In fact, he didn’t have a stomach at all.
But instinct, the straight line of his urges, told Silas he was on the right path. Petra’s abysmal attitude and general lack of good sense only confirmed it. She was perfect.
“Don’t you want to hear my proposal?” he asked, not even trying to keep the laughter out of his voice.
Petra’s lip curled. “No.”
“Too bad.” Silas reached out to run the tip of one claw over the golden embroidery that decorated her white dress. She went stiff as a board, but she didn’t slap his hand away like he expected her to.
Mulling over whether that pleased him or not, Silas told her, “If you can’t get me the generator, then I want you.”
There was a pause and then, with impressive venom, “Absolutely not.”
Silas plucked at a single thread, tugging it ever-so-slightly out of place. “Calm down, little goddess. I only mean your witchbond.”
Another lie.
“…You’re joking.”
“I find most things very funny,” he replied, “but I rarely joke.”
It was a thing of beauty, seeing the stunned look on her face — a face he’d seen splashed across newsreels and in press releases and in the cardstock pamphlet he’d tucked in his pocket just before the first service he’d attended. Weeks later, it was so creased from being opened too many times that he’d had to cut her picture out to preserve it. Now it lived in the breast pocket of his suit jacket.
Silas wanted to lick the shock from her parted lips and savor the taste. It was a shame when the look melted away. Petra’s expression transformed into one of incredulity. He knew that expression well. It was the first one he remembered seeing on his parents’ faces; the ‘Silas, baby, what have you done?’look that preceded horror.
His parents and the rest of the Cuttcombe clan were good folks, which was why they tended to look at him like a bomb put together upside down. They couldn’t make sense of him, and theydefinitelycouldn’t disarm him.
“Why would you want that?” Petra’s fingers flexed at her sides. “Do you even realize what that wouldmean?”
It was a little insulting, the way she kept thinking he didn’t know things. Silas gave her a reproachful look from under the shade of his brows. “’Course I do.”
“But… but a witchbond isn’t something that can be undone. We’d be tied together forlife.Why would you ask that of someone you’ve only just met?”
“Strictly speaking, ma’am, I’ve known you for a bit longer than you seem to think.”
Of course he’d done his recon on high and mighty Petra Zaskodna, even before fate had dropped her in his lap so prettily. He wasn’t ashamed to admit his fascination began long before he managed to find a reason for it. All it took was the sound of her throaty voice playing in a thirty-second news clip and he’d been hooked.
The fact that he’d found a justification for his fascination was not really necessary, but it was convenient.
She seemed like the easiest entry point to getting into the Tower, seeing as elves, who controlled the territory and more specifically the skyscraper, were a pain in the ass to manipulate. Not to mention the fact that people in poweralwayshad weaknesses to exploit. Petra was no different. In fact, he’d been watching her work with children in a community garden, attacking a clump of weeds with an incongruously grave expression, when he got the meeting request from Rasmus.
He’d felt a pang of annoyance at being pulled away from his prey, but only until he uncovered who he was actually dealing with.
Before she could recover from the revelation that he’d been watching her, Silas continued, “And a witchbond is only as permanent as life is. Who knows? You could put a bolt in my brain tomorrow. Easy fix.”
“If you think I might kill you to be rid of you, why would you want this?”
Petra paused. He liked watching her mind work behind those cornflower eyes. There was an almost visible spark in them when she finally made the connection. “You wanted the generator… and now you want my witchbond because you want power.”
Silas nodded. “Good girl.”
“There are other ways. Other people.”
His smile fell. The way she saidother peoplestruck a discordant note in his mind, a strike against the perfect line of his impulse. He didn’t like it. He really didn’t.
“I need a source of magic,” he told her, voice dropping with displeasure. “M-siphons are a hassle, the generator is off-limits and untested, and I have you in the palm of my hand. Why would I use anyone else?”
Not only was Petra a gloriana, the most powerful designation a witch could be born and the equivalent of a walking magical power plant, but she was also too damn tempting to leave for another.
