“Quickly through,” Coira says, slightly breathless.
Karis tenses under Ronan’s grip. “Is this safe?”
“Safe enough.”
Karis doesn’t move at first, head bowed so his auburn curls obscure his face. Ronan’s ready to drag him forward when he sighs and murmurs, “All right,” as if to someone else. But he moves obediently enough now as Ronan pulls him to the fiery doorway.
The flames are only lukewarm, but they’re so bright Ronan has to squint as they approach. He walks through quickly, lifting his feet over the raised edge. For a moment, warm flames lick over his skin, an inhuman caress, and his entire vision is jarringly white. Then his foot lands, and at the end of the step is a cool, familiar room.
Ronan pulls Karis out of the way so Coira can step through after them. When they move, Karis nearly topples over. Ronan steadies him on instinct, both hands on his shoulders, and ducks to look at his face. The youthful features are drawn in a grimace, and he’s white as a sheet beneath his freckles.
“What the fuck was that?” Karis says weakly, clutching Ronan by the shirt for balance.
Ronan’s stomach twists. He feels far warmer now than in the flames. “You get used to it.”
“I don’t want to get used to it,” Karis mumbles almost inaudibly.
Once Karis is steady, Ronan can finally look around. He hasn’t been in the Locksmiths’ base in months, but the parlor hasn’t changed. Half of it is the ornately furnished sitting room it was when they took over the manor. A plush damask sofa and chair set, a dark polished tea table. The other half is stripped bare, with a weapons rack lining the walls. A makeshift sparring ring for when the weather’s too bad to use the back garden. There might be a few new dents in the wall—some patches of floral paper have been sliced away—but everything else is the same.
A flash of gray fur disappears through a doorway. The cat still isn’t used to the transport spells.
The fiery door vanishes in a puff of smoke, and a woman in her early thirties rises from the damask couch. Her blond hair is slightly paler and much shorter than Coira’s, her features a bit sharper, but the family resemblance is obvious.
“Hello, Ronan.” Melanne’s accent is more Charaini than her sister’s. Her eyes dart to the young man in Ronan’s grip. “Who’s this?”
“You’re not going to believe this bullshit,” Coira informs her. “Don’t say anything incriminating.”
Ronan sighs and makes sure Karis has his balance. He’s still too pale, but his eyes are bright again, clearly darting around and analyzing every aspect of the room. “Gather everyone who’s here into the kitchen, and I’ll debrief everyone at once. I just need a minute to put Karis… somewhere.”
There aren’t many good places to put a prisoner in the Locksmiths’ base. The estate was Melanne and Coira’s childhood home, before their family moved to Praia for business. Since their family is made up of merchants, not cultists or politicians, the manor doesn’t have any jail cells. The attic is full of weapons and spell components, and the basement is the last place Ronan wants his hostage wandering. For lack of better options, he locks Karis in his own bedroom—after removing his personal stash of weapons. Daggers, crossbow bolts, dice.
“Where is this place?” Karis asks, turning around in the middle of the room. The remaining furnishings are expensive, but everything smaller than a chair has been sold off long ago. There’s a private bathing chamber past a screen door. “Who are these people?”
Ronan doesn’t answer. He doesn’t intend to explain much, not yet, anyway. Not until he decides whether or not he wants to recruit Karis—and if he doesn’t, what he wants to use him for instead. Exhaustion tightens painfully around Ronan’s temples.
Karis moves towards the shuttered window and stretches a hand out. His fingertips don’t quite touch the glass. “Is this warded?”
“Very,” Ronan answers.
A slight smile tugs at Karis’s lips. “This is a very elaborate organization if you’re just stealing religious artifacts.” He turns around, and the window frames him in thin stripes sky and sunlight, a shattered halo shining through his auburn curls. The slim lines of his body are clear through the backlit shirt.
Ronan’s mouth runs dry, and his voice feels rusty. “You’re getting better at interrogation.”
“I’ve always been a quick learner,” Karis says. “Are you working for the Praian government? Or is this a mission from the Trickster?” His gaze flicks towards the bed, and his voice lowers. “Is this your bedroom?”
“Notthatmuch better.” Ronan turns around. “Stay put.”
He locks the door behind him, but he can’t lock the heat of desire out of his blood. Fuck. This really is not how he intended this kidnapping to go.
***
In the kitchen, Ronan is greeted with a fierce hug and the scent of baked bread. The hug is gone before he can pry the grasping arms away, replaced with Dansa’s bright grin.
“Thank Halla you’re back.” Dansa’s barely five feet tall, plump, with dark brown skin and short, curly hair. Her eyes curve with the true joy in her smile. “Evain’s been gone for a week, and I’m dead tired of cooking.”
The next time Ronan recruits a secret society, cooking skills will be a key factor in the interview process. Evain is fantastic in the kitchen, but he’s rarely in the base. Ronan and Dansa can’t handle the basics, but Melanne, Coira, and Leth are all complete disasters.
“What’s Evain doing?” Ronan pulls the still-warm, half-eaten loaf of bread to the table and cuts himself a slice before sitting down. “Are he and Leth together?”
