“Just hand them over!”
When she does, scowling at me, I pocket the vials in as many openings as I have on my clothes, until I’m clinking around with every step I take. Then I leave and find my mates. Skar and Lukain are rounding up the soldiers.
Antones stares disappointingly at me from across the eating chamber when I pass him.
“Don’t look at me like that, Ant.”
“You need tobreathe, Seph. Lukain told me what happened at the temple.”
I blink at him. Stare into his wrinkled face for a long time, until he thinks I’m not going to answer. “No,” I say at last, and turn away from the leader of the Firehold. “We put a stop to this. Now.”
Skartovius blathers, “The ant man is right—”
“Erm, that’s not why they call me Ant—”
“—you’re going to break down if you don’t get a grip, temptress. Skent won’t die tonight.”
“How can you know that?!” I screech.
He remains infuriatingly calm. “Because I’m certain they are stealing humans for a purpose. Not to turn them into simple blood bags. Otherwise they wouldn’t pick and choose who they take. They would just take everyone.”
My head is already shaking. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t care how they pick and choose. You want to be useful, nobleblood? Shadow portal your ass to the Commerce Ward and convince Liolen to help us with their mercenaries.”
Skar scoffs, throwing amber locks over his shoulders. “That will never happen.”
I shove past him. “Then get out of my way.”
I wait for a moment at the archway, hear him mutter, “Damned incorrigible brat fucking princess,” and he brushes past me in a hurry.
A small smirk curls on my lip. I charge to Lukain in the next room over. “How many fighters do we have here?”
He looks over the line in front of him, a mix of younglings and hardened veterans, a few of which I recognize even from years ago. “Fighters? Maybe ten. Bodies? A few dozen.”
I wince. The last thing I want to do is send dozens of people to their deaths for the sake of one boy and Imis.
Vallan stomps into the room. “Good news then, silverblood. When the cub and I went into the Faith Ward, the resistance was laughable.”
“You never laugh.”
“Exactly. It was that bad. Valenthia does not command the Military Ward or Aramastun’s judgemen or even Liolen’s mercenaries. They are robe-wearing beggars turned zealot zombies.”
Lukain says, “Then maybe we won’talldie.”
“That’s the spirit, dhampir,” Vall grunts, and wanders off to go do something important, I hope.
At least I have one cheerleader.
Before he gets too far, guilt gnaws at me and I chase him down. “Vall!” When he glances over his bulky shoulder, I say, “Hunt down Skar before he runs off. I need him to portal you to the eastern countryside in the mountains, with Talma and Besho. Their orders are to find Zefyra and relay my message. But maybe that’s better suited for you, if Zef is on the battlefield, and you can send the whelps to rally Helget and Tymon’s soldiers.”
He mulls that over, running a hand down his beard. “Very well.” Then he stomps off without another word.
Garro is the last man I find. He’s gathering daggers in his dwelling—there has to be at least eight scattered on his person, making him clank just as loudly as I do when he moves. When he senses my presence, he pauses and looks over his shoulder.
“You look pale, cub,” I murmur.
“I’m a grayskin. I’m always pale.” His tone is clipped. He faces away to rummage around the sack near his bed.
I smile, approach, and put a hand on his shoulder. “Not like this, love. The beast-charming took a lot out of you. Perhaps you should—”