Page 79 of Turncloak

Levan lowered the knife, his breath steadying at last. “I’ll get you that letter.”

Maybe they could mend this, after all, and she wouldn’t have to die, and he wouldn’t have to cauterize the wound inside him. Or maybe Segal was right, and his fool’s heart would be the end of the Bloodmoons. The prospect seemed, at that moment, too abstract to be troubling. The only real thing was the shine of Saffron’s grief-stricken eyes.

But at the suggestion, Saffron visibly hardened with suspicion, as though he were playing a cruel trick on her emotions. “Why?”

“You have lost so much because of me.” He dropped the dagger entirely, its hilt clattering to the flagstones. “Because of my family.”

She stared and stared, searching him for the but, then, when it did not come, she softened slowly, eventually nodded. “The truth is that I’m keeping things from you still—things that will forever change the way you see me. Things I’ve been waiting to share with you, because our trust is still so fragile. But I don’t think it can wait any longer.” She swallowed hard, wiping away the tears beading along her lashes. “If you bring me that letter, I’ll tell you everything.”

38

• • • •

Two Letters

For the second time that night, Levan studied the ajar window on the second floor of Silvercloak headquarters. Any other sound of mind person might have taken Saffron’s intrusion as a sign to perhaps forgo their achullah habit in lieu of more comprehensive security measures—i.e., shut the fucking window—but Nissa Naszi was clearly not sound of mind.

Leaning against a tall oak tree, Levan lifted his wand.

“Et vocos, Grand Arbiter Dematus.”

A shuffle, then a grunt. “Who is it?”

“Edmer Thain.” A code name, plucked from a classic vampire novel. At the sound of it, Dematus sucked in her breath. “Can you talk?”

“Yes.” Her mid-sixties voice danced over the knife-edge between fearful and indignant.

“Hypothetically speaking, if I were caught trespassing on Silvercloak property, could you have the charges dropped?”

A dark silence. “You’re planning a raid on the Order?”

“Less bloodthirsty than it sounds. I merely want to retrieve an object that’s fallen into the wrong hands.”

“It’ll look very bad if I block an arrest warrant following a targeted attack.”

“I’m not particularly concerned about how you look.”

A pinched sigh. “If I make my compromisation too obvious, we both lose.”

“And so we’ll turn the next Grand Arbiter. You weren’t particularly difficult.”

Some of Lyrian’s finest work. He’d threatened Dematus’s daughter into running darkseed for them, then made sure a drop turned violent, forcing the daughter into taking a life. Lyrian had secured evidence of the criminal activity, then taken it to Dematus herself. Said that unless Dematus followed their every order henceforth, he would turn the daughter over to the Silvercloaks, make sure she rotted in Duncarzus. As most parents would, Dematus obliged.

Dematus sounded exhausted as she said, “I won’t be able to do a thing if you leave a trail of dead Silvercloaks in your wake.”

“I intend to remain a ghost. No lives taken. But if I’m caught—”

“Nothing I do or say will lead to your release,” Dematus snapped.

“I was going to say that if I’m caught and then flee, will they still come for me?”

“Depends, once again, on how you flee. Violently or otherwise. If the only crime you’ve committed is breaking and entering…they won’t want you on such a petty charge. They’re looking for organized crime. Treason, not trespassing.”

“Great slogan. I’ll have badges made.”

A confused beat. “Did you just crack a joke?”

“No.”