Page 73 of Lana Pecherczyk

By the time she caught up, River stood at the amphitheater’s edge, staring down at the structures below. His attention was fixed on a particular settlement in the shadows of the far side.

“Cardona roost,” he said. “Cloud’s family.”

Blake’s breath caught. A peace offering. Not much, but from River, giving her this name felt significant.

A winged figure moved between posts in the camp below, igniting torches that bloomed against dark caravans. She stepped closer, her arm brushing his. “Your father mentioned the Cardonas. Cloud was part of your family?”

“More than family.” His jaw tightened, the words emerging reluctantly. “He’s the missing member of my triad—a Guardian in the Twelve.”

“The triad. You and Ash, too?”

He nodded, gaze never leaving the distant roost. “We grew up together. Fought together.” His throat worked. “Cloud is … complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

The moment shattered. River straightened, mask firmly back in place. “Everyone here is one big extended family. Everyone’s someone’s cousin or uncle or aunt.”

“Blood related?”

“No.” A quiet laugh escaped him. “We’re just a tight knit community. Or were.” Shadows played across his face. “Bloodrelatives form a kettle. Their nesting vans congregate within a dedicated roosting ground, which is part of the murder’s greater roost.” He swept his hand across the amphitheater. “That make sense?”

She nodded. “Roost is a place. Kettle is family. Murder is … bad.”

His brows knitted together.

“It was a joke,” she said.

“Right,” he said, returning to the settlement. “If the Donna can’t match a female to a male four times removed by blood from another kettle within the same murder, she finds a match in another territory.”

“So not blood related. But close.”

“Safety in numbers runs in our genes, but like most families, some of us get along, and some of us don’t.” He gestured toward a central tree house rising from the amphitheater’s base. Platforms encircling the trunk were festooned with flags and lanterns. Opulently decorated caravans dotted the surrounding area. “That’s where the Corvus and Corala reside. They’re the Domatri Kettle. And a bunch of bigoted mouse-munchers.”

“I sense history there.”

“You could say that.” Something hard entered his voice. “They’re our leaders—well, they’re the murder’s leaders. I’m a Guardian. I only answer to the Order.”

“But we hate the cunts, right?”

His grin of approval spread warmth in her body. “Yeah, Sparkles. We hate the cunts.”

They continued along the amphitheater’s ledge with River pointing out which kettle settled in each roost. Over a hundred kettles filled the deep formation, each claiming multiple caravans and structures. He explained how the lowest central ring held the favor of the Corvus and were the privileged who sat dictating rules from their cushioned nests.

“And that eyesore straight ahead is the Umbria Kettle.” He pointed to a colorful settlement on the highest shelf, barely a few hundred feet away. “My home before I became a Guardian.”

Blake studied the roost, seeing not an eyesore but a sanctuary. Unlike the organized formations below, the Umbria settlement sprawled organically across its elevated position near a waterfall spilling from rocks jutting from the rainforest. Rope bridges swayed between crooked platforms built into the trees. Stained glass and wind chimes transformed what might have been chaos into art, like a living collage crafted from salvaged beauty.

Laughter drifted from a cushioned area beside a campfire overlooking the amphitheater’s pit. Bodies bustled about, arranging decorations beneath lantern-strung trees.

River tensed. “Fuck me, they wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t dare what?” Her fingers tightened around the vase. “Have a party?”

“We don’t have parties. We have ‘evening discussions’ or ‘weather observations’ because too much fun leads to spontaneous elopements against arranged matings.” Bitterness threaded his words. “My parents eloped for love. Since then, they’ve been relegated to the farthest spot from the Corvus.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It doesn’t seem to bother them. The non-parties keep coming … and so do the smiles.” Something like pride colored his voice. “Not all murders have this fucked-up view about love matches, but my parents refuse to leave.” His gaze flicked back to the Cardona roost before he steered her toward the forest’s edge. “If we’re careful, we can avoid attracting attention?—”