Page 58 of With Wing And Claw

The words echoed through the deserted corridor, quiet and hollow.

Silas didn’t sheathe his knife as he slowly turned the full bulk of his body back towards her, a small muscle working in his broad jaw. It was the only outward sign of his agitation. The rest of him was still, almost ominously so, as he looked her up and down twice as if he might be able to read the truth from the scars on her wings and her sandy boots.

When he finally jerked forward, it was almost a relief. His hand came up and extended towards her, a simple, wordless gesture that required no further explanation.

She placed her hand in his. Even the back of his fingers showed the occasional bargain mark; gleaming, colourful reminders that she didn’t stand a chance trying to trick this particular male into any half-truths or false promises.

‘You’ll answer the first three questions I ask you after we close this bargain,’ he said, his voice as tight as his grip. ‘Honest answers, full truth and nothing but the truth, and no attempts to goad me into misinterpreting your words. I’ll answer your first three questions in turn, under the same conditions.’

She swallowed. ‘We have a deal.’

The magic blazed and died away swiftly. By the time the small, ocean-green gemstone had appeared next to Naxi’s, Nicanor’s, and Gadyon’s marks on the inside of her wrist, she still hadn’t figured out what would be the best way to use her three guaranteed answers.

Silas clearly had no such trouble. She’d barely let go of his hand before he sharply said, ‘Is the Mother dead?’

‘Yes,’ she blurted out, the magical obligation moving her lips before she could decide to herself. ‘She is, and I’m certain of it, too.’

He stared at her for another moment, then cursed and turned away, rubbing his palm over his face once and a second time as if he might press the fact into his mind with sheer physical force. She waited in the desolate silence until finally he gave a sharp shake of his head, glancedat his own forearm, and muttered, ‘Ididwonder what happened to all of them.’

‘Oh,’ she said numbly. ‘The battle.’

‘Yes. Lost a few dozen marks over the course of a couple of hours – Arion, Thyestes, Anysia …’ His left finger thoughtlessly pointed out the spots where the marks had been, nothing but smooth dark skin to be seen now. ‘Was planning to ask about it at the next food delivery. I’d like to hear who killed her.’

Emphatically not a question. Which meant there was no magic forcing her to answer, let alone to answer truthfully … but then again, there was little reason to lie about this.

‘Emelin,’ she said flatly. ‘Agenor’s daughter.’

Silas blinked. ‘I wasn’t aware Agenor had a daughter.’

‘Neither was anyone else, until recently.’ She couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice. ‘She’s half human. Unbound. Agenor left the court and joined the Alliance a while ago.’

‘Smart fucking bastard,’ Silas muttered, moving back until he bumped wing-first into the opposite wall. There he sank into a crouch, elbows on his thighs, and stayed quiet for a moment, blinking into nothingness. ‘More sense than I’d given him credit for, honestly.’

‘Creon also deserted. Turned out he’d been working against her for decades.’ Again the note of spite in her voice was painfully obvious. ‘Ophion was found charred from the wrist up, I’ve been told – death by bargain. Seems to have been Emelin’s work, again.’

‘Girl’s been busy,’ Silas mumbled, casting a last glance down the corridor before groaning, rising to his feet, and grabbing a key from his pocket. A mirthless laugh slipped from his lips as he met her gaze. ‘Let’s have a cup of tea, then.’

For a single moment, she faltered.

Was this a bad idea? She didn’t actuallyknowhim. He was family, yes. Her parents seemed to have trusted him. But that had been a lifetime ago, and no one had seen any sign of him in the meantime; gods knew what he might have been up to in the meantime, what unholy ideas might have festered after four centuries in this desolate place.

Thenagain …

He might just have all the answers she was looking for.

She cautiously followed him as he unlocked the room she’d tried to break into minutes ago, unsure where to start, and settled for, ‘You mentioned food deliveries.’

‘Oh, yes.’ He shrugged and held the door for her. ‘Couple of people who were unwise enough to bargain with me for unnamed favours. Made them repay me with secrecy and supplies. Come in.’

The space beyond was an old bedroom as she’d expected, looking only slightly more inhabitable than the rest of the house she’d just explored – cracked tiles on the floor, the curtains little more than old, sun-bleached blankets tied between pillars. The bed was narrow and austere. A makeshift stove had been installed by the wall; bags of flour, root vegetables, cheese, and eggs lay piled up beside it.

The room of a male who’d spent four centuries doing nothing but surviving … but then there was the desk.

Handwritten notes covered most of the wide wooden surface. Colour guides, the sort used by dressmakers, had been thrown haphazardly in between, and small stacks of leather-bound books balanced precariously on the edges. At the centre of the chaos, a single notebook lay open to show two meticulously ordered pages: tables and lists, in a far neater hand than the surrounding writing.

‘Only upside of the whole cursed business,’ Silas’s low voice said behind her before she could ask. ‘I finally have time for my research. Take the chair – it only wobbles a little.’

It was the only chair in the room, but she did not have the composure left to politely protest. He shut the door behind them, then strode to the hearth without looking at her; she didn’t speak as he lifted his kettle from the glowing embers and filled two antique mugs with a dark brown brew that smelled grassy and bitter. Acacia, perhaps? It seemed like a shrub that might grow even on this dead, desolate island.