Page 118 of Fallacies

“The ward stops working,” I finish for him. “I know this already. But it was forged using the blood of the Rogue Disciples, and all five of them are in Onyile.”

“Who cares? You don’t need them.”

There’s something about how casually he says it that makes me pause. Do I trust that what he’s telling me is true? Absolutely not. But he seems so…certain. So sure about it all.

I fold my arms across my chest, leaning against the door behind me. “What are you talking about?”

He leans against the chair behind him. “You don’t need the Disciples. You need their direct descendants.”

I’d actually proposed this theory to Easton, but he didn’t want to entertain it. Didn’t think it was probable as some of the other theories we came up with.

“And these direct descendants are…here?” I ask. “In Streatham?”

“The ward wouldn’t be as strong as it is if they weren’t.”

My head tilts, eyes narrowing on his. I’m pretty good at spotting liars, and nothing about his body language or tone suggests that he’s one of them. It isn’t his words I don’t trust—it’s him.

Why would he go through the effort of lying about all of this? Why would he go through the effort of telling me at all?

“So you’re saying that all I need to do is find the five direct descendants that make up the source, get rid of them, and then the ward will fall?”

“It’s not really as simple as killing them,” he replies.

“And what does that mean?”

He shrugs, the smug shift in his expression confirming that he knows the answer, but he just won’t reveal it to me.

I pretend that doesn’t grate on me, continuing with a different question instead: “How do I know who the direct descendants are?”

Another shrug.

I fucking knew it. I knew there was a catch. Sure, he’d given me useful information, but he was only leading me to this. To acknowledging that I needed help. And while that might be true, I’m not yet desperate enough to ask a stranger for it. Especially not a stranger who is of a species I don’t even recognize.

“You know what? Don’t tell me. I don’t need your help.” Confident with my decision, I push off the door, but the twinkle of something mischievous in his stare halts my momentum to leave.

“Unless this is an ultimatum?” I straighten. “Are you going to interfere with my plans if I don’t accept your help?”

“You mean rat out your disguise?”

“Yeah.”

He smiles then, huffing amusedly to himself. “No.”

Then he straightens to his full height and silently crosses the room, coming to a stop beside the chair I’d woken up in. Bending down, he snatches something off the floor, the unmistakable glint of metal catching the moonlight as he walks back over to me.

Pinching the blade between his two fingers, he holds the hilt of my knife out for me to take. “I won’t interfere,” he says.

I take it without hesitation, feeling slightly embarrassed that it had been there the whole time—feeling worse that I’d internally accused him of taking it.

After tucking it into my waistband, I turn towards the door.

“Just to be clear.”

I pause.

“My proposition stands.”

Something about the arrogance in his voice has me spinning back around to face him. “Why?” I blurt, throwing my arms out in defeat. “Why do you want to help me?”