Iain skips the pleasantries. When it comes to digging through secrets, he’s the kind of asshole who spits on his hand, calls it good enough, and makes you say thank you after.
He barely gives us time to sit before muttering, “We’ll get to the little blackbird in a second.”
Iain crosses his arms, stares at the floor for a beat, then sniffs like something soured in his brain.
“I assume there’s more going on than Daughters and hellhounds and unruly magic, eh?”
“Unfortunately, you’re correct.” Ezra pulls out two dingy chairs for Louie and me. Only once we’re settled does he take a seat at the table, too. “Have you heard of the Vermilion Maw?”
Ezra sounds hesitant, and I know exactly why. Only a week ago, the Daughters and the Vermilion Maw were nothing more than fairytales.
“All underborne have.” Iain waves a dismissive hand, scoffing as he turns back to the mountain of dirty dishes. “It’s a load of bollocks.”
“Yes, that’s what I thought, too.”
Ezra spends the next twenty minutes telling Iain about Renato’s request and the encounter with his sister and the vampire.
I keep my face neutral, but Emme is stirring.
She doesn’t speak at first, just hums behind my ribs, heat and irritation simmering in waves. Honestly, it’s like having someone roll their eyes inside my organs.
“He doesn’t understand what’s at stake.”
Her voice cuts through the edges of my thoughts, sharp and cold and far too loud.
“Not your moment,” I think back.
But she never really listens. She just nags.
Mostly about my power. Occasionally about my spine.
She’s been awake for a day, and she already sounds like a disappointed ghost aunt who expected more from me.
When Ezra finishes, Iain’s face is unreadable. His eyes shift between the three of us before he drops his head and sighs.
“My life was so much easier before you came along, little blackbird.”
Ezra’s shadows twitch, taking offense on my behalf.
Iain rolls his eyes. “Fuckin’ Christ, you dramatic shadow boggarts are worse than poltergeists on coke.”
The eddies freeze. Then, in perfect, synchronized pettiness, every single one of them turns to Iain in slow, unsettling unison.
“Jesus fuck,” he mutters, backing away, having clearly triggered a wrathful ballet of haunted goth pool noodles about to perform his execution in interpretive shadow-dance.
Iain clears his throat, scrubbing a hand down his face. His eyes dart between us, edged with unease.
“If what you’re saying is true, you need to get her the fuck out of here. This town won’t hold if they come for her. It’s not safe. We can’t allow Lucifer and Lilith’s bloodline to end. Look, I don’t know what the infernal lovebirds had planned for their legacy. But whatever it is, we can’t let the Disciples snuff it out. I, for one, would rather not be on the receiving end of Lucifer and Lilith’s wrath for letting their last bleedin’ heir die on my watch.”
“You honestly think I haven’t considered running?” Ezra’s voice is quiet, but something dangerous flickers behind his eyes.
“Because of Renato’s raid, the Disciples are weak. Scrambling. We have a little bit of time. I know this land, I know this town, and I know the underborne and humans who live here. I’d rather make a stand than run. Unfamiliar terrain and new beings make us more vulnerable to attack.”
He meets Iain’s gaze, his voice quiet with the kind of certainty that leaves no room for argument.
“And you know this town will hold. You knowwhy.”
Holy shit.
