Jett gave a soft laugh that got caught up in a cough. He winced, his voice tight. “Sarnia, I wouldn’t mind sitting down.”
Sarnia held her tablet to her chest, tapping the stylus unconsciously against its edge while making a humming sound in her throat as if she were thinking about it.
“Please…” Jett rasped out.
Rolling her eyes, and with an efficient wave of her hand, she gestured for us to follow. Spinning around, she tossed over her shoulder, “Don’t you dare bleed all over the floor, Jett Crowther. It’s just been cleaned.” Her words were sharp, but her tone was light and earned a quick chuckle from my youngest brother.
We followed. My father and I supported Jett. His head hung low, and his long, lank hair swung with his lumbering gait. Each footstep was harder than the last for him, each breath more painful.
I met my father’s worried gaze with my own. Fuck, we needed this meeting with Sirro over with now.
We slowly made our way through the atrium, past the fountain stocked with orange and red-scaled carp lazily swimming beneath lily pads and weaving through water reeds, and entered a hallway. Flames burned from tall brass floor candlesticks, and antique lamps spilled light in sunset hues. The walls were an off-white color and mottled with age. Massive bones rose along them and arched overhead, their rounded shapes jutting side by side like ribs. It felt like I was walking down the belly of a snake… Or a wyrm.
Heavily studded wooden doors punctuated both sides of the hallway. A servant slipped through a door, and right before it closed, I glimpsed glistening bare skin and heard low whispers and soft sighs. Sirro liked to keep his harem close to his sleeping quarters.
“Master Sirro won’t be long.” Sarnia pushed open the door to his solar. She let us inside and retreated, and we turned to face the only other occupant in the room.
Byron Wychthorn.
We bowed.
He didn’t acknowledge us by speaking. He merely gestured to the other chairs for us to sit.
Jett sank into a leather armchair, tipping back his head to rest against the pillowy support. A sheen of feverish sweat coated his forehead and dampened his wavy hair, the ends grazing his shivering shoulders.
We’d expected Byron, so that was no surprise, but his demeanor certainly was. He’d pulled himself together from the rumpled mess I’d confronted last night.
My lips curled downward.
Shit, shit,shit.
I had to focus—one crisis at a time. Jett’s reckless actions had put my family in a perilous position. I didn’t have time to worry about crushing Byron. I was too busy praying to Zrenyth we were going to survive this meeting with Sirro.
Sinking into a chair, my line of sight took in the door to Sirro’s bedroom. The chair’s wicker backing creaked as I shifted my weight, rolling my neck to ease the constriction of the godsdamn necktie. I smoothed my hand down the lapels of my suit, the soles of my leather shoes rapping an irritated patter upon the floor as my gaze honed in on that leather-paneled door.
It was slightly ajar, and the sound of sobbing reached my ears. Not the sound of a woman coming apart under the skillful touch of pleasure, but someone trying to muffle sobs of fright.
Sirro walked past the opening, half-dressed, sliding an arm into a business shirt. I caught a passing glance before he disappeared. But there was something different about him that had my gaze narrowing sharply.
Sirro’s deep-coppery skin had rippled like a lake that had rain pelting its glassy surface, almost as if something was shifting beneath it. Mytruesightdetected nothing about him he’dglamoured. He looked young, human, and in his early thirtiesonly because his Familiar’s life force stopped him from aging. But there was somethingelseabout him. I considered the idea that there might be another beast lurking under his flesh.
And that this beast was the real reason I’d heard frightened sobs.
The door swung open a moment later, scattering my train of thought, and Sirro appeared, fully dressed and casually attired.
We rose, my father assisting Jett, and bowed deeply.
“Sit, sit,” Sirro urged. The words given were friendly enough, but for the harsh look he delivered Jett.
Leather groaned as Jett fell heavily into the armchair. His hand trembled as he pressed it against his ribs.
My father and I retook our seats.
Silver threads of otherworldly power backlit Sirro’s lean figure as the Horned God rolled his shirtsleeves up while leisurely strolling toward a stately high-backed chair beside Byron. His Familiar, with those strands of dark magic connecting them both, shuffled behind as they moved through the solar.
The room was intimate and richly appointed with deep burnt sienna rugs, brocaded curtains, and a mix of leather, wicker, and plush velvet seating. Potted palms cast faint shadows over ancient stone carvings—remnants from the time of our gods—and antique latticework adorned the whitewashed walls.
Sirro sat down, and his Familiar kneeled beside his chair, her liver-spotted hands clasped on her lap and head bowed with dull silver hair falling over her bony shoulders. A crone. She had little life left in her. Sirro had sucked her almost dry. No doubt the reason he was pissed was that the tithe intended to replace his Familiar—Red—had been stolen from him in this supposed hijacking.
