Page 252 of Lana Pecherczyk

His dagger appeared before Pandora’s face, its edge catching the firelight of nearby destruction.

“I should end you right now. But there’s no need.” A pause. A breath. “You killed the only person who ever knew where to find your secrets. Poetic, don’t you think?”

Bootsteps. The image tilted as Cloud walked away, leaving Pandora bleeding oil on the ground.

Nero sat back in his chair, mind reeling. The only person who knew was Rory. But Nero never killed her. Sure, he’d intended to. It was the crow that let her fall. And she didn’t know, for if she did, then Nero would know. He’d taken every last drop of her mana, held every last memory she had inside her body. None of them gave him a clue as to where she might have put the map to the last warhead.

Tick … tick … tick…

But neither did her mana hold memories of her time with the crow. He’d always wondered about that. Wondered if she’d found a way to suppress them. Wondered if maybe…

Tick … tick … tick…

The footage continued.

Pandora was now in a triage unit beside the Collector. There were hushed conversations, bargains offered and refused.

“What I seek is useless to us now,” Pandora said. “Why would I help you in return for it?”

“If you believe him.”

“Fae can’t lie.”

“Ah, but we can stretch the truth.” The Collector’s eyes glittered despite her injuries. “Even if he’s not lying, I have something that will help you find what you seek. I will give it to you if you help me.”

“What could you possibly have that will help us find the secrets of a dead woman?”

“Another dead woman.”

Nero straightened, suddenly alert.

What?

The Collector’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “She is from the old world. Has a unique gift—tracking lost things, particularly those of the dead. It’s how I found her. Poor, lost soul is a Well-blessed human. My son’s … offering. Help me return to my trove and I’ll?—”

The screen went dark.

Silence filled the greenhouse except for the persistent drip from above and the whisper of steam through ancient pipes.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Nero’s shoulders began to shake. A sound escaped him, low and barely human. It built slowly, gaining strength and pitch until laughter erupted and filled the rotting space.

“Oh, my dear.” He wiped tears from his eyes. “You were more like me than you let on.”

His own daughter, the child he’d raised to be the perfect weapon, had been running her own game all along. While he’d tortured her, drained her, and finally dismissed her as useless, she’d been protecting secrets he’d never even suspected she possessed.

She’d stolen her own mana, stolen her own precious memories before he could access them.

But she’d made one mistake.

She’d died.

Nero pushed away from the terminal and crossed the greenhouse to where the chessboard waited. Rory’s queen still held him in check from their last conversation. Cautiously, glancing around the greenhouse first to see if her ghost lingered, almost daring her to show her face, he reached toward the game and lifted the ivory piece. He studied the delicate carving one final time.

Then he set it aside and moved his king.

Check broken.

Game resumed.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.