He’d been here the whole time, watching, waiting. But now he moved forward into the lamplight, and as he moved, he grew, swelling beneath fur and feathers. The small griffin became massive, towering over all of us, his head scraping the warehouse ceiling twenty feet above. I didn’t need to look to know what those blue eyes threatened.
Touch her. Try. See how long you survive.
The sound that echoed was like grinding mountains—low, resonant, the kind of noise you felt in your bones before you heard it with your ears.
I crossed my arms over my chest, my glare matching that of my griffin.
Both Wickett and Jorn had to crane their necks to see all of him. The young runner had gone pale, backing toward the door like he might bolt.
“I...” Jorn’s voice had lost all its confidence. He swallowed hard, not taking his eyes off the monster looming above him. “I take it back.” He looked at Wickett, and there was something almost like humor mixed with the fear. “Thanks for the fucking warning, Veyne. Really appreciate you mentioning your witch has a familiar the size of a damn building.”
“I didn’t know he could do that,” Wickett admitted with genuine awe, mixed with a little terror. “I knew he was big, but this is?—”
“Terrifying?” Jorn suggested. “Nightmare-inducing? The kind of thing that makes you reconsider your life choices?”
“All of that.”
Silas made another sound—not quite a growl, more like a rumble of satisfaction. He was enjoying this. The showing off, the intimidation, the way both men were trying very hard not to look afraid while clearly being absolutely petrified.
I almost smiled.Almost.
“So.” Jorn forced his attention back to me, though his hand had dropped away from his blade. “The witch with the monster familiar.” He took a careful breath. “You in or not? Because we’ve got maybe eight minutes now before those hunters arrive, and this plan either works or we’re all dead.”
I looked at Wickett. At the desperation in his eyes, the fear that wasn’t for himself but for the thirty-six names on that list. At Silas towering behind me, ready to destroy anyone who threatened me. “I’m in.”
Chapter 32
Syneca
The flowers that bloom in graveyards remember everyone who forgets to visit. Plant none in your own garden unless you wish to be haunted by guilt.
My commitment to whatever the plan was echoed for exactly half a heartbeat before Jorn was moving, shouting orders to the young runner, who bolted back out the door.
“We’ve got maybe eight minutes,” Jorn said, already striding toward the back of the warehouse. “Move!”
We ran. Through stacks of crates and coiled rope, past barrels that reeked of fish and brine, and toward a door I hadn’t noticed before, half-hidden behind a false wall of canvas tarps.
“He’s a bird, right?” Jorn threw the question over his shoulder at Wickett as he tore down the tapestry, gesturing vaguely at Silas, who’d shrunk back to a more manageable size and was racing along beside me.
“Definitely a cat,” Wickett replied without missing a beat.
“No.” Jorn glanced back, his expression skeptical. “Feline, remember? That’s not a fucking cat.”
“Maybe you guys should worry less about my griffin and more about this plan?” I snapped. “What exactly are we doing?”
“Emergency protocol,” Jorn said, still moving toward the back of the building. In one smooth motion, he loosened a floorboard with a simple stomp, reached inside, came back with whatever he’d needed and promptly replaced the board. “If we’re compromised, we blow up my ship.”
My stomach dropped. “You’re going to?—”
“The bodies of all involved will seem to have burned beyond recognition,” Wickett continued, his voice clipped and professional. “Case closed. Hunters get a win. Everyone’s satisfied.”
We reached the back door, a massive sliding thing that opened onto the docks, and paused.
“Just hate to say goodbye to my ship. Had her for fifteen years. Good vessel. Easy on the water and has been my only way out of the city since the Magistrate’s lockdown.” There was real grief in the shifter’s voice. Not for the mission, not for the risk, but for the loss of something that had served him well. Something he was walking away from because one day he’d decided to save innocent people.
“On your toes, little witch,” Wickett said, his hand finding my arm and pulling me several feet from the door. “You can’t be part of this next bit.”
Jorn and Wickett faced each other. For a moment, they were just two men who’d risked everything together, who’d saved lives in the shadows while the city burned around them. Jorn extended his hand. Wickett took it. The handshake was firm, brief, heavy with everything they didn’t have time to say aloud.
