Marcus scratched the desktop. “Do you have any idea what the Aerians are up to?”
“They want Moran dead. They’re probably going to want me dead, to make certain this remains in the Caste Courts.”
“Why do they want Moran dead?”
“Don’t know, sir.”
“When you find out, tell no one but me.”
“Or you could just ask the Hawklord.” Her brain caught up with her mouth, and she reddened. Leontines were pretty frontal when they chose to attack. He’d probably already asked the Hawklord. Moran, however, was not under his command in any way, shape or form; the Hawklord could refuse to answer the question. And probably had. “What makes you think I’m going to find out?”
“You can’t keep your nose out of anything—and in this case, it’s your life on the line, as well.”
“Sir.”
“Now go get your sergeant and get out of here.”
* * *
Moran had clearly heard of—or perhaps even seen—Margot’s transmission. Kaylin had taken a detour on the way to the infirmary, stopping at her own small desk and office mirror, and had been denied permission to view the Records capture.
Given that she was responsible for its arrival, she thought this a tad unfair, and did her level best not to whine about it in the office. Marcus’s hearing was Leontine hearing, and he was not in the mood for whining. Not that he ever was, but on normal days he could at least muster a sense of resigned, growly humor. She had intended to ask Moran about it, but Moran’s eyes were the Aerian equivalent of Leontine orange. Her wings were rigid, and her lips were a tight line. Aerians, like the rest of humanity, didn’t possess canines that overhung lip real estate.
“Marcus kicked me out of the office,” Kaylin said. “I’m off duty.”
“What did you do this time?” Bellusdeo asked, from the chair nearest Moran’s very pristine desk.
“Nothing yet.”
“What does he expect you will be doing?”
“Almost, but not quite, dying.”
Bellusdeo rose. Her eyes were gold. The events of the day didn’t particularly trouble her. “Did he happen to say how?”
“Later.”
Small and squawky was draped across Kaylin’s shoulders. He lifted his head, tilted it at right angles to his neck and stared at Moran. He then lifted his wing and covered Kaylin’s eyes with it. She suddenly remembered that she had intended to look at Moran’s wings through the familiar’s. She wasn’t surprised to see wings—whole wings—rising in perfect formation. The Aerian assassins had had whole wings when viewed this way. She wasn’t surprised to see that Moran’s wings were pale and freckled—well, speckled—because Moran’s wings had always been like that.
She was very surprised to see that Moran didn’t have the usual two wings that characterized her race. She had four. Only three of them were functional; the fourth was bandaged and wrapped for support. But it was visible, in the winged view. Kaylin frowned.
“What are you looking for?” Bellusdeo asked, her tone flat and almost impenetrable.
“I wanted to see what her wings looked like through the familiar’s wing.”
“And?”
“The prisoners had whole wings. Like ideal wings, even if their own weren’t.”
“That’s not what I have?” Moran asked.
“Not exactly. You have whole wings, but you also have your regular ones. At the same time.”
“Why?”
Kaylin had hoped that Moran could answer that question rather than asking it.
“Hells if I know.” Kaylin decided that the entire conversation that was likely to happen when she presented Moran with both the gift and the question would best be had at home.
