Tristan rustled his wings, sat back against the settee and crossed an ankle over his legs. “I could give him your name.”
Ronin shrugged. “Maybe I want you to.”
Tristan’s head was spinning, tired of Ronin’s enigmatic riddles. “What are you talking about?”
“My twin sister is a prisoner of the Empire, locked away in Tartarus. She was a member of the movement as well. Not a fighter—an artist. Captured while distributing propaganda for the Teles Chrysos ten years ago. The leadership have plied me with empty promises foryearsthat we would travel to the prison to rescue her, but never followed through. Another mission always came along that was somehow more important. I’m sick of waiting. You need a name to deliver to your brother to make him believe you are working against us? Use me. With any luck, he’ll send me to Tartarus and I can rescue my sister myself.”
Tristan snorted. “That’s a foolish plan. In the seven centuries of its existence, no one haseverescaped Tartarus.”
“Well, I’ve never tried, have I?” Ronin said with a sly smile.
Tristan pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to chase away the headache forming behind his eyes. This was certainly not the meeting he’d expected. “You can save your daring rescue plans for another time. I’ve got another name in my sights. One I’d relish giving up.” He held his tumbler on his knee. “August Lambros. Has he ever approached you?”
Ronin shook his head, his tongue darting out to lick at a fang. “Never. But again, he’d likely have no idea that I’m working with the Teles Chrysos either.”
Tristan scrubbed a hand down his face, hoping that Cassandra’s journey to Lambros’s house tonight was going smoothly. And productive.
“I’ve got to hand it to you, Matakos. You’ve got bigger balls than most. What made you so confident to approach me?”
Ronin snickered. “I can see it in your eyes, in your very bones. You’re ready to leave these miserable islands and reclaim what your brother stole from you. We’ve been waiting for you.”
Ronin’s words prodded at that slumbering ache in Tristan’s chest.
Could he really stay in the colonies, cocooned in a false peace while others took up his mantle on the continent?
Or could the Teles Chrysos help him achieve the ends he’d dreamt about as a boy?
There was a part of him, a very large part, that wanted to try.
For himself. For his people. For Ethyrios.
For Cassandra.
“Well, Ronin,” he said, raising his glass. “To a new partnership.”
Ronin’s lips parted into a predatory smile as he saluted Tristan with his bottle.
“To a New Ethyrios,” he answered.
A frantic knock sounded at the door and the two Fae males eyed each other warily.
“Expecting more company?” Tristan growled, rising from the settee and following Ronin to the door.
“I was going to summon Rosana for another round of chess after you left,” Ronin said over his shoulder. “Winning makes her so wet, I always lose on purpose. But she knows better than to interrupt me during meetings.”
He whipped the door open and Aneka spilled into the room, her cheeks flushed, but her flaxen hair pin-straight. Not a strand out of place.
Untouched.
Hands braced on her knees, she gulped frantic breaths as if she’d taken the stairs two at a time.
“August never showed up.”
CHAPTERFORTY-FIVE
Lambros’s ornate, five-story townhouse a few blocks away from the Secretariat was dark and quiet when Cassandra and Hella arrived. Just as Aneka had assured them it would be.
A heady thrill rushed through Cassandra as she scaled the wooden fence ringing August’s backyard, prowling through the shadows in the thieving uniform of her previous life: the dark cloak and black training attire. A familiar skin of thievery and rebellion.
