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“But I wasn’t.” Sorcha reached out and gave her man’s hand a squeeze. The memory had Lorian’s eyes burning fire-bright. The strained muscles at his throat eased with her touch.
“If this is part of the same cult,” he continued, “it’s a new cell with the same agenda.”
Sorcha and Lorian were lost in each other’s eyes for a moment. Lorian’s hand lifted, brushing a lock of hair away from Sorcha’s cheek. I felt as if I were intruding on a private moment. Whatever happened with this past Larkosian cult, it locked these two together in a steel-tight knot—one that neither seemed willing to unravel.
Clearing my throat, I reminded them I was still there. “This him you referred to must be a new leader of the Larkosians, I would think.”
Lorian finally shifted his fey eyes from his mate. “It can’t possibly be the same faction. But with recent evidence of a new, more deadly player among the killers, I’ve been thinking it could be old fanatics, sympathizers with the group we wiped out five years ago.”
“Then you’ve seen the police reports. The photographs.”
“Of course. We gave them to the precinct.”
I couldn’t keep the surprise from my face.
He shifted behind Sorcha, placing both hands gently on her shoulders. “How do you think the Gladium Precinct got the information they have? The bodies were found in Drakos where humans aren’t allowed or accepted. They couldn’t march in and do their own investigation. The Morgon Guard is sharing their intel to appease the families of the victims from Gladium.”
“But the Morgon Guard is leading the investigation, right?” I asked.
A slow nod. I kept my smile to myself, elated that I had such contacts. No other journalist would have access to the information I did. But it wasn’t just about telling a story. It was about justice. An exhilarating thrill swept over me since I’d be a part of stopping this evil. That is, if Lucius and Lorian allowed me to move forward with my plan.
A sharp gust of wind and swift shadow fell across the table, drawing our attention to the Morgon landing on the terrace. Bristling at the sight of our newcomer, I breathed in a deep lungful of morning air, frustrated with my immediate reaction to his presence.
In the full light of day, his wings shone with a sheen of sapphire over deep black, rippling with thick-muscled framing. He was the first Morgon of the Moonring clan I’d ever seen. Most Morgons were named for their hue of wings, but Kol’s clan was obviously named for their eyes. Unusual. In gray military-style pants and matching shirt, he stood stone-like next to Lorian, avoiding eye contact with me. If his skin were gray, he could’ve been a decorative statue on the terrace. But who wanted a scowling statue?
“Now that we’re all here, let’s debrief,” said Lorian, taking a seat next to Sorcha.
Without a word, Kol sat next to him.
“Okay,” I interrupted. “Can I finally ask why we’re debriefing here and not with Lucius. No offense, Lorian, but I thought he was in charge of this little enterprise.”
“None taken.” Actually, he seemed amused. “Lucius doesn’t want his pregnant wife stressing her mind or body about your whereabouts. So, while you’re hunting your story, I’ll be making sure you don’t get yourself killed.”
Kol made a grunting noise and shifted, still not acknowledging me. Whatever. Lorian gazed at me with those unsettling eyes. “Explain everything about your contact with your lead last night.”
A chill crawled up my spine, remembering him. “Well, he’s definitely got money.”
Kol’s eyes finally fixed on me with a lifted brow, an implied question.
“For one,” I continued, “his shirt. It was Primean silk. I’ve seen enough of it to know the difference between less expensive brands.”
Primean silk was a rare, shiny fabric made only in Primus, a human-only province to the west of Gladium. The irony was that Primeans still segregated themselves from the Morgons, yet they exported goods to other provinces to make their already wealthy city even wealthier. Greed, a powerful motivator.
“That’s for sure,” added Sorcha. “Seems like you and Jessen had a new dress in Primean silk for every ball you had to go to.”
I ignored Sorcha’s comment, not wanting to get into family history. “That leads to the other reason. There was an air about him. It’s not something I can exactly point to, but only the aristocracy hold themselves that way and speak like him.” I felt the weight of Kol’s stare. I shifted my gaze to Lorian. “He also said his name was Borgus.”
Lorian and Kol shared a look.
“Wait,” said Sorcha. “I know that name.”
“Borgus Fireblade,” Lorian enunciated slowly.
Sorcha’s eyes widened. “I remember! That was the cult leader of the original Larkosians.”
“Yes, baby. But Borgus Fireblade and all of his clan died out five centuries ago when his fanatical religion was put to an end.”
“Maybe this guy is a descendent of the original Borgus Fireblade, and he’s carrying the torch, so to speak, and just adopted the name,” I offered.
