“Demon? With what horns?” I point out, smothering my laughter.
“Not all demons have horns,” Thatcher replies confidently and completely incorrectly.
“Gods, you’re both trying so hard and getting it so backwards,” I sigh. “If you’re this off the mark in your jobs, I pity anyone you lure into bed. Or whoever lures you both into theirs,” I add, tossing a knowing look at Miss Bailey. “Between these two ass-scratching baboons, you must be accustomed to finishing the job yourself.”
Her face goes red. Mr. Grant’s head whips to look at her before he glowers at Nathan Thatcher, who pretends to be so busy scribbling on documents that he didn’t hear me.
Baelfire whistles. “My mate is so damn observant.”
Crypt hums in agreement even as his markings light up again. “Deliciously keen.”
“Literallydivine,” Everett hints pointedly, still chuckling.
“Enough of this,” Mr. Grant scowls, standing to look down his nose at me. “We got the answers to everything we had doubts about. Your denial of your true nature will hold no water with the court. Rest assured that their final decision will be carefully weighed and just.”
“Justa crock of shit,” Crypt corrects.
“Prepare yourself to face the executives,telum,” the incensed legacy snaps. “Anton, give the Frost heir another dose for good measure.”
The big fae guard by Douglas makes a face. “It's supposed to be a daily debilitant. I gave him some less than two hours ago?—”
“Have you heard what that maniac’s been doing on the front lines? Do youfeelhow cold it is in this fucking hotel? If this is what happens when he's not trying, we’re not taking chances, you braindead dope. Just dose him again, and double it.”
“Yes, sir,” the fae grumbles.
Everett, being called a maniac? Interesting.
Nathan Thatcher quickly gathers up the documents before rushing out of the room. The flustered photographer takes another picture of me and hurries out with Mr. Grant right behind her. He’s already starting a predictable argument before the door closes behind them.
Asher Douglas still isn’t fully conscious, but Anton kicks the bounty hunter again before walking to a small kitchenette off to one side of the room to mix the concoction.
Fuck, Crypt was right. It smells like concentrated grass, gasoline, and sage blended with some other unpleasant herb. It’s so awful for my regular sense of smell that I’m not surprised when Baelfire starts gagging loudly where he sits on the floor.
Moving to the bed, the fae shoves the cloth bag up Everett’s face just enough to force my elemental to drink. Everett chokes on the overpowering concoction, unable to fight it. I grit myteeth when the fae roughly pinch Everett’s nose until he’s forced to swallow to breathe again.
He’s still coughing when the fae replaces the bag, hauls him upright, and drags him off the bed and out of the room despite my shouted protests. Before the door closes behind him, another gruff-looking legacy with several intense facial tattoos strolls into the room, heading toward me.
My body tenses as instinct and training try to kick in. Restrained this intensely, it would be difficult to kill this guy, but I could still do some serious fucking damage.
But Tattoo Face is probably here to take me to wherever Everett was just dragged off to.
So for once, I force myself not to fight as he tosses me over his shoulder, carrying me out of our grayscale prison as Baelfire and Crypt spew impressive threats and more blue flames behind us.
24
MAVEN
This entire upscalehotel is colorless, but that doesn’t diminish its wow factor as Tattoo Face steps out of an elevator and tosses me onto a cushioned chair.
I find myself in a much bigger, nicer room, glassed in at the top of the skyscraper. I think Kenzie called this setup a penthouse in a movie we watched once. Everything here looks ridiculously expensive, from the carpet to the modern chandeliers to the many decorative swords mounted on one wall.
Outside the window, gray skies serve as a foreboding backdrop for more colorless city stretching toward the dark ocean in the distance. This penthouse has a balcony overlooking the stunning view.
A dozen ravens are perched on the balcony’s luxurious outdoor seats, watching me through the glass.
Everett sits on a couch nearby in his straitjacket, that bag still on his head. He looks unharmed, thank the fucking universe. A few ghosts drift into this room to watch me, including the blue-haired young woman I saw earlier.
I realize Tattoo Face just deposited me in front of a large, lit-up vanity. The mirror says I look the way I usually do: dark eyes,tangled black hair, and the same face. Only now, it’s strange to know that I got my appearance directly from Syntyche, minus my much warmer skin tone and slightly more colorful dark irises.
