Page 8 of Storm Caller

Who?

Rook exhales a long breath through his nostrils. These two clearly have a history, and it isn’t a pleasant one.

“Just let us go,” Rook says, teeth gritted. “We aren’t here to bother you.” He pauses, drops his arms to his sides, loosens his stance. “Besides, we both know you don’t have the guts to torture either of us, don’t we?”

The comment is intended to hurt. I see it in the mean glint flashing across Rook’s eyes. He’s been kind to me—minus the lying—but somewhere along the way, I forgot what he’s capable of.

What I don’t understand is why Rook is choosing to goad Fisher right now. We’re the ones at a disadvantage, but you’d never know it by Rook’s behavior.

Fisher’s casual manner evaporates in an instant, his eyes narrowing.

“You know I won’t let you go,” Fisher replies. “Not without some answers about what you were doing in the city and why you’re traveling with a Crust.”

This time, Fisher spits the word crust with such disdain that it makes me feel less than human, which is probably the point.

“And you know I can’t do that,” Rook says. “It’s classified.”

The corner of Fisher’s mouth curls up. “The high commander and his secrets.”

His gaze shifts my way, as though he’s wary of revealing anything in my presence.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Rook says. “But for now, you’re not getting anything until I can return home and report to senior command.”

The two men glare at each other.

“We need some food and a hot shower. Our bags, too,” Rook adds, his tone shifting into something I’ve never heard from him before. Imperious. Almost like he’s a prince and not the wandering Solitude I’ve clearly mistaken him for.

“Fine,” Fisher spits out. “Then I guess you’ll be spending the night as our guests.”

He turns away, literally spitting this time, a glob of saliva hitting the dirt to his left. He lifts a thumb over his shoulder, addressing a few of his people.

“Lock them up.”

3

Fisher disappears into his tent, the flap dropping behind him. No one else says a word as a guy and a girl, both about our age, approach us.

“Where should we put ’em?” one asks Calliope.

“Bunkhouse twelve is empty,” she says. “Put a watch on. We don’t want them wandering off.”

Calliope stares at Rook for a heartbeat before turning and entering Fisher’s tent without a backward glance.

“Always nice seeing you, Cal!” Rook shouts after her, a few snickers following his comment.

“Rook,” one of our newly appointed escorts says. He’s tall and lanky, with russet skin and black hair braided in neat rows along his scalp. He wears a sleeveless leather shirt showing off a pair of heavily tattooed arms.

“How’ve you been, Cole?” Rook asks.

Cole grins. “Can’t complain.”

“Safira,” Rook says to the girl. “Nice hair.”

I take in her bob, dyed silver with purple streaks, and have to agree.

Safira flips the ends. “Thought I’d try something new.”

My gaze darts between them. Why does Rook know so many of the people intent on locking us up?