She steps into me, poking me in the chest. “Do not call my sister foolish, and she did notrunto her death.”
“The sister who, for twelve years, told everyone she was an only child?” Taunting her comes easily. She wears her feelings on her face, and I only have to pick which to prod. If mere words bring her down, she’ll be gone within the week.
I’m expecting her sharp tongue to retort, but her lips quiver, tears poolat her lower lid, and she retracts her hand. Against myself, I catch it halfway, and she tenses. What is wrong with me? I drop her hand like a hot potato. It must be that stupid bond.
Corvi’s shoulders fall. She draws a slow breath and turns on her heels, but I can’t let her leave now. I need her to speak to Beau’s ghost, so he can tell us who killed him.
“My brother was killed the same night as your sister,” I blurt out, settling for honesty.
She whirls around, narrowing her eyes. “Was your brother also foolish enough to run to his death?”
Her words sting unexpectedly. I look away, blinking hard. Beau was only foolish enough to trust me. But I can’t break down now. Not in front of a Mortemagi.
“I need your help,” I say, hoping she sympathizes with me. “Can you speak to his ghost?” I know my brother better than I know myself, in life as in death. I know his ghost would stop at nothing to try to reach us.
Her gaze softens at the mention of Beau. In this quiet moment, grief recognizes itself. But just as quickly, her expression changes. “Why should I help you, when you wouldn’t help my sister?” she scoffs.
Because I am the reason you’re still alive, I want to say. Instead, I click my tongue. If I want her help, I have to offer something. “Three people died within two days, their relics taken,” I say, making sure not to single out her sister as a nonmagi. I don’t need her angry right now.
“What type?” Her eyebrows shift to a calculating frown. When I don’t answer, she asks again, “What type of relics?”
“Er— Victor’s was a laurel…”
“Heirloom or new?” she asks, with an edge, and I pause, considering her question. She’s not clueless at all. In fact, she’s brilliant. I hadn’t thought about this in connection to Olivia. But what if it wasn’t Olivia they were after? My gaze drops to her arm—she wears the famed Corvi relic, an heirloom.
“Heirlooms,” I say. “Both of them.”
Her face relaxes, and it seems like we both come to the same conclusion. “Someone’s after heirloom relics,” she confirms my thoughts. “But why? If the family line is dead, the relic’s worthless.”
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be asking an untrained Mortemagi for help,” I think aloud.
“You know what…” She shakes her head in disbelief. “I’m not helping you. I’m only here to prove that my sister was murdered.”
I huff out a frustrated breath. Haal, why mustshebe the only whisperer I have leverage over? Now, because of Beau, I will have to play nice. “Well,” I begin, pausing to collect myself. One wrong word, and I lose my only link to my brother. “I can help you find your sister’s murderer.”
She stares at me, incredulous.
I’m certain she’s thinking I’m tricking her, but is it a trick if it’s the truth? Our siblings were likely killed by the same person. It’s in our best interest to work together while Firstline sends its officers to collect paperwork. But I don’t try to convince her further. I wantherto decide to help me.
“High Magus.” She glances at the patch below my shirt’s House crest to confirm.
“Archyr.” I stop her. “Call me Archyr.”
“Archyr.” My name rolls off her lips effortlessly, and my gaze lingers on them a second too long. Her eyes search mine for that treacherous emotion, the same one that urges me to listen to her, to tell her what she wants to hear, because I know it all too well. The despair, the hunger, the sliver of hope that the answers to their deaths will come.
“Can I trust you?” she asks. I hate how she looks at me in earnest, because I’m probably the only person who’s even acknowledged that her sister was murdered. More than that, I hate how I can’t tell her that shecantrust me. Because she can’t. Once she speaks to Beau’s ghost, she’ll be of no use to me.
“For now,” I offer, then share what Sierra told me. “Your sister never broke curfew once in her life at Gorhail. I don’t think she fell. In fact, I believe Olivia, Beau, and Victor were killed by the same person.”
Corvi pauses at my revelation, relief relaxing her eyebrows and her jaw, as if my persistent acknowledgment of her sister’s murder just lifted a burden off her shoulders. Then she nods to herself, chewing on her lower lip as she measures her next words. “I know where your brother’s body is—” Her words falter as her gaze stretches past me.
Haal, I must have played my cards right because she’s solving all my problems. I want to pry, but in my periphery, Overseer Delaney, the House of Death’s personal wraith, climbs down the stairs. I glance at her over my shoulder. “High Magus Archyr, curfew began five minutes ago.You should know a thing or two about violating curfew.” Her disapproving stare accompanies her usual sneer.
She means that the last time I did, my brother was killed. I roll my eyes, more annoyed than hurt by her mention of Beau. Expecting sympathy from Delaney is akin to waiting for a poacher to offer mercy. The worst she could do to me is a day’s suspension, and Paltro will simply revoke it. “The chapel is exempt from curfew.” I give her my best smile as Raiku slithers around my wrist. “Unless worship is also forbidden.”
Her mouth curves downward at my answer, her gaze lingering on my killer aspier. Then she shifts her eyes to her mage. “Miss Corvi, Magister Lawton is waiting for you at Circle Three.”
Corvi nods hesitantly. My annoyance only grows. I want her to stand up to Delaney, to tell her she doesn’t want to be anywhere near that creep, to break free from the cage the House of Death built for her. But I realize it’s only the bond’s magic reminding me of its vow to put her life above mine.