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“Oh!” Blue claps his hands. “That’s my brother! Or was, rather.” He leans in and speaks out of the corner of his mouth quietly. “He’s dead now.”

Tin and I exchange a look. This is the theory we’ve been working off of, somewhat unspoken, but the pieces are lining up.

Tin’s father created the axe and then died under mysterious circumstances.

Tin gave up his axe around the same time the gods disappeared.

I’ve just barely scratched the surface on the history of the gods, but I think everyone in Oz has been under the impression that the gods cannot be killed. Tin and I think differently and now it’s confirmed.

“Who killed the God of the South?” Tin asks.

Blue sobers. “Asks the man carrying the god killer on his back.”

“What are you insinuating? It wasn’t me,” Tin answers, looking slightly offended.

“Is there somewhere we can go?” I ask. “Somewhere quieter? There’s more we’d like to discuss.”

“Of course. I’ve been waiting for this day for a very long time.” Blue hands Nadine several gold coins. “For your trouble, as always.”

“I want a raise for my trouble,” she says, and Blue chuckles again as he heads for the door.

“I have a cabin on the outskirts of town and lots more to drink there. Follow me?” he asks over his shoulder.

But I don’t need an invitation. This man couldn’t shake me if he tried. I’ve been desperate for answers about my murky past and I’m determined to get them if it’s the last thing I do.

TWENTY-SEVENRook

“What did you do?” Bron asks as he comes into the drawing room where I’m lying on the sofa, shirtless, and clutching a bloody cloth to my side.

Everything hurts. Like Kansas, I don’t die easily, but the healing process, while quick, is brutal and sometimes more painful than the standard treatment of a dose of poppy milk and a run of clean stitches.

I let the healer check me and assess the wound—no damaged internal organs—and she insisted on turning up the lighting to get a better look. Now the light is making my eyes burn and my magic feels impossibly far away.

“Can you turn the lights down?” I ask, my hand placed over my eyes. “And bring the poppy milk.”

Bron does as I ask and a second later, the room is back to the inconsistent light of a few fire sconces and a candelabra on the end table behind me.

“Here.”

I open my eyes and pull myself into a sitting position with a groan.

Bron has already diluted the milk in a tumbler of corn liquor.

“You are the brother I wish I always had.”

He laughs and sits on the coffee table in front of me, adjusting the sword strapped to his side. “Now, tell me what happened?”

“I got stabbed.”

“No shit. Do I need to be worried? Should I increase your personal guard?”

“No.” I upend the glass, drinking down the tincture, wincing. The poppy milk is bitter and smells like hay, and the corn liquor, while a bottle of high blend, burns far more than rum or brandy.

“I deserved this one.”

Bron frowns. “How long before you’re well again?”

Now that the lights are less offensive, and my headache is fading, my magic floods back in. “I just need an hour.”