“What about Makysm’s lightning magic?” Tristan asked. He was surprised his brother hadn’t yet brought it up. “Power like that hasn’t been seen in Ethyrios for centuries. Do you have any idea how he acquired it?”
Eamon narrowed his hazel eyes. “Nothing you need concern yourself with at the moment. Just find me that necklace, or we willallsuffer the consequences.”
Cassandra cleared her throat and Tristan swiveled towards her.
The compassion in her blue-gray eyes nearly brought him to tears. But the underlying wariness made him want to howl, to tear the room apart.
“Your Imperial Majesty, Your Excellence, please allow me to assist Officer Saros.” Her husky voice wrapped around him, soothing his rough edges.
Eamon sneered at her, and it was all Tristan could do to keep from smashing his brother’s fucking head through the plate glass desk. “How couldyoupossibly help, mortal?”
“I am a former Shrouded Sister,” Cassandra answered, chin up, refusing to cower at Eamon’s snideness. Her proud, calm tone heated Tristan’s blood, made him ache for her even more desperately than he had been this past week.
He was adjusting, poorly, to the bittersweet torture of having her in his house while forbidden—by her own request—to touch her. A near-impossible concession, given he already knew how exquisite she tasted, thanks to their disappointingly brief trysts at the Temple.
“I’m in possession of a memory that, while scrambled, is said to reveal the necklace’s location,” Cassandra continued. “I am very close to interpreting it with my viewing powers, which I’ve temporarily retained despite having left the order.”
Such careful phrasing.
If Eamon ever discovered the truth about Cassandra—Tristan couldn’t even finish the thought.
“Show me your tattoo,” Eamon demanded, snatching Cassandra’s forearm and pitching her out of her chair.
A snarl ripped from Tristan’s throat as he caught her around the waist before her chin smashed into the glass. He settled her onto her feet, smoothed her skirt, and ran a reassuring hand down her spine before reclaiming his seat.
He sensed her gathering retort and silently urged her to keep her mouth shut. He hated the thought of her stifling her snark—would love nothing more than to see her verbally flay his asshole brother. But to do so right now would be far too dangerous.
She pressed her lips together into a thin line, her body tense as Eamon examined her wrist.
“How long has it been since you left the order? Your tattoo has not faded at all.” Eamon released her and she cradled her arm against her stomach.
“It’s only been a week.” Her voice was steady despite the insult, the audience, and the cautious lies she was weaving. High Gods, Tristan was in awe of her. “The tattoo will fade and my abilities will wane in another week or two without daily memory pulling. They’ll have fully disappeared within the month.”
“Best work quickly then,” Eamon said.
“We leave for Meridon tomorrow to consult with the Artisan,” Tristan chimed in.
The Artisan, a Turned Fae female and former Shrouded Sister with unique memory manipulation powers, had assisted Tristan and Cael in interpreting scrambled memories on a case they’d worked a few decades ago. He was certain she’d be able to help again.
Tristan couldn’t stand to be in this room a moment longer. “Are we done here?”
“For now.” Eamon waved a dismissive hand.
Tristan ushered Cassandra away from those monsters, dragging her through the door and along the hallway, down the spiral staircase, and out into the blinding sunshine.
“Tristan,” she began, but he silenced her with a look before scooping her into his arms and flying them home.
He landed on the sidewalk outside his bungalow and pressed the key into her hand.
He needed time alone. Needed the wind to rip through him and numb his roaring emotions.
Eamon barreling back into his life after all these years had dredged up agonizing memories. Memories which, for the past two centuries, had lurked beneath his skin, ready to lacerate him at the slightest provocation. He was a fool to have ever imagined he’d moved past them.
Yet somehow, the concern on Cassandra’s face as he launched into the sky cut even deeper.
CHAPTERTWO
Xenia Cirillo couldn’t sleep.
