Azo pales and suddenly looks panicked.
Alarm shoots through me, and I turn to Ogdan, confused by the human’s reaction. “What am I missing here?” I press, when it’s clear I’ve done something to upset the poor creature.
Ogdan sighs. “Fenox isn’t allowed to travel to Four Tiers.”
“Piss off the wrong duke?” I tease in an effort to lighten the mood and help the human stop fidgeting, but it only seems to make it worse.
“Fenox Lael is a wyvern. She can’t cross into Horde territory. It’s a death sentence for any wyvern that tries,” Ogdan politely supplies.
Knots form in my throat, and an icy chill spills through my veins.
Why does this suddenly feel like a trap, one I didn’t know I’d stepped into until now?
Yes, I grew up around wyverns, but those were trusted members of my mother’s guard. Not condemning them for what happened to my parents is not the same as seeingallwyverns sympathetically. Most of the culprits that participated in the rebellion were caught and punished, but I guarantee there were wyverns that slipped through the cracks and slid under the radar. I have zero interest in giving any of them another opportunity to kill a Syphon who stumbles into their midst.
“If you want to work with Fenox, you’ll have to go to the Wyvern Den,” the Burner adds, like it’s no big deal.
Well, shit.I was afraid he was going to say that.
I stare at Ogdan for a moment and then look over at the other three Wing members in the room. None of their faces give anything away, but the dread pooling in my chest has me on high alert. Didn’t Ogdan say he and Jori were escorting a last-minute addition here when they were summoned? I’d wager my left tit it was this Azo guy.
Outside, I’m as calm as can be, but internally, I’m reeling and trying to figure out what to do. I was wrong about the Noctises not wanting to take me out. They just didn’t want to get their hands dirty. It’s probably why I still haven’t met the king. Why waste your royal time when you know the problem is going to be dealt with shortly? And what better way to take care of a little Syphon problem than to let the wyverns finish what they started all those years ago?
“Okay, when can we go?” I ask evenly, refusing to let even the faintest pitch of panic seep into my tone.
They got me with this one, but I’m not going to let them know I’m on to them.
“It’s still early. We can go now if you want,” Tove answers, just as nonchalantly.
I swallow down my trepidation and rise from my chair with a nod.
Fuck.
I’m going to need weapons.
Chapter 18
A BUTTER KNIFE.
I’m going into battle with a fae-damned butter knife.
Two, to be exact, not that it makes me feel any better about just how fucked I am. And what’s worse, I’m in a dress. One I can barely move in, which feels strategic on The Horde’s part, but I couldn’t insist on leaving my room in nothing but that silk robe without drawing some serious questions. I can’t afford questions from the Wing members right now. I need them to think I’m oblivious, that I haven’t put two and two together and tucked the answer into each one of the boots I’m wearing.
At least the boots fit and they’re relatively comfy. I suppose I have that going for me, because running is probably the only way I’m going to make it out of this assassination attempt alive. The butter knives sure as fuck aren’t going to cut it, quite literally, but maybe they can buy me a bit of a head start.
I’m so screwed.
“Nervous?” Farrow asks, his black eyes studying my face for a beat before dropping to where my hands are clenched in my lap.
I look down and take in the white-knuckled knot of fists I’m making in my lap and force my hands to relax.
“I don’t like…” I hesitate for a beat, trying to figure out what to say. “Flying,” I finally supply.
The lirocar we’re in banks right, and I grab the seat to keep from tilting over. The interior configuration of this lirocar is different from the one I rode in before. The two captain’s chairs that were in the middle of the previous airboat are noticeably missing in this one, leaving only the front and back rows of seats.
I’m currently sandwiched between Farrow and Karis, who Ogdan insisted should join us for this happy little adventure. Jori is up front in the passenger seat, and Tove, Ogdan, and Chastain are all sitting across from me, doing an admirable job of pretending like they’re not plotting my imminent demise.
I’m not fooled.
