“Maybe.” I gripped the edge of the sofa cushion. “Or maybe he’s playing a game I don’t understand yet. He handed me the history of my people, Dane. He handed me the journal and the books. If he was a traitor, why arm me? Why give me the ammunition to destroy them?”
Too agitated to sit, I stood and paced the small room.
“I still don't know where he stands. But he is the only person left who knows the whole story.”
I turned to Dane.
“He is the only lead I have. And he is sitting in the middle of Quinn Enterprises, surrounded by people who want to put me in an extraction tank.”
Dane watched me. The anger in his eyes cooled, replaced by a sharp, tactical calculation. He saw the detective in me rising out of the grief.
“You want answers,” he said.
“I want the truth,” I corrected. “I want to know how he got that journal. I want to know if my father chose this, or if he was forced. Riven is the only one who can tell me.”
“He’s in Highspire, Selene. It’s a fortress. If Varessia has him, he’s either working for her, or he’s a prisoner. Either way, you can’t just knock on the door.”
“I know.”
I stopped pacing and looked at the worn leather book on the table. Eamon’s legacy. Liora’s words.
My father didn’t raise a soldier. He raised a cop.
“I’m not going to knock,” I said. “And I’m not going to storm the place with magic I can barely control. That’s what they want. They want me to be the monster.”
I looked at Dane.
“I’m going to use the one thing they don’t think matters.”
Dane sat forward, wincing slightly as his spine protested. A slow, dangerous grin spread across his face.
“Then we’ll mourn him when it’s done,” he said. “Right now, we take them apart.”
I picked up my phone.
“We’re going to work.”
A couple of hours later,a firm rap at the door broke the silence. Dane pushed himself off the sofa and opened the door.
Mira stormed in first. She was soaked, her auburn hair plasteredto her cheeks. She looked straight at me. She dropped her bag and crossed the room in three strides.
“Selene.”
She pulled me up from the chair and wrapped her arms around me, her embrace fierce and grounding. She smelled of antiseptic, rain, and the faint, clean scent of peppermint.
My throat tightened. She was the one who hauled me from the collapsing building and got me home yesterday.
“I’m so sorry Selene.” She whispered into my hair.
I hugged her back, leaning on her strength for a second. Mira had always been the sharpest edge in the room, but right now, she was just a friend holding me together.
She stepped back, keeping her hands on my arms, scanning my face with clinical concern. “You look like hell.”
“I feel worse.” I admitted.
Behind her, Orin shuffled into the room. He looked more dishevelled than usual—his shirt buttoned wrong, his glasses slightly askew—clutching a laptop like a shield.
He looked at me, eyes wide and shiny behind the lenses.
