“If you don’t close your mouth,” Kaylin told him cheerfully, “you’re going to end up swallowing flies or other large insects.”
His hands had locked around the halberd’s pole; his eyes were purple. Fair enough. Purple was Aerian surprise, and Kaylin expected to see a lot of it today. Tanner’s eyes remained their normal color. He didn’t whistle—it wasn’t worth his job.
Kaylin expected Clint to say something to her; he’d gone out of his way to warn her to stay out of things. Or maybe she expected him to be cold, once the shock had worn off. Or—hells, she had no idea what she expected. She only knew that she hadn’t expected him to fold at the knee, to spread his wings—into Tanner, since the Aerian wingspan was actually far greater than the span of the door frame.
And Moran accepted what was an obeisance. She let him hold it for what felt like minutes—and Kaylin’s eyes would have been purple had she been Aerian, because she realized that Clint had no intention of rising until given permission. Which Moran finally did.
“If you do that once I’ve entered the Halls,” Moran said pleasantly, “I’ll see you busted back to private.”
He rose, and reality reasserted itself. His eyes shaded from purple to a different Aerian color. Kaylin had expected that color to be blue, because she expected that this act of defiance on Moran’s part would be considered trouble. But they went to gray instead. Honestly, racial interactions always contained hidden complications that made Kaylin feel stupid.
They entered the Halls.
* * *
Moran went to the infirmary—it was hers, after all—where she donned the version of tabard designed to accommodate Aerian wings. She allowed Bellusdeo to help her, glaring Kaylin out of the room before she could offer.
“I’m not the sergeant you have to worry about while you’re here. And I can practically hear the other one growling.”
There was a division in office space between the Aerians and the rest of the groundbound Hawks, because Aerians and the run-of-the-mill chairs and desks didn’t combine well. They required more space, different chairs and less-confining desks; they worked at tables, without the drawer real estate, and they generally preferred to stand, although they’d take the sturdy stools created for their use.
Comfortable or not, they were required to turn in the same paperwork anyone else was; in that, Marcus was an equal-opportunity sergeant. Ifhehad to suffer through paperwork, he made sure the suffering was shared.
Kaylin therefore missed some of the early Aerian reactions.
Marcus, however, with Leontine hearing and general paranoia, didn’t. The growl was so loud, Kaylin missed the fact that her name was wedged somewhere in its depths. His eyes, of course, were a bright orange, which appeared to be darkening into the bad color for Leontines. She made her way to the front of his desk. Hardwood was definitely better when it came to Leontine claws; given his mood, there should have been runnels in the wood. Fortunately, there were only visible scratches so far.
“What,” he demanded without preamble, “did you do?”
Kaylin considered the truth, which was bad. She considered the Leontine bristling in front of her: also bad. And she considered being caught in a lie while the Leontine was in this mood. She settled for less bad; there was no good here.
“I returned an item to Moran. It belonged to her,” she added, keeping her voice as flat as possible.
“And this item wouldn’t happen to be the bracelet she’s wearing, would it?”
“Sir.”
“It looks a lot like the bracelet in the Records transmission.”
“Sir.”
“Which would generally be consideredevidence.”
“Sir.” She stopped herself from wilting, because it never actually helped.
“And the sergeant’s dress?” He spoke the last word with clear distaste.
“Is hers. It’s not against regulations. She has full freedom of motion in it, and she’s wearing her identifying colors. Sir.”Shut up, Kaylin. Just shut up.
Marcus said, “The Hawklord wants to speak to you. Now.” His mirror was flat and reflective. Seeing her glance move—it was the only thing about Kaylin that did—he said, “Over your left shoulder.”
Hanson stood in the arch that led to the Tower stairs, arms folded.
Chapter 12
“No,” Hanson said, as he led the way back up the stairs—where his office, among other things, was located. “My mirror is not broken. Nor is the Hawklord’s.” He was grim, but Kaylin expected that. He was worried, which she hadn’t. “No, don’t speak to me.” When she raised both brows, he said, “Plausible deniability. My desk is the ugliest it’s been in years and Ido notwant any more involvement than I already have. I don’t care what you did. I don’t care what you do—don’t repeat that where anyone can hear you. I have more than enough emergencies on my plate without you adding to them.”
“Is the Hawklord angry?”