“Bring him over here,” I say.
With a nod, Wick heads across the room, slipping a key from his pocket. I sit down at the vacated table, and Slade leans against the wall by the door with his arms crossed in front of him.
Wick unlocks the chain from the hook, and then goes over and nudges the sleeping fae with the toe of his boot. “Get up.”
Brennur jolts awake.
I watch him try to gain his wits as he sloughs off sleep, but Wick is already tugging on the chain connected to his ankle. He’s halfway across the room before he actually spots me, clay-colored eyes appearing more reddish from how bloodshot they are.
“Have a seat,” Wick orders before pushing him into the chair across the table from me.
Brennur steals a look over his shoulder at Slade, clearly not comfortable having him at his back.
“Don’t look at me. Look at her.” The chill in Slade’s voice is so frigid I nearly shiver.
Brennur audibly gulps and turns around to face me. His beard used to be neatly cut and perfectly straight at the end. Now, it’s far messier, as is his hair.
The hate I feel for him is unfathomable. My stomach turns just from looking at him. My ribbons tighten, their edges sharpening, and it’s tempting to simply let them lash forward and slice his throat. But I’m here for answers.
I’ve waited this long. I can wait a little longer.
Brennur’s gaze shifts around, and the way he holds himself reminds me of a darting rodent. One that’s looking for a hole to skitter through or a scrap to steal. His fingers fidget with the magical cuff around his wrist that’s blocking his magic.
Sothat’sthe other use Wick mentioned. He put his cuff on Brennur.
“Are you ready to talk?” I ask.
The male shrugs as if he’s unbothered. “That depends.”
“Let’s start with why you betrayed us and took us to Glassworth Palace.”
“A fae has to do what a fae has to do to stay alive,” he explains, as if he’s talking about something as easy as disagreeing about the weather instead of sending dozens of people to their death.
“When exactly did you jump sides?” Wick asks him.
When Brennur hesitates, I hum in thought, flicking my gaze to Wick. “He didn’t jump sides. He never actually chose one.”
I have to admit, he carried himself very well. The cane, the altruistic behavior, the graying hair and deferring tone—it was all a fantastic disguise for the rat that was hiding beneath.
“You think you’re better than me?” Brennur grits out. “I see an opportunity and I take it. That’s all.”
“So you’re not loyal to anybody except yourself,” Wick surmises.
“That’s right. And everyone else would be smart to be the same way.”
Visible anger radiates out of Wick’s eyes. “How many Oreans and fae were killed because of you? How many of our missions were compromised?”
“It was either that or slip the noose over my own head. I’m not dying for anybody,” he says defiantly. “And you still got use of my magic. I helped you too.”
“While you were feeding the king information every step of the way!” Wick growls out, slamming his fist against the table. It startles the other Stone Sword who was sleeping, but the bloodied one doesn’t so much as flinch.
Brennur looks on without a lick of remorse. “I didn’t tell him everything. I was smart about it. I knew you’d pick up on it if too many missions were compromised.”
“So you tricked us both.”
He shrugs. “Like I said, I’m not dying for anybody.”
“That mission in Kuvell last year. When forty Vulmin were found in that safe house and ambushed. That was you?”
