“But you agree that it was atrocious.”
“Oh, undoubtedly.”
“And next time, if I see something I absolutely hate, I get to blow it up.” He gives me a cocky smirk.
“I’m not promising you any such thing. If a piece of horrendous statuary can be destroyed without risking our safety, I’ll allow it. Otherwise…”
“Oh, you’llallowit?” Ravager leans close, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “Who’s in charge of this team?”
“Iallowyou to believe that you are.”
“That’s right. I’m getting very good at fooling myself into thinking it’s true.” He gives me a swift kiss on the forehead. When he pulls back, his eyes are serious again. “But sweetheart, it’s been an eventful couple of days. Do you need to do this now, so soon after Candle?”
Maybe he’s right. Maybe I should be in mourning tonight. But my last conversation with Candle two weeks ago wasn’t a sorrowful goodbye. It was a sweet exchange enlivened by her fiery spirit, brightened by her wishes for me and Ravager, and soothed by Witch’s kindness.
I wasn’t there when Candle passed, but that’s how she wanted it. She died quietly in Witch’s house, in peace and comfort, knowing that I’m safe with Ravager—as safe as any of us can be in this unpredictable world.
There’s a scar on my left ribs, one that I touch sometimes, when I feel like I’m losing myself. For some reason, the memory of the time Ravager tried to kill me—and couldn’t do it—givesme a warm sense of reassurance. He was beginning to love me then, and he loves me more now. His affection and concern shine in his eyes as he offers me a way out of this moment, an excuse to avoid the confrontation that’s coming.
But I need this. I won’t be able to truly detach and move on without it.
“I’m ready,” I tell him.
“Then I’m with you.”
An impulse flutters through my heart, and I remember Candle’s words:Kiss that handsome boy whenever you feel like it.
I take Ravager by the front of his coat and pull him close, until his mouth meets mine. Sometimes his lips are a wild delight, a rough kind of bliss, a heady distraction—but right now, they’re a smooth comfort, the reassurance I need.
“What was that for?” he murmurs. “Not that I’m complaining.”
“I just felt like it.” I smooth down the collar of his coat. “You know you’re the fucking love of my life, right?”
The smile that spreads over his face is like a torch flaring up in a dark street, like the sweetest kind of brilliant destruction. “I know.”
“Then let’s do this.”
He shoves the door wide, and we stride into the Night Goose together.
We wear matching cape-like coats, designed for us by Lace, the seamstress—who did in fact confess to me that she has Fae blood in her veins. She seemed thrilled to finally be able to perform more obvious magic with her work, for a client who would appreciate her ancestry rather than judging it. The pockets of these coats are bigger on the inside, and let us store vast quantities of supplies and weapons without adding any extraweight and bulk to our bodies. As long as Ravager and I wear our coats, we’ll never have to carry a pack again.
Shocked murmurs erupt throughout the tavern as we enter. According to my informants, the Javelins have been maligning me to anyone who will listen. Their stories vary widely, but the one I’ve heard most often claims that I tricked the Javelins into pulling a dangerous heist in Faerie, during which I betrayed them and ended up being eaten alive by the Fae while they escaped, thanks to the ingenuity of Scriv.
I also learned that Scriv registered a forged deed with the city, giving him full ownership of the Hearth. I can’t contest the deed without revealing my criminal activities and getting myself arrested, so I have no choice but to let the place go. I’ll miss it, especially all the customizations we made, but the memories are soured now. I don’t even want my possessions back. They’re tainted by betrayal, part of a life I’m leaving behind for good after tonight.
The patrons of the Night Goose make a wide path for Ravager and me, stepping aside or scooting their chairs out of our way. The musicians in the corner stop their drumming and fiddling with a thump and a screech. The usual chatter and laughter dwindle as we head straight for the round table where the Javelins sit, stunned and speechless at our approach.
Five weeks have changed them. They look more vicious, more disgruntled, and more disheveled than they ever did when I was in charge. I can tell by the flush on Boulder’s neck and the curl of Maven’s fist that they were arguing before we walked in.
As I stalk toward their table, Scriv moves his chair until Flex is between us. There’s a furtive caution in the way Scriv stares at me, like I’m a viper that could strike him at any moment.
“Devilry,” says someone from a nearby table, in an awed voice. “You weren’t eaten?”
“Far from it.” I flash the man a bright smile. “In fact, my partner Ravager and I are doing better than ever—despite the treachery of the Javelins. And we’ve come to celebrate with you tonight.” My eyes fix on the proprietor, Erda, who has come out from the back and is wiping her hands on her apron. “Erda, we’d like to buy everyone here a round of drinks and some of your best maple sugar buns!”
A cheer rises from the guests, and the musicians begin to play again, a jovial tune with a triumphant cadence.
“Not only that,” puts in Ravager, “but we’d like to share the spoils of our latest job.” He raises both fists, and when he opens them, golden stars shoot from his palms up to the ceiling, where they explode into tiny golden fireworks. Amid the shower of sparks, we begin flinging handfuls of coins and gems to the crowd in the Night Goose.
