“So when will the boyars admit that they made a mistake?” he asked. “How soon can we get Dom out of that hellish jail they’ve put him in? The Salt is for monsters, not a young boy.”
“I think they’d argue your son is a monster,” Took said. He saw the disagreement brew on Liam’s face and didn’t give him time to voice it. “Your son was still found bloody-handed at the crime scene. He’s never defended himself, and the murders stopped when he was arrested.”
Liam snorted. “Murder,” he muttered through a sneer.
It was an old argument. Took could feel the edges of both sides on his tongue—“it’s not murder to stab a corpse” lined up against “it’s murder to stab someone who begs for their life.”
He swallowed it. Even if he wanted to have that argument again—and he didn’t—he had a reason to be there that didn’t require Liam to agree with him on Anakim rights.
“Either way, the evidence against your son is still compelling. This doesn’t guarantee him a stay of execution or even a retrial if the boyars don’t think it’s necessary.”
Hard, flinty anger glittered in Liam’s eyes.
“I will make them see that itisnecessary,” he said. “Once people know that VINE framed my son—”
“They didn’t,” Took cut in harshly. “And the boyars know that. Never try and bluff a vampire, Mr. Waring. They can tell.”
“I thought you didn’t like that name.”
The aftertaste of the word was bitter on Took’s tongue. It was the unvarnished, unsweetened truth of what he was, and something he didn’t want to always have to confront. But then, it was old, unvarnished advice from someonehe’d never wanted to confront.
“But you do,” Took said, the deflection sharp enough to make Liam draw back with a sour look. “So think the worst of the boyars, Mr. Waring, because if you embarrass them, your son’s stay of execution will be a short one.”
For a second, fear showed on Liam’s face. It wasn’t often he let the mask of ambition slip and the man beneath exhale a real emotion. Then he plastered contempt over the crack as he curled his lip at Took.
“When I hired you, I assumed that even if you bled black, you’d know better than to trust just any goddamn wetmouth,” he said. “Crane said I could trust you, that we could trust you to take the humans’ side over the monsters. I should never have believed him. Never trust a Goat should be the motto of my family. Once some fucker like you takes the fang—”
It wasn’t like Took had never been angry before, just not like this. The usual cold, almost logical itch of it had turned into an icy blast that slivered through him on cold, splintered fingers and toes and dragged him along with it for a fast, vicious slide. When he slipped off the ride, he found his hand around Liam’s throat and the man bent so far backward in his chair that it was about to slip from underneath him. Took’s fingers were dug so deeply into his neck that the darkly tanned skin was blanched white. Liam’s breath smelled of garlic and coffee. It made Took’s eyes sting but nothing else.
Irritation still scraped at Took like grit in an oyster, but the pearl of anger it generated had already crumbled away to nothing. It left Took with a dry mouth, a dull ache behind his fangs, and no idea of what to say. The blank fear in Liam’s eyes and the acrid smell of adrenaline that rose from him suggested Took hadn’t looked like he planned to say anything.
“You don’t pay me enough to insult me,” Took said as he scrabbled for the right words. He hauled Liam back upright and let go of his throat. Liam coughed, spluttered, and scrambled away to the other end of the desk so the long length of wood was between them. He rubbed nervously at his neck with anxious fingers while Took stepped back and fastidiously straightened his jacket. “And whatever SSA Crane might have told you, I don’t care about sides. I just want to know the truth. If your son killed those families, I have no interest in getting him from under The Salt. And I’d have said that when I had a pulse. If that’s not good enough for you, Mr. Waring, pay the balance of your bill and we’ll call it a day.”
Took drew back to the chair he’d originally rejected and sat down. A pool of sharks didn’t open under him, but the hard-backed seat wasn’t particularly comfortable either. Not a death trap, but the small meanness was still meant as a trap. His chest felt hollow and empty, the fizz of his panicked brain lonely without the company of a heart to pound. Last night there had been so much going on, and the overlay of pain as a distraction, that he hadn’t noticed it.
A draft of coffee, cup held in a shaky hand, didn’t do whatever Liam thought he needed. He choked out a rough curse, fumbled in the drawers for a moment, and dragged out a bottle of whiskey.
“You think you can scare me?” Liam said with a rough laugh. He twisted the cap off the whiskey and took a swig. It made him wince as the liquor ran down his raw throat. “What scares me is that my son is in a hell hole with monsters. What scares me is that I’ll never get him back. So fuck you for giving me hope and then acting like I’m the dick for wanting it. Dom’s just a little boy. Under that stare he gives people, all he wants is to come home.”
“I can’t promise you that,” Took said. “All I can give you is the assurance that if he stays in The Salt, you’ll have a good reason as to why.”
Liam took another long, sweaty gulp of booze. A twitch of thirst caught at Took’s throat, and he rubbed his tongue over the roof of his mouth after the memory of taste. He’d tried to get drunk since he died, but it didn’t have the same tang and it didn’t take.
The tumbler cracked against the table as Liam smacked it down.
“I was told to drop it,” he said. Blue eyes flicked to Took and then back down to the mouthful of whiskey left in his glass. “That I shouldn’t worry about my son when I was the one in trouble.”
Took leaned forward. “By whom?”
He didn’t really expect an answer, which was good since all Liam gave him was a brisk, tight-lipped head shake.
“How?”
It took a second, but Liam finally tossed back the last of the whiskey. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and leaned down to pull out the bottom drawer. When he sat back up, he pushed a handful of letters across the desk. The one on top was an official visiting order to The Salt. The other three were folded, stained scraps of paper with blunt, block-lettered threats scrawled onto them.
“A martyred son gets you votes. A grave will get none.” It was signed with a scrawled wolf’s head, which effectively answered Took’s question about who’d sent it. Took frowned and folded the note over. “How did you get in touch with the Hounds of Gabriel, Mr. Waring?”
Liam choked out a cracked laugh. “Never. Not once,” he swore. “What good is it to jump from the vampire’s fangs into a wolf’s mouth? They’re all monsters.”
