“The lower ringers haven’t taken the Guardians seriously as actual law enforcement for generations. They know they’re always in somebody’s pocket.”
“But not ours. That Third Ringer came to Milo because he knew a Guardian wouldn’t intervene which means he already suspectswhocontrols them now. He knows it's the Vipers. How would he know that?”
“The lower ringers aren’t as oblivious to our politics as you think they are,” I spat. Pax’s eyebrows lifted slightly at mydefense of those we deemed ourselves superior to but I ignored him and continued. “Their lives are contingent on how we operate up here, the rules we make, the judgments we pass down. So when we’re at each other’s throats, they notice. Don’t underestimate their intelligence by assuming they don’t. You know better than that, Pax.”
Chastised, Paxon looked away. He frowned as he watched the acolyte working a few desks apart from us.
“It’s just making me nervous, I think,” he said after a moment, his voice even lower than before. “All these lower ringers having access to our House, to us, it isn’t right. Everything in me is screaming that it’s wrong. I know Milo’s trying something here, something new, and maybe something that will save us all from another House War. But I’m just…”
“Scared,” I finished for him.
His gaze shot to mine but he didn’t deny it even as his eyes burned into me with hatred for calling him out on his fear.
“We’re all scared,” I whispered. “We all have our own demons, Pax. Yours is your prejudice. Luckily, it’s something you can grow out of.”
With that, I slammed the final book shut and strode away from him.
“Tell Milo I found nothing,” I called back and then I was out of the little research alcove and into the foyer of the House of Harlowe.
I wasted no time getting out of that place. That House and its inhabitants freaked me out more than any other. At least with Viper, I understood their ambition, their power hungry goals and slippery politics. Here, I couldn’t understand this desperate thirst for knowledge, this desire to hoard any and all information they could find to some end I couldn’t fathom. They were quiet and thoughtful in a way that made Milo look like the life of the party. I hated it.
It was getting late. I’d spent all day in the House of Harlowe researching the birth and death records of everyone in this city for the last few hundred years. My eyes were weary and watering from finally tearing them away from the page. I thought if I had to read one more word, I might actually cry. So instead, I focused on my target for the night, one I hadn’t visited in some time, and I turned in the direction of the House of Valin.
It wasn’t too far from Harlowe. I saw the little fence out front before anything else, the moon casting shadows through the short yard to the door. After a brief glance next door to ensure all was quiet there, I snuck around back through the usual hedges. The light was on in the kitchen, illuminating the back yard so well I had to be careful to stick to the shadows. I slid against the brick wall, my back scraping against every jutting stone, until I was close enough to see inside.
They were sitting at the table in the kitchen, though it was smaller than the one in the formal dining room, nearly shoulder to shoulder with one another as they reached for the snacks piled in the center. One of them laughed, the sound booming brightly in the night. The mother patted her oldest son on the shoulder and gave him a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Then she turned and made her way toward the stairs beyond and up to bed. My eyes scanned each of those remaining. The oldest brother was alone this time, no acolyte by his side. The middle brother had his wife beside him, hands brushing under the table but never touching, never intentionally. And then, across from them, sat a figure I had to dare a few more inches across the window to see.
My breath caught.
Strawberry blonde hair and freckles.
Veronica.
What was this rebel doing visiting the Bexley house so late at night? What was she doing sitting at their table, laughing withthem and chatting like old friends? My eyes shot across the yard to the dark house on the other side of the fence as my mind recalled the conversation I’d overheard between her and the man with the rebel tattoo called Wolf.
This was bad.
We’d warned the Bexleys about the danger and they’d gone and invited it into their own home. Did they not know who Veronica really was, what she was a part of, or had they associated themselves with her on purpose? Did Adrian’s family plan to join the rebellion?
Muttering a curse, I crouched down and slid across the rest of the wall before sprinting for the fence. With one strength-enhanced leap, I was over it.
Fists clenched at my sides, I made my way across the dark lawn with a few purposeful strides. Dark thoughts and catastrophic doubts spun around in my mind until they became a vortex of fury. She’s a rebel like the others. She hates my ring, my family. She’s out to destroy everything I’ve ever loved. And she’s using Dante’s former partner to do it.
I punched straight through the back window, sending shattered glass flying inside. Paying no attention to the blood dripping down my knuckles, I gripped the frame and leapt into the house. Breathing hard, I stormed through the dark residence, kicking the sparse furniture aside until I reached the room she was sleeping in. A solitary mattress rested on the floor beside a small oil lamp. Across from it, scattered on the floor, were papers. Letters.
I lit the oil lamp and watched the flame cast shadows on the wall for a moment before turning back to the pages. I reached for the first one, the one on top, and ignored the red fingerprints I left upon it as I read.
Veronica,
Secure the Bexleys now. The Culling went too far. We move in eleven days.
Wolf
I flipped to the next one to find it was also from Wolf. So was the next, and the next. Then there was one from a man named Oren who seemed to be a lover. Frowning, I folded them all in half and stuffed them into my pocket. Then I let my eyes trail over the rest of the room.
They were plotting against us now, making plans to “move”, to act. Cosmo had gone too far, we all knew that, but turning your anger against an entire ring and using a lost girl’s grieving family to do so was low, even for these cretins. So I grabbed the oil lamp, lifted it above my head, and threw it as hard as I could against the wall.
The oil splashed all over the carpet and mattress and ignited in an instant. A fireball exploded before me, the heat blasting into my face so ferociously I wondered if my eyebrows were singed. Then a trail of fire bloomed across the floor and over the mattress. The wall caught next. Drywall cracked as the beams beneath began to splinter.
