A man emerges from the kitchen, and I have to work to keep my appearance unemotional. He’s tall and lean with a build that indicates an intense exercise routine—broad shoulders that fill out his cream linen shirt perfectly, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms decorated with intricate tattoos that look like botanical illustrations. Dark auburn hair catches copper highlights where flour dust has settled, and when he looks up from wiping his hands on a towel, storm-gray eyes assess me with attention that makes me think he’s cataloging everything about me in seconds.
“Ash Cupp,” he says, extending a flour-dusted hand. His voice has that same subtle warmth as Elliott’s, like honey over steel. “Iknew your father, ma’am. I’m sorry for your loss. Peter was... Iliked him.”
The words carry genuine grief, and I can see that his sympathy is real rather than polite. But there’s something else in the way he stands—perfectly positioned between Elliott and the rest of the room, like he’s protecting his brother without making it obvious. His hands are gentle when he touches Elliott’s shoulder, but I catch a glimpse of scars on his knuckles that suggest they’ve seen violence.
“Blue,” Ash continues, his attention morphing completely to business. “I was hoping to see you before the party. There’s a lot of chatter going down right now. Not good chatter. The Crow are gathering—more than usual. And they’re not just asking about Saylor anymore.”
My stomach drops. Blue’s hand on my back doesn’t move.
“They’re putting a price on your head now too,” Ash says, glancing at me apologetically. “Seems you made quite an impression.”
Blue shrugs, completely unbothered. “Good. Message received.”
The casual dismissal of what sounds like a death sentence makes me stare at him. Who reacts like that to news that people want to kill you?
Elliott continues his decorating, humming softly. “Oh, they’re all atwitter about it,” he says dreamily. “Did you know that a flock of crows is called a murder? How fitting.” He pauses in his work, thosepale green eyes focusing on Blue with sudden clarity. “Off with his head, they’re saying. Quite dramatic, really.”
Blue actually smiles. “Let them come.”
“At least a dozen confirmed,” Ash continues, his jaw tight as he absently checks a silver pocket watch. “Maybe more on the way. They’re not playing games anymore, Blue. They want both of you dead, and they’re bringing enough firepower to level half of Grimlock if they have to.”
Blue nods, completely unsurprised. “Good. About time they stopped playing games.”
Ash fidgets uncomfortably, positioning himself slightly closer to Elliott. “They’re bringing heavy artillery. Military-grade weapons.”
“Like I said... good.” Blue grins like Ash just told him Christmas is coming early. “I’ve got plenty more messages to send.”
I stare at him, trying to process what I’m hearing. The man who puts his hand on my back to guide me through doorways and who is worried about Wren’s pastry preferences is standing here shrugging off the threat of heavy artillery. There’s something almost eager in him, like he’s been waiting for this excuse to let loose whatever he keeps carefully contained.
Elliott begins humming again, something that sounds vaguely funeral-esque. “We’re painting the roses red,” he murmurs dreamily, adding copper touches to his sugar flowers. “All the pretty roses red.”
I want to shake both of them. How can they be so calm about this?
Blue pays for a box of pastries that Ash wraps with the careful attention of someone packaging explosives, and we prepare to leave as if we didn’t just have the most bizarre—even terrifying—conversation possible. But the afternoon has given me a better sense of how Grimlock works, and more importantly, how Blue fits into it.
It seems as if death is... casual here.
As we prepare to leave, Elliott looks up from his work again. “Saylor,” he says, more focused than before. “Tonight will be... revealing. Grimlock parties usually are.”
“Revealing how?”
“You’ll see,” Elliott says simply, then returns to his decorating as if the conversation never happened.
Outside the bakery, I ask Blue, “What did he mean about revealing?”
“Elliott has a way of seeing patterns other people miss,” Blue says as we walk toward the main square. “He’s usually right about social dynamics.”
“That’s not really an answer.”
“Because I don’t have one yet,” Blue admits. “But Elliott’s rarely wrong about these things.”
“What’s their story?” I ask as we walk away from the Upper Crust. “There’s something about Ash—the way he watches everything, positions himself to protect Elliott. And those tattoos...”
Blue glances back at the bakery. “Elliott’s got early-onset dementia. Started showing signs about three years ago. Ash gave up everything to take care of him.”
“Gave up what?”
“He used to work for the Crow. Intelligence gathering, mostly. They called him the Collector. Word is something went very wrong on his last job, and he realized he had to choose between his brother and that life.”
