Page 62 of Turncloak

She shook her head, trying to look serious as Rasso licked at her jaw. “Is it always going to be like this? Laying traps, having me tailed?”

“Why were you in Mersina? Why the Vari Merkt?”

“I wanted a new wand,” she replied blandly. “Mine is an embarrassment and an abomination.”

“There are countless wandmakers in Vallin you might have frequented instead.”

Saffron lowered her voice, letting it soften and tremor. “When I was younger, my parents hauled me around every wandmakery in the north, and none of them would sell me anything decent. They thought me weak, underpowered. I didn’t want to face that same experience again as an adult.”

Trying to read Levan’s expression was like searching for meaning on a brick wall. “I’m giving you another chance to tell me the truth here, Silver. To lay another stone.”

He didn’t believe her.

Why didn’t he believe her?

“I am telling the truth.”

A head shake, his hair falling around his face in salt-tangled waves. “Whatever you say.”

For several moments, they sat in the rubble of silence. Levan’s face had darkened, and she still was not altogether certain why. But when he turned to face her, as though to say something, the ferocity of his pale blue gaze shocked her. Rapping his fingertips on the windowsill in a rhythmic pattern, his lips parted, and he took a deep inhale—

—and then Saffron’s wand crackled in her palm.

“Et vocos, Saffron Killoran.”

A familiar voice, lightly accented, soft and feminine yet gritty with the sand of the Eqoran desert. A familiar voice, backlit with a flame of anger that never went out.

Not for the first time that morning, emotion seared through Saffron.

“It’s Nissa Naszi,” Saffron whispered to Levan, her pulse quickening, her heart somersaulting. “Another chance to reestablish contact. It’s not Auria, but…Do you trust me?”

The seconds it took for him to reply sprawled into eternity. Saffron could almost hear the internal war rage, the scales trying to balance themselves, his ruthlessly calculating mind unable to settle on an answer.

Then, finally, a nod. Crisp, unconvincing, and yet permission nonetheless.

“Nissa,” Saffron breathed. “Can we meet?”

30

• • • •

Cross-Contamination

In the corner of Captain Vel Karvas’s office, a pewter cauldron bubbled and simmered with the burnt-sugar smell of truth elixir—though the potion was forbidden in the interrogation rooms, Karvas was not shy about keeping his detectives honest. The scent made Auria nervous, though she couldn’t say for certain why. She had nothing to hide.

“Marriosan.” Karvas closed a file, set it to one side. His long white hair was pulled back with a strip of narrow black suede. “Take a seat.”

Auria sat, wordless, fixing her eyes on the thin black bands of ink around his neck. On the alcoved bookshelves, Aspar’s floral arrangements had been removed and replaced with wall-mounted broadswords and rapiers. Warnings of the captain’s corruption sounded in Auria’s head like klaxons.

He smiled at her, but it was empty of mirth or kindness. “I understand you were disappointed that the Broad Row murders were reallocated following the discovery of a brand on a victim’s chest.”

Auria nodded, trying to find the balance between deferential and resolute, to show she knew her own mind but respected that his overruled it. “Yes, sir. It seems to me that the Bloodmoons and the Whitewings are so intertwined that I’ll struggle to investigate the latter without stumbling over the former. There’s too much cross-contamination.”

“An interesting turn of phrase. Cross-contamination.” Karvas pushed his silver-rimmed glasses up the ridge of his nose. “Your stakeout of the Whitewing activity hub begins this evening.”

“Yes, sir.”

If a Bloodmoon happens to stroll past in search of a tavern, will I be pulled off this assignment too? she thought bitterly.