“Why should we align with the Smith?” the woman asked. “The only thing I care about is . . .” She stared at the trickster, and her shoulders slumped.
“Pulling a Greek tragedy on Dad?” the musician asked. “Patricide. In vogue since 420 BC.”
“No. I mean yes.” The woman shook her head. “Dad wanted us dead. He’s given Luvic a death sentence. No one has ever stayed human for longer than three years after . . .” Her jaw clenched, and she looked to the side. “What was he thinking?”
The trickster lifted an eyebrow. “Well, as he and Herman have agreed Last Clark and I will marry soon, I imagine he’s thinking he has three years for me to make him another heir.”
The woman’s fist clenched. Her brown eyes bled to a sea-swirling midnight-black. The wind shivered as it rolled in the violent swirl of her wrath. It echoed around her like the ocean roaring in a rocky shoal, beating against the seabed. “Over my dead body.”
Her voice rolled the wind like a seashell battered by the tide.
The musician smiled. “That’s the idea, Lia. We’re supposed to be dead.”
“But we’re not.”
She smiled, and the wind nearly screeched at the bloodthirstiness of it. For a moment, the citrus and pearl dust scented woman had looked as hungry and dangerous as the sirens at the bottom of the ocean.
“So,”—she turned to the trickster—“the Bards are aligned with the Clarks?”
“And Hell Gate.”
The woman raised an eyebrow, and the trickster shrugged.
“And our father doesn’t know we’re still alive?”
“No.”
“How didn’t anyone notice our power wasn’t handed down when we ‘died’?” the musician asked.
The trickster’s eyes took on a distant light. “Thirty-seven Bards died during the closing ceremonies. With so much power volleying around, no one noticed what was or wasn’t there. And since then . . . any irregularity Dad pins on the jackaltooth. If I’m not as strong as I should be, he thinks it’s due to the changes in me.”
The woman reached over and took the trickster’s hand. She clasped it firmly. Then she took the musician’s hand in her other.
“So,” she said, “the Bard thinks he can kill us all. He thinks he can hurt my little brother. Do you think he’ll know it’s me when his world unravels around him?”
“Doubtful,” the musician said.
The woman nodded. “Good. Let him guess. Let him fear. Then, when he’s dying, I’ll stand before him and look into his eyes and let him know he failed. He failed in everything. I lived. My brothers lived.” She turned to the trickster. “You’ll live.”
He smiled. “I’ll try.”
“So we fight, Lia?” the musician asked. “We become phantoms, ghosts, and a hundred different faces in the night?”
“Just never our own.”
“I won’t be able to help you,” the trickster said. “We’ll be on opposite sides of any fight.”
The citrus and pearl dust scented woman squeezed his hand. “Take care of yourself. Watch your step.”
“I will. In the end, if it comes down to the four families fighting, promise you’ll side with the Smith.”
The woman tilted her head. “Why?”
The trickster shook his head. The wind wondered if he would say more; if he would tell his siblings about the friendship he had with the solange-eyed one and the girl. But he didn’t. The trickster was an interesting being. Often, he kept his heart on his sleeve for everyone to see, but he kept all his secrets locked in his chest. It made him seem open when he was actually closed.
“Because the Smith fights against the Bard,” the musician said.
“No.” The trickster gripped his siblings’ hands. “Because the Smith is . . . He does what’s right. He’ll be loyal to you if you side with him. No tricks. No bargains. Just loyal.”
