Page 22 of Ignite the Infernos

He smiles, all too aware that he’s perched on my last nerve like a bird on a live wire. “What would you call it then, Scioness?”

“Processing,” I answer after a beat. “I’m processing. You should look into it. Might help with that whole surly asshole thing you can’t seem to shake.”

His grin widens. “Who says I want to shake it?”

I tip an imaginary hat in his direction, giving him that one, and then pull my hair out of the messy knot I threw it up in now that my workout is over. I stare at Iker, trying to assess what it is he wants. Unfortunately, that list is probably long and filled with booby traps, and the only way I’m going to identify even a portion of it is to drop some of my defenses so he can do the same.

“I needed a moment, okay?” I confess, carefully tracking his reaction, or lack thereof.

Behind him, hanging from the roof, is the sign Elenore made from some scrap metal left over after we built the garage for our sandcycles. The Oven is scratched into the surface on both sides, and it’s hung from the gable of the farm shed by wire that protests loudly with every gust of wind. The message feels apt, not just from the rising temperatures of a new day, but one wrong move and we’re cooked. The Syphons have always understood that. We’re on the precipice of success or failure, but I don’t know how to tip the scales in our favor. I broke the curse; it should have been enough to even our odds, but it wasn’t, and now I don’t know what that means for us.

“How do we survive if we can’t reveal?” I press, the question aimed at the wyvern but also directed at myself. It’s what I’ve been out here trying to figure out since the moment my reveal failed.

Iker doesn’t answer; instead he studies me as though he’s trying to make sense of something. “They hurt you?” he asks, the question wrapped in a delicate tone I’ve never heard the gruff wyvern use before.

I’m not sure which they he’s referring to, the Tainted or the dragons, but it doesn’t really matter—he’s not going to find the answers he’s looking for either way. My eyes drop from Iker’s and wander around before settling back on the eastern dune and the ribbons of pink and red now kissing its peak.

“They hurt Ren more,” I offer, the evasion obvious, and I ignore the way Iker’s stare bores into the side of my face when I don’t expand beyond that.

The air between us grows taut, and I can sense him debating for an uncomfortable stretch of time which angle to approach from next. Am I traumatized and that’s why I’m holding back, or is it something else?

“What happened?” he queries wisely, settling on the general question that gives me the illusion of choice.

I shrug and shake my head. “I don’t even know,” I admit, the statement barely more than a whisper, like I’m hoping the wind will carry it away before it can reach him. “We were taken, and at first, they just moved us around. I thought maybe they were evading the authorities, but The Horde had no idea who the Tainted were before I told them, so it couldn’t have been that.”

Iker nods and adjusts his feet shoulder width apart before putting his hands behind his back. The at-ease position is almost comical, like I’d believe he’s just some subordinate settling in to listen to his higher-up. His body language is telling me I’m in control, I have the power, but it feels more like a manipulation than a sign of respect.

“When we got to the last place, Newden, they separated us. I couldn’t see Ren, but I could hear her, and that’s when they started to bleed us. At first, it was what you’d expect from blood brokers—bleed, feed, and repeat—but then it changed. I suspect it was when they typed my blood and realized what I was.”

I wipe the light sheen of sweat off my neck and forehead and pull my hair back up into a ponytail to combat the rising temperature and to stall. I know Iker has already spoken to Enslee, but I only gave her a clipped rundown of the facts, and she didn’t press for more. Ren was one of Iker’s wyverns, and I can see he wants specifics, but whether he can handle the truth of what happened—or be trusted with it, given the fact that we have a traitor in our midst—is another matter altogether.

“There was this one Tainted, Wistan something or other,” I tell him, a careful mask of indifference in place. “He was obsessed with finding out who I was and where I was from. His fixation only got worse when it became obvious that there was something wrong with me. I didn’t heal, I didn’t show evidence of any kind of affinity, I never revealed a dragon . . .”

I trail off, needing a second to shake off the flashes of Wistan’s endless questions, his rage, and his glee any time he had the privilege of hurting me.

“They leveraged Ren against me,” I hurry on, and Iker goes still.

Wyverns lack affinities, but if they had them, smoke would be curling out of Iker’s nostrils in warning. My chest grows tight at the pain flickering in his eyes, but there’s a question blazing there too, and as much as I don’t want to answer it, I will.

“It was bad,” I confess softly, as though my tone can lessen the blow.

It doesn’t.

Iker’s eyes close, and a small, strangled snarl slips out of him before he can stifle it. He drops his head, and I fight the emotions swirling through me.

“I didn’t give the fuckers what they wanted, and Ren paid the price,” I finish.

It’s not even close to everything, but it’s enough. If he compares notes with what I told Enslee, the stories will line up. I did tell my sister about how the Tainted attacked The Horde to try to get me back, and that I was sure they knew who and what I was long before they ever bled me for the first time, but Iker isn’t going to be privy to that information.

“Ren’s body?” Iker rasps, his features now etched with grief.

Shame washes over me, and I drop my eyes to the ground and study my dusty boots. “I couldn’t . . .” I pause, shaking my head and running a hand down the length of my ponytail, as though the motion might soothe my mounting anguish. “I caught one of the blood brokers off guard in my cell, and ran. I wouldn’t have been able to carry her even if I could have gotten to her. I was hurt and no match against the blood brokers’ magic. I’m sorry . . .”

Iker lifts a hand to stop me. “No, you did the right thing,” he reassures, but I don’t know that I agree.

It’s not right to leave a loved one behind like that. In the end though, it doesn’t matter. Ren is dead, and I let it happen, and that will haunt me for the rest of my life, however short or long it may be.

Iker’s cheeks puff out as he exhales a long, drawn-out breath. He runs his fingers through his ice-gray hair, and his gaze once again finds mine. “You survived. You persevered, and you made it back, that’s what matters.”