“I’ll drop my knife after you give him the antidote,” I said, lowering the dagger slightly. I didn’t know how long it would take for the Umbra Noctis to wreak its havoc on Casimir’s system, and now there was another unknown blood poison to contend with. But he stood no chance of surviving without first addressing the Hydra Datura venom. I forced my voice not to tremble as I spoke. “Make a bargain with me. Swear you will not harm my friends further. Agree to let them go, and I’ll do whatever you want.”
Evren barked out a laugh. “That’s not how this works, idiot girl. You have no leverage. You have nothing to offer us.”
Steeling myself, I shoved the captive Daemon aside and swung my elbow against his skull. With a yelp, the Daemon fell into a pathetic heap on the dais. Panting, I lifted my dagger to my own throat and locked eyes with the Siphoner.
“If you kill them, you’ll never know the council’s secret.” It was my last bargaining piece, my deadly inheritance as the Heir to secrets I never asked to bear.
Let them see,I thought savagely.Let them see what happens when they fuck with Malcolm Flynch’s daughter.
“My name is Arden Farrow-Flynch. My father was Malcolm Flynch. I’m the Keeper’s Heir.”
38
No one spoke. No one moved. More than a dozen pairs of eyes turned to stare at me. It felt like déjà vu, like that moment in the Tusk when I’d dared to defy Evren in front of the Order and found myself the unwitting focus of scornful attention. Devereaux’s mouth hung open in shock. I waited for something to snap as the tension in the room wavered on a knife’s edge.
“If I die tonight, the council’s secret dies with me,” I warned.
Evren gave a disbelieving snort. “She’s bluffing, Dev. There’s no way she’s the Heir.”
But Devereaux hesitated, looking wary.
Muttering broke out among the assembled Daemons. The adrenaline pumping through my veins had worn off, exhaustion rapidly taking its place. I wanted so badly to sleep. To take my friends and run. But I held Devereaux’s gaze, determined not to allow the barest hint of indecision to flicker across my face.
Devereaux spoke softly. “Am I to believe that our search for the Heir ends with you?” His lip curled into a sneer. “What proof can you give us?”
“How about the fact that my blood is immune to the Bloodweaver’s glamours?” I offered. A bead of sweat dripped down my back. It was only a hunch, but I suspected that being the Heir was the reason my body was immune to Evren’s glamour, and likely why I could taste lies.
Evren snarled, “That’s a lie!”
“Is it?” I taunted him, relishing this moment perhaps a little more than was wise, given the circumstances. “Remind me, what name did I use when we exchanged our vows? Arden Farrow, wasn’t it?”
Evren’s face was contorted with rage. Devereaux looked troubled, and I wondered if he was replaying the scene in the Tusk in his mind, when he’d watched his Bloodweaver try and fail to subdue me.
“Or maybe you’d like more concrete proof?” I said. “Perhaps you ought to send your dogs to ransack my dormitory again? I’m sure they could rustle up a few family photographs.” Not bothering to hide my irritation, I added, “Or maybe you’d like me to describe my father instead? Let’s see. Medium-height, gray-haired, smoked a pipe and loved whiskey.”
Devereaux’s face visibly paled.
“Wore round glasses that make him look like an owl. Does any of that jog your memory?” I bared my teeth at him in what must have been a vicious smile.
The Siphoner’s silver eyes narrowed at my insolence, but he stepped closer, scrutinizing my features as though they might reveal flashes of my father’s. “Well, well,” he murmured as recognition flashed across his face. “I didn’t realize Slyfoot had a daughter. This is a night of revelations, indeed…”
Slyfoot?
A cold, prickling awareness slid down my spine. Why did that name sound so familiar?
“I knew Malcolm as a mortal emissary calledSlyfoot… ” Devereaux explained. “Of course, I never made the connection, what with your different surnames… ” He barked a short, amused laugh, though nothing about the situation was humorous. “How clever, to give you a different name. To think, all this time… you were right under our noses. Slyfoot’s daughter… Extraordinary.”
With a sickening realization, I realized why the name sounded so familiar. I had come across it in my father’s storybook, theTales and Folklore of Lacunae.
Ere sly of foot and sharp of eye, may keep a mortal oft alive…
Sly of foot.
Slyfoot.
A ragged exhale was forced from my lungs, but Devereaux was speaking again, interrupting my spiraling thoughts.
“Nymara’s spies and emissaries always operate under code names, you see. The duty of passing messages on behalf of our Queen is not without its risks.”