Page 28 of The Diamond in the Rough

“Jesus fucking Christ,” muttered Hart. “Not this shit again.”

I looked over at him, confused. “Again?” I repeated.

“You and fucking Campion,” came the dry response as Hart stood up again, pushing his hands against his thighs. “Getting help from the fucking dead and ending up with weird-ass shit.”

I frowned. “It’s not weird,” I protested. “It’s the same thing, just… stronger.”

“What did you do to make it stronger?” Raj asked, his voice still pitched low and gentle, although I couldn’t see his face without turning around, and I wasn’t sure I could do that without retching again.

“Pulled down the walls,” I answered. It wasn’t a goodanswer, but it was the truth. Not that I expected him to understand what I meant.

“Okay,” came the smooth response. “Can you stack some of the bricks back up?”

I did turn at that, surprised into motion by the fact that he seemed to understand exactly what I meant, even though most people found me deeply confusing.

He was regarding me through those golden-brown eyes, his expression thoughtful, although there were lines of tension around his jaw and in his neck. Presumably because he just wanted me to tell him what I’d found so that he could do something with it.

I looked back down, my face hot. “Sorry,” I apologized.

“No need to apologize,” he murmured, but I knew that was a thing people said, whether or not they meant it.

I tried to do as he’d suggested, imagining the pile of bricks I’d pulled down and stacking them back up in a couple rows. But even in my mind, my hands were shaky, and the lines of bricks were uneven and precarious.

“Here,” Raj said, and I reached out without thinking, my fingers closing around cool, damp pottery. I tensed, but the flash from Hart wasn’t there—or, maybe, it just didn’t come through. Maybe my shaky part-wall was enough for that, at least.

I breathed out a sigh of relief and took a long sip of the cold water, which helped to settle my stomach.

“Thanks,” I managed. Then I looked up, finding concern and expectation on both Hart’s and Raj’s faces.

So I told them what I’d felt.

“I don’t like it, Hart,”Ward said, his arms crossed over his chest. I was nursing a mug of hot chocolate—brought back by Hart, although without the espresso in it because he said I looked shaky enough, sitting on a blanket on the sofa in the lobby. It was after hours, and Mason had locked the doors almost an hour ago. Hart still had a key, and he’d let himself and Raj Parikh back in.

Raj was staring at me, as though waiting for me to get sick again.

I tried not to stare back, choosing instead to let my unfocused gaze skim over the milky brown of the cocoa.

“Fine, I don’tlikeit either,” the elf shot back. “But the kid’s the best goddamn lead we’ve gotten.” A pause. “Leads, plural. First Garraway and then fuckingDagget.”

“And I extra don’t likethat,” Ward snapped.

Mason let out a soft hum, and Ward glanced over at him.

Raj finally stopped staring at me and looked over at Ward. “Does the name Dagget mean something to you?” he asked.

Mason let out a soft growl.

“He’s fucking Ordo,” Hart answered. “So of course he doesn’t fucking like that. None of us fucking likes that.” Hart crossed his own arms over his chest, his posture imitating Ward’s, although he was standing. “As far as I’m concerned, the Ordo can go fuck itself with the world’s longest goddamn stick, and as much as I wish they’d all just die, they apparently can’t do us that little favor, so here we are.” Another pause. “Again.”

“Ordo?” Raj repeated. “As in?—”

“The Antiquus Ordo Arcanum,” Mason supplied.

Raj blew out a breath. “I thought we arrested the rest of them during that whole debacle with the Culhua?”

“We did,” Hart grumbled. “Or, at least, we fucking thought so.”

Mason snorted. “People—especially rich people—can still exert influence from prison,” he remarked.