Chapter 56
Sephania
Skartovius portals us to the nearest living shadow on the highest level of Sutlis Spire.
It’s an unfortunate young vampiress guard named Zefyra. Whistling tunelessly to herself, she turns to confront her torch-lit shadow and finds the empty hallway she’s been guarding has five tall people there, all squeezed together and towering over her.
“Fuck my Damned ass!” she gasps, jolting with a start. “You could have given a girl some warning.”
“Shadowwalking doesn’t work like that,” Skar says dryly.
I turn around in the hall and recognize the room behind us. How could I not, when I spent an entire fateful evening in there weaving a handy tale to Kleora the Chronicler, shortly before fireballing her face, throwing her out a window, and escaping Lukain’s clutches with the help of my mates?
It brings up bad memories, but they’re not all bad.
I wrinkle my nose as I step inside the drafty room. It’s almost exactly how we left it. The desk I sat behind, with Kleora on the other side, is in ruins on the floor. Some pages of my not-entirely-truthful tale curl at the corners of the room, flapping under wooden table legs. I was certainly not a reliable narrator for Lukain’s former bloodthrall.
I think the same thought I’ve thought numerous times now:I always return to where I started.Surveying the unimpressiveprison room, I scoff, “They couldn’t even board the damned windows? It’s cold as a Faithsucker’s taint up here.”
“Aramastun has been scouring the room for clues about you,” Zefyra says. “Wanted it left how it was. Construction is imminent, I think.”
“Clues? There aren’t any huge secrets about me.”
She pops her hip. “Your Loreblood was a secret to everyone for two decades, sister.”
“Hm. Suppose that’s true.”
Still fixed in the pose, she lifts a brow. “You seem oddly . . . comfortable . . . considering you might be walking into your death.”
“That’s what I said,” Skar quips.
“It’s my way of coping, okay?” I snap.
“Says she’ll unravel if she thinks too hard about the implications of our mission,” Vallan says seriously.
I scoff again, incredulous. “I never said that!”
“You thought it, little honey badger,” Garroway says with a smirk, touching a finger to his temple.
“I hate all of you,” I whine. Puffing my chest out, I lift my chin defiantly. “My father always said to face death with a smile. So that’s what I’m doing.”
“He did?” Skartovius asks.
“I don’t know. I never met the awful prick.”
Zefyra turns to Lukain, who appears to be deep in thought as he roams the small room. “How does it feel to be back at the scene of the crime, Overseer Verant?”
Lukain sighs. Thinks a moment longer. “Depressing. I thought I lost my little grimmer forever when I watched her leap out that window.” He turns to Zefyra, his lips nearly curling into a smile, though not quite. “To think that you, a nameless guard in the prison I watched over for years, were a double agent, and had a hand in replacing Seph’s shackles with silver ones? I’mimpressed with what you’ve accomplished, Sister Zefyra. I think I owe you a debt of gratitude for doing it. Made my life hell for a bit longer, but I’d say it all worked out.”
Zef blushes, or as close to it as a vampire can, and slaps him across the back. “You’d best not harp on it much longer.”
“True.” Lukain’s face pinches with sudden anxiety. “I had to kill my mother to get here, too. Maybe it didn’t work out foreveryone.”
“Our mother deserved it,” Skartovius points out.
“Also true.”
Zefyra faces me. “He’s waiting for you”—she points toward the ceiling—“up there. Very dramatic like.”