I force a smile. “Maybe it won’t come to that.”
“You must divert blame and promise to find the source of the betrayal,” he says. “It’s the only way you'll survive this. If he believes you’ve outlived your usefulness, there’s no reason to keep you alive.”
“I know this?—”
“You must lie, Malach.”
“I’m aware of that, too.”
“Convincingly.”
I raise one eyebrow. “You think me incapable?”
Lyklan’s lips press into a thin line. “I harbor doubt.” I clap my hand over my heart, and he rolls his eyes. “I must go. If he returns and sees me?—”
“Go. Keep the letters in the journal safe. If my time comes, see that she gets it.”
He nods, two divots appearing between his eyebrows as he scowls at me. This is it. It’s awkward. Painfully so. We’ve already exceeded the emoting we were raised to find acceptable, yet Lyklan doesn’t leave.
“You called me friend,” he finally says. His voice is raspy, but his enunciation is deliberate, as if he’s making sure I hear each word. “I wish there were time to make it true.”
I smile.
He’s gone a moment later, and a strange calm falls over me.
I hear slamming doors and shouting. Feel the prickle of magic seeping through the walls.
The brand burns, and I lift my shirt to examine the angry red wound. It never fully heals, and I doubt it will ever get the chance.
When I’m dragged from the room, I refuse to make a sound.
TWENTY-TWO
Unspoken Rule of the Fringes #25:
Some distances can’t be measured or erased.
CELINE
The inside of the plane is exactly like the movies. Cramped, thanks to all the bodies, bags, and barely contained tension. My real beef is with the stale, circulating air. First, it was blazing hot, and now the tiny vents over my head are blasting me with arctic wind.
The witch who’s mentoring Hyacinth offered to spell a stone to drop us at the southern enclave’s headquarters, but whatever benefit-of-the-doubt energy I used to have died in the monster realm. I don’t trust magical transportation anymore.
The plane tickets were Ciprian’s idea. Faster than driving and less likely to be tampered with.
With my nipples threatening to poke holes through my shirt, I cross my arms and glance at Riven from the corner of my eye. He’s as hot and cold as this plane. It’s the first time flying this way for both of us, and from the white-knuckled grip he has on thearmrests, it’s not an experience he felt he was missing.So why is he here?
“Sir, please keep your feet out of the aisle.” The perky flight attendant smiles at Riven, but her expression is too tight to be genuine.
Obediently, Riven drags his long legs into his designated space. The attendant moves on, lecturing a woman three rows up about the strap of her purse.
“More cramped than you realized?” I ask, trying to break the ice.
Riven’s current body is... interesting. A thin man with a thinner mustache, the face he’s wearing matches one of the IDs the guys had made for him. He took one look at it this morning, sighed heavily, and shifted to match.The only problem? Riven Anders Kristensson’s Colorado driver’s license lists a height of 6’7”.
“I need more joints,” he mutters under his breath.
I hide my smile. “Something tells me that chipper, eagle-eyed flight attendant would notice if you folded your legs under the seat like an accordion.”
