The big Apollyon stared into his cup for a moment before muttering a rough, “No. I… No. I hurt her.”
“YouhurtKeely?” Mathos growled, his beast unfurling in his belly.
Tor scowled darkly before clarifying, “Her feelings. I hurt her feelings.”
His beast settled slightly. “And did you apologize?”
“No.” Tor’s reply was so quiet, he almost didn’t hear it.
“And then you left? Just like that?”
Tor blinked, saying nothing. Then he turned his face to the smudged window and the darkness outside.
“You didn’t fight for her at all?” Mathos asked, slightly shocked.
He’d lived his entire life avoiding exactly the kind of turmoil that Tor and Keely had created for themselves, but Tor didn’t have the same kind of horror of relationships that he did. And he obviously cared for Keely. The bond that they’d formed had been clear to everyone. What the hell had happened?
Before Tor could reply, the ancient tavern door crashed open, and a heavily armed Apollyon guard stepped in. A guard wearing palace blue and the insignia of a lieutenant. Bloody hell.
Was this one of Dornar’s? Mathos looked at him as closely as he could without drawing attention. He didn’t seem familiar, but there had been so many changes at the palace that it was hard to be certain. And in the days they’d spent in Eshcol desperately combing through temple records and then on the road, anything could have happened.
His beast twitched, preparing for danger with a ripple of hardening scales. Mathos leaned back slowly, further from the light, while Tor did the same beside him.
The lieutenant ran a considering eye over the tavern’s occupants, lingering for a moment on their table, and then strode forward to the door that led to the kitchen and banged loudly. The scrawny landlord ripped open the door with a scowl, only to quickly reassess his attitude and dip his chin politely.
The lieutenant pulled out a small, framed picture, murmuring something too low to hear, and showed it to the man, who shook his head firmly. The Blue Guard lifted the picture closer, his heavy gauntleted hand coming to rest on the landlord’s shoulder in a way that made the man wince, but he shook his head again.
Then the landlord looked up and pointed directly at Mathos and Tor. Fuck. He could feel his scales sliding through his skin, rippling up his arms and neck. He glanced at Tor and groaned at the small smile twisting his friend’s lips up at the sides—this was not the time to beat out frustrations.
The guard marched across the room and glared down at them. Before Tor could ensure that every Blue Guard in fifty miles knew exactly who they were, Mathos spoke, “If you’ve been sent over here for a review of the ale, I can tell you now, it tastes like piss.”
The guard didn’t look amused. He pulled off his gloves and tapped them against his thigh. “Tavern keeper says you took the only two rooms.”
Mathos raised an eyebrow. “Would you like to buy them off us?”
“I need to search them.”
“Why?” Mathos asked before Tor could refuse out of hand.
The lieutenant leaned forward, eyebrows pulled down in a tight scowl. “Do you know what this tunic means?”
Thank the gods, the lieutenant didn’t recognize them. Not someone from the palace then, and almost certainly not one of Dornar’s men. Mathos hid his relief behind a smirk. “Well—”
The guard cut him off. “It means you fucking do as you’re told.”
Mathos thrust his hand out to hold Tor in his seat. “My friend and I don’t respond well to threats. How about you sit down, drink some shitty ale, and tell us what you really want?”
The lieutenant’s nostrils flared as his face darkened, neither of which bothered Mathos. He rocked his chair back onto two legs and raised an eyebrow as he spoke. “We’re in the business of helping people. Maybe we could help you?”
Before he could reply, two new guards walked in, both also Apollyon, both unfamiliar. They made their way to stand beside their leader with a quick shake of their heads. Clearly whoever, or whatever, they were looking for hadn’t been found outside.
“Show us the picture,” Mathos nudged, doing his best to look helpfully contrite and not overly mocking. It was a look he had perfected on commanding officers over many years. “Maybe we’ve seen your… wife? Brother? Great-aunt Camilla?”
The guard gave him a look rich in frustration and Mathos kept his eyes wide and clear. Gods he loved this game. Tristan didn’t take his shit, if anything, he expected him to be the responsible one in the squad, and he hardly ever had a chance to stir up trouble just for fun anymore.
With a sigh of annoyance, the lieutenant handed over the painting. It was a small oil in an ornate gilded frame, like something from the mantelpiece of a wealthy home. The kind of home Mathos did his best to stay far away from.
The subject of the painting was a young woman wearing rich velvet robes of deep forest green, sitting on an elegantly carved chair, and holding a large leather-bound book in her lap. She was prim and demure looking—her face set in a small, lopsided smile—but the artist had captured a twinkle in her eyes that suggested that her thoughts were far less meek than her modest pose might suggest.
