Margot wasn’t particularly grateful that the Hawks had, in all probability, saved her life. Kaylin wasn’t entirely certain she was grateful for it, either. But she’d probably hate herself if Margot died. That was the thing about being a Hawk. You couldn’t choose. It was probably the reason for the laws as well—the laws defined what was acceptable or necessary. The individual Hawks didn’t.
There were no laws about tripping over sandwich boards, though. Probably for the best.
The man snarled. “What are you talking about?” he demanded.
“You’re wearing Shadow,” Kaylin replied, although she didn’t look at him. “You’re covered in it. I don’t know how you can do it safely—and at this point, I don’t care. If you don’t lower the weapon and come with us to the Halls of Law—”
“What do you mean,Shadow?” His voice had risen in tone.
Kaylin reached up, her eyes still cloaked in familiar’s wing, and brushed fingers across the subtle strands of darkness that had settled around Margot’s face. She felt no sentience there, although the strands weren’t like spiderwebs; they didn’t cling to her hand, and they didn’t instantly break. They stretched.
Kaylin frowned, and pulled harder. They stretched until they were almost invisible.
“Well?” Margot snapped, sounding actively waspish.
“This may come as a surprise to you, but I don’t actually see magic of this type every day.”
“Great. You realize I pay taxes?”
“Yes. About half of what you probably owe.” At Margot’s expression, Kaylin grinned. It was like a smile. Almost. “I checked.”
“My taxes are none of your business!”
“Technically, evasionisour business, as you put it. And I’m not the one who brought the subject up.” She caught the strand, wrapped her hand in it, and pulled hard. This time, it snapped. She was left with a slightly flailing black strand. Margot was left with less Shadow, but pulling one thread hadn’t unraveled the whole. Kaylin grimaced, glared Margot into silence, and worked on the rest.
“We’ll want the Records capture of the meeting,” she told Margot cheerfully.
“And I want to be the Empress,” Margot snapped. “These are confidential Records.”
“I’m certain you think they are. But we’ll have the Records, or we’ll have a long, long interview with you in which we try to reconstruct what actually happened.” She turned to the man.
He had lowered his weapon and was staring at Kaylin. She asked the familiar to lower his wing, and he did; without the translucent mask, she could see the man’s expression. He was pale, a color somewhere between gray and green. His eyes were a bit too wide, and he appeared to be sweating, something she hadn’t expected.
“What do you mean, Shadow?”
Shadow meant many things in Elantra. Not a single one of them was good. There were stories about Shadow, and death by same, and in this case, the outrageous stories had something most rumors lacked: they were true. Or rather, they were all possible. And clearly, whatever he’d been told about the power he was exerting, none of it had involved Shadow.
He lowered the blade, kneeling to set it on the floor in front of Severn’s feet before he rose again, lifting his hands, palm out, to show that he was unarmed. Technically, this was true. She tapped the familiar’s leg, and he raised his wing again, sighing—loudly—in her ear.
“Is it the same?” she asked him.
He squawked—twice.
“Is it dangerous to me?”
Squawk.
She cursed. “Is it likely to kill him?”
Squawk.
She cursed in Leontine. “Fine. Is he actually human?”
Squawk.
“We do not get paid nearly enough for this,” she told Severn.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
