First, he had to kill a man who was surrounded and protected by the Council. And second, he had to make absolutely sure he didn’t hand over the weapon Gordon really wanted—his blood.
His plan was based on a simple truth. He had to ensure his blood was useless to anyone. After that, all he had to do was challenge Gordon.
James took another sip of his disgusting coffee and made himself swallow. Challenging Gordon was not going to be easy. He was one of the strongest Guardians in the world—the head of the Council for a reason—but he could still be surprised. He could still be killed. And he wouldn’t be expecting James to come at him with everything he had.
The Council would let James in because Gordon told them to. As soon as he was within reach, James would stab him through the shriveled lump of darkness that passed for a heart. What happened after that didn’t matter. If James was going to die anyway, then the Council was irrelevant.
He reached down to reassure himself he still had the wickedly sharp carving knife he’d borrowed—stolen, really—from Bryn’s kitchen safely tucked in his boot. It was there, but his hands were trembling violently now.
How long would it take to work? Was his vision blurring already? His stomach twisted and churned, but how much of that was fear and rage and grief?
He breathed slowly through his nose. It was okay. He could do this. He just had to last long enough to take Gordon down with him, and hiding his feelings was something he’d perfected long ago.
His own discomfort didn’t matter anyway. Riley would be safe. That was the most important thing. If he lived, if he died—it didn’t make much difference to him. Not anymore. Knowing Riley had a chance to live the life she deserved was enough.
She was shy sometimes and hadn’t quite settled into the London Circle—despite her innate kindness and empathy, her myriad of achievements as a Healer—but he knew she would find her place. One day, everyone would realize what he already knew: that she was magnificent. And then she would fly.
He would make sure she had that chance, even though it would never be at his side.
Never again would he lie wrapped around her, listening to her breathe. Never again would he hold himself over her body, her thick auburn hair spread out over her pillow like a fiery halo. Never again would she press her hands to his skin and make him feel like he had finally found his home. Never again would he lie to her. Hold back from her. Pull her into a world of danger and then walk away.
God, he sucked.
James rubbed the aching band of pain that had tightened over his forehead and forced himself to take one last burning sip of his disgusting brew. He’d taken too long to get here as it was. He’d already missed the four-hour window Gordon had given him to save Zach. He didn’t have a car, for fuck’s sake. What did Gordon think he was going to do, fly? Never mind the time he’d spent raiding Bryn’s stores of plants, herbs, and berries.
The Healer was going to be furious when he discovered it. James groaned ruefully. He didn’t want to piss off one of the kindest people he’d ever met. It was a pity he wasn’t very likely to ever get a chance to apologize.
He cleared his throat and stood woozily. It was time to go.
He dropped some cash on the table for the waiter. The tip would be phenomenal, but his vision was too blurry to even attempt counting it. And then he made his way onto the too-bright, too-hot, too-crowded street. Five days until midsummer, and London was sweltering.
He wiped his hands down his face, roughly clearing the sweat from his eyes, and forced himself to step slowly and steadily down the high street. Doing his best to look like he knew where he was going, he half strode, half stumbled around the corner, along the private garden, and toward the Belgravia house Zach had described.
James knew it as soon as he saw it. It was perfectly maintained, nestled in the grand terrace of elegant white stucco houses, all with pristine front doors and gleaming black railings. Exactly the kind of house a rich, powerful man would choose to show off his status. And it was crawling with oily black wards that set up a malignant vibration in his own reluctant Shadows.
He took a deep breath, swallowing down the nausea that threatened to climb up his throat and overwhelm him, and kept moving forward.
He reached the front entrance, blinking against the swirling dizziness, and pulled out the carving knife. His palm was sweating, and the blade felt unnatural in his hand. It wasn’t his Shadow shuriken, the weapon that had once been part of him. Or even the hunting knife his father had given him years before.
Where was that hunting knife? It was one of the only gifts his father had ever given him. The last time he remembered having it….
God. He’d used it to threaten Kay. The acid burning his throat climbed into his mouth.
He pushed the thought away. He didn’t have time for guilt and regrets. He reversed his grip on the knife hilt, hiding the heavy blade behind his arm, and lifted his free hand to knock on the door.
Gordon was expecting him. His wards would already be triggered. With luck, Gordon would open the door himself, and then—
What was that noise?
Was that someone shouting his name? A man? The voice sounded distorted and garbled through the pounding in his ears. Had the Council trapped him from the rear? He spun slowly, but the street seemed to move and shimmer. Heat haze covered everything like a weirdly undulating mirage.
James wiped his blurry eyes with his wrist. God. It was happening faster than he’d expected. He was already hallucinating.
He shook it off. He was so close. Too close to falter now. He had to get into that house immediately. He had to get to Gordon before it was too late.
James spun back to the door, clenching his fingers to grip the knife more securely, and lifted his free hand to the knocker. But before he could bang on the door, something hit him from behind. Shadows. A vast roiling cloud of Shadows poured over him, capturing him, holding him, and hauling him back from the door. Fuck. They had him.
He dropped the knife—it wouldn’t help him now—and opened his hands, desperately calling his own Shadows. But they only trickled toward him, frayed and broken, lost within the cloud of darkness he was swathed in.
