As if on cue, the bitch snaps another shot of me. When I look at her, she scoots her chair further away, rubbing her throat.
“Please state your name for our record,” Grant says.
When I roll my eyes, the big brute kicks Douglas hard in the stomach. Douglas wheezes in pain, curling in on himself.
Godsdamn it.
They want answers from me? Fine.
“Maven Oakley,” I lie, letting my poker face slip on.
“Miss Oakley, where were you for the last six months?”
“Paradise.”
Nathan Thatcher glances a bit too long at the photographer before giving me a chiding look. “Respectfully, I ask that you don’t blaspheme during this interview and take it seriously.”
“Respectfully, I ask that you eyeball Miss Bailey’s cleavage later. You're getting drool on my straitjacket.”
Crypt snorts in amusement, but otherwise, my matches listen quietly to this circus.
Thatcher’s face reddens, and the woman shuffles uncomfortably. Her body language screams guilty. Mr. Grant glances between them and makes a face before adjusting the documents in front of him.
“Miss Oakley, is it true that you were raised in what was previously known as the Nether?” Grant asks.
“Yes.”
“Isn’t it true that you were also brought up by the Entity with the intention of your becoming the prophesiedtelum?”
“Obviously.”
Thatcher takes over again, studying me. “And isn’t it true that you assassinated every member of the Immortal Quintet to aid the Entity?”
“Sure, why not?”
It’s not like my answers matter here, anyway.
My flippant reply ruffles Thatcher’s feathers. “Is there something you disagree with in that statement, Miss Oakley? Please explain.”
“You want me to pretend this is a real trial? All right. I was raised as Amadeus’s scourge. I killed Somnus DeLune, Iker Del Mar, and Natalya Genovese. Go ahead and charge me with performing necromantic rituals, helping the Reformists, destroying the Divide, starting the Upheaval—you name it, I did it.” I lean forward, fixing them with an earnest stare. “But never to aid Amadeus. Everything I did, I did to free the Nether humans.”
They exchange glances. The idiot with the camera takes a picture of my profile.
Grant clears his throat. “So to be clear, you’re pleading…?”
“Guilty as the hell I was raised in.” I lean back, trying to adjust my arms in this unforgiving straitjacket. “Unless you want me contracting gangrene before the trial from blood loss to my arms, you should really loosen this.”
“Without touching her,” Everett adds in warning.
Nathan Thatcher folds his arms. “Not so fast, Miss Oakley. One last question before we take you to meet the new chief executives of the Legacy Council. Isn’t it also true that you are one of the infernal beings known to this world as a demon?”
It’s such an unexpected question that I blink. “What?”
“We know the truth. You can’t fool us. You respawned after your death—the fact that you’re sitting here in front of us is pure evidence of that!” Grant says as if this is anaha, gotchamoment. “Admit it. You are a demon, Maven Oakley.”
Everett, Crypt, and Baelfire burst into laughter.
I start cracking up, too, but clear my throat to compose myself, shoving down the urge. Even though my guys haven’t stopped laughing, I’m still not comfortable displaying strong emotions in front of strangers, let alone ones this clueless.
