“No one needs that warning,” Harlow says, then her lips quirk into a devious grin. “Unless…Inana, why are you so flustered? Did you diddle Lust after all? Oh, wait. Did you…pet his dog? Oh, my gods, you did.”
“She did,” Sloth says, whipping around excitedly under the table. “She’s so nice and her hands are so gentle.”
“You’re the worst,” Inana hisses, to Harlow’s tittering delight. Even Bard laughs, a single huff of mirth.
“No reason to feel awkward about it,” Calvin says. “Sloth is great to pet. You should pet him too, Har. Everyone should pet him.”
“Everyone shouldnotpet him,” I say.
Harlow ignores me, responding only to Cal. “Ew, don’t call me Har.” She then proceeds to pet Sloth as he nudges her legs. He bumps next into Bard, who idly pats his head.
I wince at the soft pressure that reaches me through Sloth whilethe asshole dog relishes the attention. Yet I don’t tell my Summoners off, because there is a part of me that likes it almost as much as he does.
“At least now I know what to do to make you uncomfortable,” Inana says, a triumphant grin on her lips.
“I never said it would feel uncomfortable coming from you,” I volley back with a wink.
Her only reply is a muttered “Bastard.”
My amusement sharply drains as someone approaches our table. I expect it to be the barkeep, scolding us for talking too much or being too carefree. One doesn’t normally scold a Shadowbane, considering their unquestionable authority, but since I’m not wearing my sword, the barkeep might not know who I am. But as I lock eyes with the figure, I find a familiar male face. One that sours my stomach and dampens every good feeling I’ve had over the last several minutes.
“Dominic Graves,” says a man who’s been a fucking plague to me for the better part of a decade. “I was hoping I’d find you.”
Chapter Seventeen
Inana
I’d be shocked at hearing Dominic’s last name for the first time were it not for the shift in his expression. It shutters so fast it’s hard to believe he wore a grin just a second before. It may have been a teasing smirk rather than the soft, open smile I glimpsed on the roof, but it was nothing like the dark look he wears now, his brows lowered, jaw tight, hands curled into fists. Whoever this stranger is, Dominic isn’t happy to see him.
“Henderson,” he bites out. “Why are you here?”
“Just passing through.” The man named Henderson is forty perhaps, at least ten years older than Dominic, with combed-back russet hair and a slim mustache. Behind him stands a woman a decade or two older, her gray-brown hair pulled into an austere bun at the nape of her neck. Both are dressed in dark clothing: fine leather jerkins and wool greatcoats. Then I notice the hilt of the silver sword at Henderson’s back, identical to Dominic’s. He must be a Shadowbane, then. He looks down his nose at Dominic. “Almost had to save your ass, though.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Dominic’s fingers tighten around his fork.
“The mayor begged me to take your post if you didn’t show.”
“Are you suggesting you were here the whole time the village was being attacked and didn’t come to their aid?”
Henderson gives a wry grin. “Being given your post is one thing, but poaching? I wouldn’t soil my reputation just to make up for your failures, Graves. If the mayor was desperate, he could have taken a more extreme measure. There was one recourse that would have ensured my intervention.”
Dominic’s expression turns colder, and I glance from one man to the other. What does Henderson mean?
“You think he should have sacrificed a villager?” Dominic shakes his head and adds under his breath, “Of course you’d consider that a solution.”
“One villager is nothing compared to the losses they sustained,” Henderson says. “If an Incarnate appeared, I’d have had no choice but to dispatch it.”
I puzzle over his words until they start to make sense. “You think they should have sacrificed a villager to tempt the Shade to Incarnate? So it could then be killed?”
Henderson turns his gaze to me but says nothing.
“The Shade we dispatched was a godsdamned dragon,” Dominic says. “Comprising more than a dozen individual Shades. It would have required as many human sacrifices.”
“Is that so?” Henderson’s voice lacks any hint of surprise over the dragon or that it had been forged from multiple Shades. Is that because he already surmised as much when he witnessed the carnage without lifting a finger? Or…
I slide my gaze to the woman behind him. If Henderson is a Shadowbane, I assume she’s his Summoner. As far as I know, Dominic never found any clue as to who may have created the dragon. All we know is that only an artist could have done it. Suspicion crawls up my spine, even more so when the woman’s gaze locks with mine, a haughty glint in her eyes.
“Interesting new recruits,” she says. Her voice is deeper than I expect, and not unpleasant despite her disinterested tone. It makes me wonder if singing is her talent.
