Page 61 of Demon Touched

I relax at the sight of her, letting my magic fizzle out. “Sorry, I’ve just had some issues with people sneaking up on me recently.”

“So I’ve heard,” she says, descending the steps to come level with me. “Although the gossip mill is being coy about the details.”

I grit my teeth to stop myself saying anything about Keros. Pellery is smart. She probably already suspects why I won’t name my attacker.

“Still,” she continues, “at least you got something out of it.”

Her eyes drift over my wings, and I find myself adjusting them self-consciously.

“You were right in the end,” I say. “You predicted I’d get them even when the colonel had his doubts.”

She smiles, but it’s restrained. It finally occurs to me to wonder why she’s out here.

“I didn’t predict that they’d be so unique, however,” she says.

Did she follow me?

I shrug nervously. “It’s a nephilim thing.”

Her eyes narrow a fraction. “Is it?”

I take a step back, all my senses on the alert. “What else could it be?”

“The gossip mill has also been turning out a few theories regarding your unusual wing color,” she says. “With the arrival of the Lord of Malice, it’s perhaps not surprising that people have been making unfavorable comparisons with the wings of Infernum’s residents—saying you might be demon touched.”

I go very still, trying to read her expression in the gloom. She doesn’t seem angry, nor like she’s openly accusing me of anything. So what is she after? Ephilium aren’t big on small talk. If she’s bringing this up, it’s for a reason.

“You said that your gut told me I wasn’t your enemy,” I say slowly. “That’s the truth, Captain.”

She glances up at the Seraph Seat, the glow of candlelight spilling through its archway making it look like an enormous fireplace.

“Walk with me for a while?” she says. “I need to tell you something.”

My eyebrows rise, but my anxiety cools a little. That doesn’t sound much like a threat.

“Okay.”

We walk in silence as we descend to the lower terraces, the static hum of the ball fading behind us.

“How well do you remember the day we met at the trade rift?” the captain eventually asks.

I hesitate, wondering if there’s a hidden trap in the question.

“I remember that jerk Magnus giving me a sore shoulder,” I say. That should be safe enough.

“Ah yes. Not one of the Brigade’s finest specimens. I put him on grunt work for a week after that,” she says, pleased with herself. “But do you remember anything about the work going on at the rift itself?”

I look sideways at her. “It was busy. There were lots of checks going on with the cargo.”

She nods. “You were paying attention.”

Is that what these questions are about? She’s trying to confirm if I was spying or not?

“I’m going to be honest, this feels much more like an interrogation than you telling me something,” I say pointedly.

Pellery stops walking, taking off her helmet and tucking it under her arm.

“All right, I’ll get to the point. I wasn’t there on normal guard duty,” she says.