A growl reverberates through my chest, followed by the bittersweet heat of magic, as I stalk after him. “We don’t feed the monsters.”
“I’m not a monster. I am Zephyra.” The mermaid grins a sinistersmile and snatches the plate before I can stop Gavriall from sliding it through the small gap beneath her door. She hurls it at the wall, shattering the porcelain and dousing the cell in strawberry and orange and pineapple juices. She ignores the fruit completely. Just as I knew she would. Snatching up a jagged edge, she hoists the porcelain weapon in our direction. “Now set me the fuck free, or I’ll kill you.Bothof you.”
I meet her gaze and snap my fingers. Instantly, every single piece of porcelain disappears. Including the makeshift knife between her fingers. “Ignore the demon,” I tell Gavriall, even as she shrieks and hurls herself at the bars again.Again.She claws at the steel to no avail. I turn away from her, and after a few seconds, Gavriall does the same. “She isn’t any danger to us,” I explain shortly. “So long as she doesn’t use her song.”
Gavriall arches a manicured brow. “Has she…tried?”
“No.”
“Then I’d wager she can’t sing at all.” He glances back at her. “Not much of a threat, then, is she?”
I don’t respond. Because he’s right: If the mermaid hasn’t tried luring me into a bloody oblivion with her voice already, she probably can’t. But I refuse to admit as much. Gavriall is everything wrong with Crestfall. With Mortia. He—and all those like him—are why warlocks exist.
Gavriall maneuvers around me to slide onto my stool and thumb through my books as though he no longer cares about the unthreatening mermaid losing her sanity behind us. Throwing shiny leather boots onto my desk, he weaves his hands behind his head and leans back as far as possible without tipping himself over. Then he grins at me. The smarmy, half-cocked smile of a criminal. “Any luck with your research?”
“No.”
“I’d say not if you’re still putting in requests.” Gavriall glances pointedly at the spines. “Official Warlock Records and Histories, Volume XVII—boring.Phantoms of Universe Past—mildly interesting, aside from the author succumbing to the third-century plague, pages before finishing the novel.” He pauses, and the smile carvesdeeper across his face. His brown gaze gleams. “What’s this?Second-Century Children’s Fables: The Butterfly, the Snake, and the Bird.”
I wave a hand, and a metal cloche drops down. Clangs against stone as it shields the rest of the tomes from view. “Leave.”
“But I’m having so much fun. Are you finally tapping into that child’s heart of yours? Healing repressed trauma and undoing the toxic chauvinism the elders baked into you?” He presses a flamboyant hand to his heart before spinning around with glee. “Wait until the other historians get a load of—”
I haul him up by his collar and lift him off the floor. He chokes on his surprise, jerking and kicking in order to free himself, but Gavriall is weak. He has never been able to hold his own in a fight. “Enough, Praesepultus. You may work for Mortia now, but that doesn’t absolve you from the consequences of your actions. Run your mouth to anyone—least of all a warlock—and you’ll end up buried behind Tower Historia with the rest of your newfound friends.”
Terror squeaks from him, but I pull him closer. My magic ropes around his throat, squeezing tightly. “You may have fooled the king’s court into pardoning you, but I know who you are. I know what you’re capable of. One day, either tomorrow or in a month or years from now, you’ll slip up. You’ll make a mistake you can’t talk your way out of, and you’ll see me from the corner of your eye, and you’ll know. You’ll know you’ve lost and I’ve finally come to collect.”
Gavriall claws at my hands, then slaps them. He wheezes painfully as his eyes water. Only when tears begin to trickle down his cheeks, however, do I let him go. Without my touch to anchor him, he falls to the floor. Crumbles with his knees pulled into his chest. “You—you,” he tries, though his voice warbles and breaks. “… trying tohelp.”
I stare down at him, unflinching. “No. You weren’t trying to help me. You were trying to humiliate me.”
Perhaps others would seek petty vengeance on Gavriall. He made me look like an asshole in front of the court. He played me like a fiddle. Heusedme. I’d been younger, newer then, still an initiate who believed this city could be saved with a bit of gritand determination. I hadn’t wanted to simply purge Crestfall of its delinquents; I wanted to help them. Gavriall himself proved that it couldn’t be done.
I found him broken and bleeding, and he convinced me a gang of vicious merrow were targeting innocent civilians. Robbing them and leaving them for dead. In reality, Gavriall had merely been an addict. He’d become indebted to the Scars since his first weeks in Crestfall, and he couldn’t pay up. By the time I found him, he’d wagered a total ofsix apartmentson their dime.
Even so, Gavriall has never been stupid. At least, not completely. With one (false) word of pillaging merrow, he landed himself exactly where he wanted—with an audience before the court and king. From there, it was a simple matter of seeking pardon, of feigning remorse for his gambling debts, of manipulating their bloodlust to his advantage. He had an ear to the ground in the city, after all, and a unique set of skills. It took little persuasion to procure himself a position within Tower Historia. A position that would protect him against all those dangerous men he’d scorned.
Except me.
I don’t need petty vengeance, however. Gavriall has never been stupid, but he’s never been clever either. Not with such sticky fingers. He’ll reap his own painful ending eventually. He just needs to learn that he can’t fuck with me in the meantime.
He may not be the same boy he was twelve years ago, but neither am I.
Managing to pick himself up off the floor, Gavriall rubs his neck and glares at me. I smile in response.
“If youlet me the fuck out, I’ll kill the warlock on your behalf,” Zephyra snarls.
“Shut up,” I say to her. Tothem. “I’m trying to work.”
She doesn’t listen. Just continues her tirade against the bars, against the walls, searching and clawing for any way out. I conjure a pitch-black curtain around the bars of her cell, effectively separating her from our view and casting her in complete darkness. Completesilence. Her voice cuts off in the middle of a scream, and I would smile, cherish the newfound quiet, if I weren’t so fucking screwed.
Returning to the desk, to a new pile of books, I begin to sort through them, but the pages blur. The faded text blends together in a river of ink until my entire vision swims. How many books have I read now? How much time have I wasted? I rub my eyes mercilessly, forcing them to focus. Because it does not matter. I will not stop until I find the answer. Icannot.
“I could help you,” Gavriall offers quietly.
I glance at him with a skeptical stare, though it must look crueler than I intended since he flinches. “No, no. Really. If you’ll recall, I have a portrait-perfect memory. There isn’t a single thing I can’t remember once I’ve read, seen, or heard it. And the training that goes into becoming a historian is about as extensive as becoming a warlock. Though a little less violent, I’m assuming. I read ninety percent of the books in Tower Historia during my training. The other ten percent were books I already memorized as a child. If you’re looking for something specific, I can remember it.” He hesitates, then sinks back into his chair. “I don’t want to be on your bad side, Arion. I want to be friends. Tell me what you need, and I swear I’ll help.”
I glare at him, but this time, he doesn’t flinch.
