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“Oh, for Charon’s sake!” Natalie curses. “He already knows what we are!”
Thane’s arms tighten across his chest. I guess that shouldn’t be surprising—they’re all former friends, right?
“So...did you have a falling-out before or after you discovered all of your friends were crows?”
“I resent that,” Jacobi says. “We’re ravens. A little more graceful, definitely bigger.”
“Whatever. The fact is you have wings.”
“We need to get out of here,” Shy says, ignoring me. “The Order will send Knights in. That creature consumed a lot of energy. It had to show up on their radar.”
“That’s perfect,” Natalie says. “We can turn her over when they get here.”
“What?” I instantly feel the thread rise to the surface of my palm.
“No,” Shy says.
Natalie gets that look about her. The one where I imagine she’s envisioning tearing someone apart limb by limb.
“Shy, she’s the Eurydice! The Order’s been looking for her!”
“So is Roth and I don’t trust him,” he turns to me. “I want to hear your story first. Why you’re here. What happened in New York?”
I swallow hard. “New York?”
“We know you’re not from Chicago,” Natalie says. “Figured that out pretty fast.”
My fingers tighten into fists.
Thane looks at me. “I’m not a fan of any of them, but it’s not such a bad thing to have them on your side, especially as the Eurydice.”
It takes effort, but I’m able to uncurl my fists. I take a deep breath. “Fine. Where are we going?”
When I look at Shy, his face seems so severe, I flinch.
“My house,” he turns, spreading his large wings and taking flight. The sight is oddly beautiful. Natalie and Jacobi follow.
I’m left standing with Thane.
“That’s why you know their rules so well,” I say, sounding a little accusatory.
He shrugs. “You didn’t need to know so long as they didn’t know you were the Eurydice,” he pauses, letting that sink in and then says, “Let’s go. I hate to admit it, but Shy’s right. This place will be swarming with Knights soon.”
Swarming.
Suddenly, all I can think is that I made a huge mistake coming here.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE – ANORA & THE SHADOW KNIGHTS
Before we leave, Thane pulls a water bottle from his car and a stack of napkins from his glove compartment. He helps me clean the black blood from my hands and I remember the cut I had gotten when I climbed through the window. It stings, and I hope I’m not in danger of contracting any weird diseases. If so, Thane doesn’t choose this moment to start naming them off.
As he pours water over my hands, I notice several scratches on his wrist where his shirt sleeve has lifted.
“What’s on your wrist?” I ask.
“What?” Thane asks.
“Your wrist. It looks like you scratched yourself.” I say scratched, but what I mean is cut. It looks like he cut himself. The line is too precise. I reach for his hand and pull it toward me, twisting his palm upright and pushing back his sleeve. There, on his pale skin, are a series of angry, red marks. Some of them are scabbed over, others are fresh.
