I clear my throat, trying to disregard the fact the Firehold is dwindling as the era drags on, leaving the people here in the warren behind. “Tell me the shadowgalas are over, at least.”
He dips his grizzled chin deeply. “No one is getting bought or sold from the Firehold, Sephania. That practice died with Lukain. No broodstock, no freedom fighters. Everyone is free to go as they please . . . which many have taken up. Hence our recruitment issues.”
Vall and Garro stay quiet during our conversation, keeping a respectful distance to listen near a wall. They show no signs of boredom, only curiosity, and watch some of the recruits eating at the other tables, if only out of habit to protect me.
I look over at my mates then back to Ant. “I believe I might have something that can solve both our problems.”
He blinks. “I had a feeling this wasn’t a simple fare-thee-well visit. Go on.”
“The Chained Sisters. You know of them?” Before he can answer, I continue for the sake of keeping things moving. “They’re women, girls, interfolk. Humans, dhampir, and vampires alike, all working together. You would love Iron Sister Keffa”—I point a stern finger at Ant’s chest—“but don’t make any moves on her unless you want my mother’s boot up your ass.”
He chuckles, raspy and confused. “These girls and women. Rebels like you, I’m assuming?”
“Of course. They need a home base since losing theirs in Olhav.” When he looks surprised the Sisters hail from Olhav, despite many of them being humans, I mutter, “Runaway brides and broodstock.”
He lets out a deeply concerned hum. I see the sadness in his tilted brow. “Why would they want to house themselves underground in this rank shithole?”
I wince. “Hope none of the Grimsons heard you talking about their home like that.”
“Ibuilttheir home like that!”
We laugh, gaining more eyes from the girls and boys at the nearby tables. I appreciate that they don’t crowd us so we can talk, because I know how the mob’s excitement can grow in this place.
“They’re fugitives like me, old friend.” I look away, feeling his eyes boring into me. “It’s a long story. In short, what I’m asking might bring danger to your doorstep. I will do everything in my power to keep that from—”
“Tell them they’re more than welcome to join us in the Firehold. I won’t even make them take the Grimson oath.”
I cock my head. “There’s an oath?”
He chuckles, and I’m not sure if he’s being serious or not.
Reaching out to put a hand on his knuckles, my wry face softens. “Thank you, Antones. I knew I could count on you. Always have.”
“Always can, Seph.” He flips his hand and squeezes my palm gently. The crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the wrinkles near his temples and deep in his forehead. My friend is growing old, and the familiar lump returns to my throat when I think about it.
It dawns on meI haven’t seen a single person in my life, that I can recall, make the journey from middle age, to old age, to death. Vampires don’t die, and humans don’t have the luxury of long lives in this brutal world. The journey is always stopped short at some point, usually due to some drastic, terrible thing—starvation, violence, accidents.
I’m hoping Antones might be the first man I watch die of old age.
Slowly, after another squeeze of Ant’s leathery hand, I get up from the bench. Drag my feet toward the sounds of sparring down the hall, coming from the same place where I took part in countless bouts and matches.
“Where are you going, Seph?” Antones calls out, slower to get up than me because of his ailing leg.
I toss him a smile and put my hands to my hips, wrapping them around my sword hilts. “Figure I’d see what the whelps can do these days, Ant. Call it repayment for helping me with the Chained Sisters.”
As I walk down the hall and my mates follow, I hear Antones mutter, “I have a feeling I’m going to regret this damned repayment.”
The lad bounces off my shoulder as I slam into him. Stumbling back, he trips over the foot I planted behind his ankle. His armspinwheel and he goes down hard on his ass, wincing as his tailbone crunches on the hard mat.
It’s the same fucking mat I fought on as a youngling, riddled with holes and sword slices and boot marks. Dusty, grimy, disgusting.
The man is more of a boy, can’t be more than fifteen, though he swings a blade well for someone of his stature and age. Reminds me of a young Rirth, except he doesn’t have the same inherent anger simmering on his countenance. If he did, I’d see it right now after embarrassing him in front of his gaggle of comrades. They’re thirteen to sixteen as well, a mix of boys and girls who took up the sword, and even two interfolk who decided enough is enough.Future Gilded Ghosts recruits, perhaps?
The watchers “ooh” and “ahh” and laugh when Skent goes down.
I lean forward and reach down to offer Skent my hand. He recoils. With a sigh, I roll my eyes. “Take the hand, boy. I won’t bite.”
More hooting from the watchers. I glance across my body and see Vallan standing stoically with his arms crossed, Garroway smiling to himself at the scene. Then his eyes widen—