It was just Sirro, Jett, and me.
The Horned God let his gaze drift over my brother in a slow, lazy assessment. “You don’t look so good.”
Jett’s bloodless lips pulled into a small, tight smile. He rasped quietly, “I’ve had better days, Master Sirro.”
“I want to know what happened that night to my tithes. I’m sure you understand how infuriating it was to have that Unbroken Shard denied me. The one with the glorious mane of red hair.”
8
Graysen
Sirro was a study in metal. Silver strands shimmered as golden eyes fixed on my brother with a disquieting sharpness. And like metal, coldness radiated from the Horned God, as well as hostility, jagged and raw. He crooked a finger at my brother, indicating that he should rise. “Young Jett, explain yourself.”
My hands automatically pushed against the armrests with my intent to help Jett stand when Sirro’stut-tutand the slow shake of his head stopped me. I reluctantly sank back down, my heartbeat rapping an anxious rhythm as my gaze speared to my younger brother slumped in his seat. Pain pulled his pallid features taut, and his labored breath sent ice sliding down my spine. We needed this over with fast.
Shit, if the bolt’s curse reaches Jett’s heart…
“I’m sure Jett can manage all by himself,” Sirro said, still staring at my brother.
Jett clenched his jaw. Veins corded down his throat as he shoved clumsily to his feet. Wincing, the hand braced across his wound trembled.
Sirro leaned back in his chair, and although it appeared he was calmly stroking his Familiar’s head, his thick brows furrowed over a gaze darkened by an acrimony that burned with the intensity of molten iron. His power rippled and slunk around his limbs, his Familiar’s too, burnishing him in a silvery glow that cut shadows into the planes of his cheeks.
Jett approached with a lumbering gait, his combat boots dragging across the floor. He halted in front of the coffee table, then wobbled and stumbled.
Shit, shit,shit.
I went to rise…
…and stopped at Sirro’s fierce glare, warning me not to move a single muscle.
Fuuuck!
I leaned forward, clasping my hands between my spread thighs. The blood in my veins chilled at Jett’s unstable stance, and I willed Sirro to hurry the fuck up.
Jett’s voice was thin with fatigue. “Theyswiftedin.Not-quite-alive.”
“Wraiths?”
“No…corporeal. More like the dead brought back to life.”
Sirro blinked. “Necromancy?”
Even the Horned Gods couldn’t bring the dead to life quite like those things I’d encountered. The dead could be resurrected. But they werewrong—soulless, lifeless creatures.
“I’m not sure… They’re nothing like I’ve ever encountered or anything I’ve learned about necromancy.”
I could barely taste Jett’s lies.
I’d shared everything I remembered down in the catacombs below Ascendria. We went through it again and again duringthe ride here to Sirro’s residence—Jett repeating it, twisting it until he believed it was him down there fighting to protect Nelle. And then crafted a choreography of events for whatsupposedlyhappened whenthis faction attacked the convoy transporting the tithes from the Wychthorns to Sirro’s residence.
“Nine of them. They had weapons like ours, forged of adamere. Crossbows too. It was fast and brutal… They’d split into three groups… Two took out the guards, the other one went for the tithe truck.” He swayed, his knees threatening to buckle.
My muscles bunched as I half-rose to surge forward and help him.
Sirro’s enraged glare slashed across the room, pinning me in place.
I gritted my teeth and sat back down. My foot tapped a restless beat on the floor, my knee bouncing up and down.
