“If anyone needs suturing, I’ll be in the kitchen,” Grace says, striding for the doorway to hide the tears pooling on her lashes.
Riot follows her.
“Mother Hollie,” I say, kneeling next to the couch as she sobs into her hands. “I am sorry. Lou meant something to all of us, and we mourn with you. Know that you’re not alone.”
She looks up from her hands, her strawberry hair matching the blotching in her face. “Thank you. And you have nothing to be sorry for, Kade.”
I swallow. “Forever may he rest.”
She nods, tears running before her voice quivers out, “Forever may he rest.”
“We’ll travel to Mortifer tomorrow to bury Lou.”
She shakes her head. “He wouldn’t want you to waste the time with what’s in front of you.”
I huff a laugh. “Gods, isn’t that the truth—”
A forced smile cracks her dried lips.
“Rest, Mother Hollie. We’re going to Mortifer,” I assure her as she leans into Rhett’s side, and he holds her as soft cries tumble out of her again.
Rhett’s sad eyes meet mine, and I tap a fist against his knee.
After two orchestrated attacks, a captured Hunter, and the death of one of our own to be entombed in Mortifer Fortress, we need to conveneeveryone.
All of the Hunters left in Goreon will travel to Mortifer.
Because this is war now.
I push up from my knees and head for the kitchen, leaning into the doorframe.
“My office,” I tell Riot and Grace, and they follow me in silence down the dim hallway and into my den.
I cross the midnight blue area rug to the fireplace, wood-paneled walls encasing the room in a hickory warmth. Once the door thuds shut, Riot’s mouth spills a slew of burning curses that might set fire to the logs I’m stacking.
“We share the same sentiment,” I confess, snatching the canister from the mantle and blasting fire into the hearth.
“I can’tfuckingbelieve this. Let’s just take the castle in the morning.”
“We’re not doing that,” I tell Riot as Grace flops into my armchair, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Riot snorts. “This is why you’re the Captain.”
I tuck the note that was nailed to Lou’s tavern door into my journal, signed by the king of Goreon. There’s no doubt who has Sam, but we won’t be following the instruction written on that parchment: “Consider him lost.”
Yeah fucking right.
Riot slumps into the armchair next to Grace and scrubs at his face.
I glance down at myself, blood crusting on my exposed forearms, my clothing soaked. This is why we have leather chairs. Much easier to clean.
I inspect the deep, seeping slice across my wrist. They sent talent into that bar tonight.
“They knew how to fight again,” I say, glancing over at Riot.
He leans forward. “Yeah. They did. How many was that?”
“Forty-six,” I say, my magic sparks in response, droplets pattering against my veins.
