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‘Because I look like shit?’
They respect me too much to respond, but my hunter? She smirks.
‘They debated calling him on your behalf,’ she says. ‘Maybe it wasn’t a bad idea?’
Every cell in my blood seizes. ‘If one of you contacts a blood brother on my behalf while I lie on a slab in the Lower Vaults, the message will reach every throne before nightfall. And I will flay open the one who makes that misjudgement.’
Eira lifts a finger. ‘Gods, you all sound like an absolute nightmare.’
‘You are not incorrect,’ I say.
Her eyebrows rise, faint surprise crossing her face that I answered at all.
‘You are not weak,’ Malachi ventures.
I look at him fully. ‘I was unable to rise from my own bed while my line stood outside a locked door. Do not insult me by pretending you did not witness what happened.’
His face hardens. Then, slowly, he bows his head. ‘Yes, sire.’
‘Good. We proceed from truth. Always.’
My gaze finds Eira again as I say it. She looks away. Very interesting.
When Aaron brings in the secure line, I do not sit and I refuse the slab. The bagged blood steadies my hands enough to dial.
And when I realise my hand is still on Eira’s shoulder, I do not remove it.
Gods, I revel in her eyes on me, in feeling my own blood listening for her heart.
The line clicks and Ciaran O’Rourke’s voice comes through in a blend of old whiskey and something wild. ‘Valentin. The runes warned me I would be graced with your questionable presence.’
There are no pleasantries. Good. This blood brother never pretends to hate me as much as I hate him. ‘I need names,’ I say. ‘Three.’
A pause. ‘Do you now?’ His brogue thickens on purpose.
‘Navarro’s missing sireds. Or those tied to him. I am aware you know exactly who I mean. I need a lead that isn’t smoke.’
Ciaran’s breath is audible, slow and thoughtful. ‘And why would I hand you anything that might strengthen you?’
‘Because if I fall, the balance shifts.’ I hate the truth beneath the sentence. ‘And you do not want Dorian Vale scenting weakness in the blood.’
A low sound from Ciaran. Half laugh, half threat. ‘Ah. So you’ve felt London’s claws.’
‘I do not barter with riddles. I barter with currency.’
A beat passes, then Ciaran says, ‘I’ll give you the names you seek. In return for the whereabouts of my witch.’
Of course.
Rowan.
Ciaran’s most powerful witch. The one I helped vanish a few decades ago when the wrong hunters came calling. Not hide out of kindness; I have never been that sentimental. I did it to punish Ciaran for a different sin, and because Rowan alive was more useful than Rowan dead.
‘How do you know she still lives?’ I ask.
‘Do not fuck about with me, Valentin.’ The wildness in him sharpens. ‘She lives. And I know you are the reason she does. Give me her location in return for the names you seek. And we’ll be grand.’
Until we are not.
