She’s positive she’s misheard. “What?”
“You know exactly what I said. I want to meet the infamous Lys.”
“He’ll kill you before you even get in the door.”
“I don’t think so.” Asher yields a step toward her, flicking the brim of his cap out of his eyes. His stare is a wall, hard and unrelenting. “I think he’ll make time for me. There’s been rumors circulating the garrison for weeks. The northern rangers are saying there’s a girl from Little Hill who has the devil wrapped around her finger. He’ll do anything she says.”
Understanding hits her like a brick. He already knew.
Their encounter at Silas Brer’s wasn’t an accident. He’d been looking for her.
“The rumors are wrong,” she says. “Lys doesn’t answer to anyone.”
“Maybe.” Something inscrutable has crawled into Asher’s features, making him impossible to read. “But you’re wearing his mark, and that’s good enough for me. I came back to find my sister. I plan to do whatever it takes to bring her home. You want me to look the other way? You want me to pretend I didn’t see what you’re keeping down in the cellar? Fine. Get me in front of Oliver Lysander.”
Anger bursts into flames inside her chest, smoking out whatever shame she might have felt.
“You’re threatening me.”
“I’m bargaining with you.”
“No, you’re telling me that if I don’t take you to see Lys, you’ll kill my mom.”
He has the decency, at least, to flinch. He recovers quickly, doubling down. “That thing in the basement isn’t your mother, Parker. Not anymore.”
“I already told you. She’ssick.”
“She’s a contagion risk, and you know it.”
As if she needed reminding. As if the fear of her mother escaping the confines of the cellar hasn’t haunted her since she first woke to find Ivy Parker standing over her bed, the light gone out of her eyes. As if she doesn’t spend every hour, every minute looking over her shoulder. Triple-checking the latches. Lying through her teeth. Letting her secrets consume her from the inside out.
“What you’re doing is selfish,” says Asher. “If anyone finds out you’re keeping her here, we’re dead. Not you and me—everyone in Little Hill.”
“I may be selfish, but at least I’m not cruel. This isblackmail.”
“Call it whatever you want.” The look in his eyes is impassive. She can feel the trust between them drawing its last, rattling breath. “You’re going to get me an audience with the devil, and you’re going to do it tonight.”
Oliver Lysander has been called a lot of things in his time on this earth.
When he was small, he was rotten. Disobedient when he refused to cooperate and spineless when he did. Later—once he’d grown—he was volatile. Unpredictable, impossible,frightening.Too grasping, too obsessive, too stubborn for his own good.
No one has ever accused him of being patient.
At present, he is trapped in a meeting that has managed to grind what little forbearance he possesses down to nothing. He can think of a dozen things he’d rather do than sit here and be unduly lectured. Swallow a hot coal. Walk across glass. Scoop out his eyes with a spoon.
To name just a few.
In the chair beside him, his lieutenant clears his throat. With a slowness that borders on impertinence, Lysander tears his eyes away from the arched windows of the Mercy Ridge conservatory. He finds Cyrus Talbot staring over at him, his head tipped toward their visitor. The look on his face says:At least act like you’re paying attention.
The room they occupy is a half circle, cluttered with round tables and spindled chairs. It was a tearoom once. It’s a war room now. A vast gallery of painted wildebeests leers down at him from the opposing wall. Directly before it sits an emissary of the southern Flatwood’s reigning kingpin, sent north to reprimand him.
Toscoldhim, like he’s a child and not a god.
“Maybe after this is over you can give me a lobotomy,” Lysander says pleasantly. “I think it’d really round out the evening.”
“We have a drill in the utility closet,” supplies Cyrus.
“You’re thinking of trepanation. What we need is an ice pick—”
