“Now just a minute.” The man swipes off his glasses, blustering slightly. “I’m going to need a little more than that. You’ve never darkened my doorstep like this before. Not by choice.”
“There’s been a development,” says Lys.
“Has there?” The man follows his gaze to Shea. He sizes her up for a long moment, his mouth moving in silent appraisal. “This is different company than you normally keep.”
“Like I said,” grits out Lys, “there’s been a development. I need help.”
“I’m afraid you won’t find any here,” says the man. “As you well know, I learned my lesson the hard way the last time you were—”
With a snarl, Lys lunges. There’s a sound of split leather, and then the old man is pinned against the doorframe, Lys’s gloved hand suspended inches from his throat. Only, the ends have been rent wide. A set of talons protrudes from the interior, tips rutilated as quartz. He looks as he did the night of the first attack, like he’d been ripped out of the shadows.
“Oh,”says Poppy.
“Holyshit,” breathes Asher.
Trapped beneath Lys, the man doesn’t even flinch. “It’s started. You should have sent word.”
“And what would you have done?” grinds out Lys. “Cast me out again?”
“I never cast you out,” says the man. “You left on your own. This is different, Oliver. The potential here is catastrophic. You and I both know where this story ends. Your mother fought much too hard—”
“Stop,” warns Lys.
“—and for much too long to watch you unmake yourself like this.”
“I said,shut up!” The kinglets take flight all at once. In the commotion, Lys struggles to quell his temper. “You swore an oath.”
“To your mother,” says the man. “Not to you.”
Out in the field, the sun scrapes across the grass in a widening verdure of gold. The light is nearly at their feet. Shea’s urgency fans into full-fledged alarm.
“Please,” she says. “He can’t be out here. Just let us in, we won’t be any trouble.”
Still pinned beneath Lys’s grip, the man cranes his head around to face her. He looks speculative. Curious. A little bit sad, like he’s just come to some sort of terrible understanding. Solemnly, he peers back at Lys.
“It’s her,” he says gently, “isn’t it?”
“Don’t look at her.”
“You’ve handed him a victory. You do understand that, yes?”
The corner of Lys’s mouth tips up in a sneer. “Not yet, I haven’t.”
Sunlight pushes through the wide old oak in violent pinpricks. The wind shifts, and suddenly the porch is pierced in arrows of white. Lys hisses—a sharp, pained sort of sound.
“Let us in,” says Asher. “He’ll die out here.”
The man mops at his brow, uneasy. For a moment, it seems like he might double down and send them away. Instead—and with one last glance at Shea—he relents. “Get inside. All of you—quickly.”
Lys enters first, the rest falling in behind him. The door swings shut, shrouding the foyer in a murky dark. The only spot of light streams in through a wide entryway at the far end of the hall. A curtained shaft of gold, thick with dust. The smell of cloves clings to the air.
“Do you remember where your room is?” the man asks Lys.
“How could I forget,” intones Lys, peeling off his gloves with his teeth. His nails are short and neat. There’s no sign that he ever sprang talons at all.
“Sun hits the house around eight,” says the man. “It’ll be full light in here shortly. Go on upstairs. Shut the door. I’ll send for you at twilight.”
Lys lingers, his gaze sliding to Shea. “She comes with me.”
