if it wasn’t on purpose.”
“The Goddess moves as she wills.” Aeren bowed her head.
“Convenient.” Emmaline hugged herself. “For all the peopleSheforgot to save.” She turned to Ursula. “But why do you have her trophies? And what does any of this have to do with me?”
“We couldn’t find a way to take Isolde, at least not without the whole thing blowing back on us.” Ursula swung the velvet bag once, then tucked it back into her vest. “But now, when the Patrol comes knocking for Caelith tomorrow, even though they won’t find him, they will find these.” She patted her pocket. “In Lady Isolde’s private chambers. Unwarded. Bare to the air. Any Corgi will scent them before they even step inside.”
“She’ll go down.” Emmaline’s heart kicked hard, something dangerously close to glee bubbling up in her chest. “They’ll think all three of them—Allistair, Caelith, and Isolde—were running a noble rape and murder ring. Especially with Margo, a Lady of a great house, filing the accusation herself.”
“Exactly. The other houses will have no choice but to cut ties and let her fall. Isolde will either be executed or exiled, if they’re feeling unusually merciful. All the while, a manhunt is launched for Caelith.”
“Who will, of course, never be found.” Aeren finished the sentence.
“At least not in anything bigger than a souvenir vile.” Emmaline traced a fingertip along the rim of her glass, the certainty in her voice leaving no room for argument, dark and absolute as a death knell.
Before either Ursula or Aeren could respond, Jerri approached their table, hands clasped tightly in front of her apron. “I’m so sorry, ladies, but it’s time to go. Wren insists.”
Ursula stood first, bowing low with exaggerated flair. “Thank you for the kind hospitality, beautiful.” She pulled a small pouch of coins from her pocket, pressing it slowly into Jerri’s palm. “For any trouble our… enthusiasm may have caused.”
