A terrible anticipation zippers up her spine as the last few stragglers trickle out. Only Cyrus remains. He stands beside her, his hands in his pockets and his eyes bright with elation. It’s going to get ugly, and he knows it.
“You too, Cy,” says Lys. “Out.”
Cyrus’s shoulders drop. “But I—”
“Case the grounds. Take Sully and Boyce. Make sure this one didn’t bring any friends.”
“There’s no one else,” says Asher. “I’m on my own.”
“All the same.” Lys sinks into a wide leather chair beside the hearth. Even with shoulders slouched and limbs splayed wide, he still looks like a king. Haughty. Untouchable. The slightest trickle of red darkens one corner of his frown. Her blood, staining his mouth like rouge.
“This is why you were so desperate for me to feed,” he accuses her, the moment Cyrus is gone. “You wanted me amenable.”
She balks. “That’s not why.”
“Don’t lie to me. I don’t have the patience for it tonight.” There’s a terrible energy in him—it twitches just beneath his skin. “Do you like him?”
The sudden pivot hits her like a slap. “What?”
“You heard me.”
On his knees, Asher grits his jaw and says nothing.
“Tell me what you like about him,” goads Lys.
Shea blinks and sees Asher in the failing light of Fletcher’s field. Asher in her doorway, his helmet under his elbow. Asher in deep summer, the sun in his eyes:We get out of here together—that hasn’t changed.
“I don’t want to do that.”
“Come on.” Lys’s eyes are bright and clear. She has never resented his humanity more than in this moment. “There must be something. He’s pretty. He’s strong. He’shuman.”
“Lys,stop.”
His smile fades and Shea has the horrible sense she’s done the exact wrong thing. Usually, he likes it when she’s pushy. It amuses him when she’s bold. Tonight, his stare is flinted. He turns to Asher, as full of disdain as she’s ever seen him.
“On your feet, puppy.”
Asher obliges, his balance thrown off by the coarse rope binding his hands. The weal around his eye has begun to purple and his eyelid has swollen all the way shut. He doesn’t look at Shea. Not once.He asked for this, she reminds herself.He insisted.
It doesn’t make her feel any better.
“Let’s start with your name,” says Lys.
“Asher Thorley.”
“Thorley.” Lys studies Asher across the lamplit dark. “Here’s how we run things at Mercy Ridge, Thorley—either you have something to offer or youarethe offering. If you want to live to see the sunrise, I’d make yourself important.”
Asher doesn’t hesitate. “I’ve spent the last two months stationed at a watchtower out by the New York garrison. Last week, one of our rangers picked up some of Keeling’s guys outside Black River. They were pretty chatty.”
“I’ll bet they were,” says Lys.
“According to them, you and Paris Keeling are on the outs.”
Lys’s mouth twitches. “That’s not news.”
“I’m not talking about a small territory dispute,” says Asher. “They told us you want him dead.”
Paris Keeling.The name is familiar, but only just. Shea’s heard it before, whispered like a curse in the halls of Mercy Ridge. Whoever he is, it’s clear that the mention has struck a nerve. Lys scowls down at Asher, a deep groove pinched between his brows.
