Movement yanks my focus, and I see Elethior, two steps down, his hand on his counterspell rune tattoo.
“Didn’t think you’d mind,” he says. “Figured I was returning the favor from you snapping back at Arasne.”
A pause stretches, and in it, he tries a cautious smile.
I freeze. Ice, from the tips of my hair, down the knobs of my spine; my fingertips go numb.
He heard.
He heard everything.
I shove the unused fireball vial into my pocket so I can clumsily go through the hand gestures of reactivating the security wards.
Stupid,stupid,why didn’t I reactivate them as soon as we got inside?
Because I didn’t think my father would be this determined to speak to me. Didn’t think he’dastral project to me. Didn’tthink—
“He’s worried about a job,” I mumble. Excuses gush out of me. “That’s all he’s ever worried about, getting ahead, appearances. That’s all that was.”
“Sebastian.”
“No.” I hate how my eyes burn. Hate even more the look ofsympathyon Elethior’s face; I want to scrape it off. “Don’t say anything. Don’tfuckingsay—”
“You went to Camp Merethyl.”
A gut punch. Lungs deflate forcefully. Stomach crumbles and I arch forward, hands on my knees, unable to breathe.
I don’t want to know if his immediate family is involved in it. I don’t want to know how close he’s connected to that camp.I can’t know.
Elethior comes the rest of the way up the stairs until he’s on the landing in front of me, but I don’t straighten up, glaring at his dark jeans.
He makes a low, pained sound, the sound of details making sense. “And your father is—”
“Colonel Mason Walsh.” I speak the name to Elethior’s shoes, still bent in half. “US Arcane Forces. He’s in the running to take over Camp Merethyl.”
“And he thinks your connection to me will bolster his chances?”
I finally peel myself upright, watching his face carefully.
I nod.
“I don’t have anything to do with that camp,” Elethior says. He sounds like he’s pleading.
Breath whooshes out of me in a trembling gust and I want him to say it again.
But I also need him to stop talking andleave.
“My immediate relatives are part of research and development,” he continues. “Camp Merethyl is a different branch of the family, and I haven’t spoken to anyone about you or your father. I don’t plan to.”
“Stop,” I beg him. My eyes shut, lashes damp.
“I’ve never been there,” he keeps going. It’s strung with his own tautness, winding through him the same way my anxiety is windingthrough me, tighter and tighter, gearing up to snap. “My family has had its hands in it for generations, but none of them send their children there, and if that doesn’t say everything there is to say about how cruel and objectionable the methodology is—”
“Then don’t say anything else.” My fingers arch into claws and scratch, scratch at my arms. “Thenshut up.”
“My family is tied to a lot of fucked-up legacies, but that one? Gods, that one involveskids,and if you endured any of the atrocities they—”
“I saidshut up!”
