Wickett
Lust is hunger with a prettier name. It clouds divination, weakens wards, and makes fools of those who should know better.
The only other person I thought might’ve seen my father lurking through the Dyssaran streets was Calder fucking Grimm. But when we approached the hotel earlier, and he’d said nothing, I dismissed the theory.
Heartless One,my ass. He’d spent too many years protecting a family he thought was unbreakable that he was practically useless at this point. Coddling a fucking sprite for attention because his favorite little witch had become distracted.
Dawn broke over Dyssara, muting the effect of the Erelith chalices as sunlight peeked through the Erelith surrounding the city. I’d tracked my father through these impossible streets for the better part of an hour, watching him navigate like he’d walked these paths at least once before. He’d brought only two people with him. One, presumably a man with a thicker build, carried a smaller person covered with blankets over his shoulder.
What a fucking fool. If this city knew everything everyone claimed it did, if the fire we’d passed through was sentient or whatever the truth may be, my father’s sneaking around was pointless, and an embarrassment. Still, I followed him. Even when he stopped to lean on a building, coughing into a bloody handkerchief.
I fought the smile that threatened to reveal me. It wasn’t time. Not yet.
The small building he finally entered was abandoned, or appeared to be. With the same obsidian walls as the rest of the city, it blended in too perfectly. There was no way he’d stumbled upon it. He’d known it was here. The door opened without sound, and I let myself inside.
The space was empty. My father stood in the center alone, waiting. Like he’d known I was following all along.
“Wickett.” He didn’t turn around. “Punctual as always.”
“What are you doing here?” I kept my voice level, tactical. No emotion. The Ripper asking questions, not the son demanding answers.
“Only fools lose their lives in the Burning, son. The wise make arrangements for when the Phoenix rises to burn the world. This city is protected by the eternal flame itself. It will be the only safe haven when that day comes.”
I walked casually forward, sliding my hands into my pockets to ease the tension. “And how long have youknownabout Dyssara?”
My father’s eyes hardened, the severe posture and threat of questions he didn’t want to answer tightening his features. “My entire life. Though it was confirmed by heretics. Have you never wondered why there are so, so many in my city? As opposed to the rest of your travels?” He placed his hands behind his back and circled me, assessing as he always did. “They’re not mad, Wickett. They’re criminals of Dyssara, cast out for their crimes.Their lives spared but their memories taken by magic, left to wander the world babbling about cities that shouldn’t exist. But memories can be... extracted. If you have the right artifacts and know the right methods. The right pressures to apply.”
Torture. He’d tortured them for information.
“How is yourwound, son? Healing, I’m sure. Stabbing yourself for the sake of your mission was a foolish choice, but here you stand. I imagine you accomplished something for your effort.”
“Every single move I’ve made has been to earn their trust. They’ve led me straight to the Phoenix, and I’ve hardly lifted a finger. A small scratch on my side earned me leaps and bounds more than your idea of a kidnapping. But, and forgive me if I’m a bit slow here?—”
“I always do...”
“Why? Why go through the trouble of a Mortalis, appointing Venatori, closing down the whole fucking city with more hunters than have ever gathered in one place, if you knew where the fuck she was going to end up the entire time?”
“Yes. I suppose if you thought Vitoria Nindle was the target,thatwould be a fair question. The Phoenix was never my goal, but sometimes mercies are given to those who deserve them.”
He began coughing again, doubling over as before, pulling out his handkerchief, giving away his weakness. A weakness he’d earned with the death of my mother.
“Something wrong, Father?”
Blood stained the white fabric when he pulled it away from his mouth. More than before. The curse was accelerating.
Good.
“I need more runes. When you’re done with the Rune Weaver, send her to me. I have no protection from the witches here. They’ve cursed me. I know they have.”
They certainly had.
The words sang through my mind with cold satisfaction. Yes, they’d cursed him. An entire coven, in fact. Growing every day. Witches I’d personally saved from execution, smuggled out of cities, given safe passage to places where they could live without fear.
Their hero. Their savior.
All it had cost them was a small favor. A collective curse on the man who had killed their kind for decades, who murdered my mother and thought I’d never find out. And who had turned me into a weapon and expected me to be grateful for the sharpening.
They’d been eager to help. Practically tripping over themselves to weave their magic into something slow and agonizing. Something that would eat him from the inside out, that would worsen with every witch he encountered, every magical place he entered.
