13. Nora

13

NORA

A chill seeps through my coat, numbing my back. The cold metal of the passenger side door vibrates, and the smell of gas fills the air as the engine rumbles to life.

"See them yet?" Josie asks, popping her head out the window.

I told Silas to meet us at sundown, but he has yet to arrive. The sun is past the horizon now, the sky a mottled bruise of black and blue. The streetlamps have been lit, peppering the pavement with amber specks.

"Yeah, how much longer, Boss?" Hattie chimes from the bench in the truck bed. "I'm friggin' freezing back here."

"I told you to wear a thicker coat," Josie says.

"I thought you meant for the walk human-side! I didn't realize we were taking the friggin' truck."

"What's with you and the word friggin' all of a sudden? Are you too broke to pay into your ma's swear jar?" Josie teases.

I snicker as they dive into a heated argument, but my attention is drawn to where the shadows slither together, creating a void from which two men step from. I bang on the truck to stop Hattie and Josie's bickering.

"We've got company, ladies."

Silas is bundled in a three-piece black suit, topped with a black wool coat that hangs open, revealing a lining of blood-red silk. His nose and cheeks are already rosy from the cold, giving life to his pale skin.

"You're late," I say.

Silas shrugs as he saunters over. "Can a king be late?"

I ignore his question and point to Wrath. "Why is he here?"

"Wrath is my security."

"I have security."

"Not crown-appointed security," Wrath clarifies, mouth downturned in a perpetual scowl.

His eyes narrow as he scans over me and the truck, taking stock of our surroundings. Wrath's posture is stiff, uncomfortable even, but I know beneath it all, he's a snake poised to strike. House Wrath trains the Unseelie militia, and I know he graduated top of his class—how else would he have overthrown his father?

"Fine. Just don't get in our way."

I pop open the car door and get in.

"Where are we supposed to sit?" Wrath asks.

"In the back with Hattie. Hattie, say hi." She waves through her shivers. "We're picking up everyone else on the other side of the Veil." When they don't move, my eye twitches. "Get in. We don't have all night."

Wrath sputters, but Silas laughs, draping a familiar arm around the grump and shaking him.

"C'mon, Wrath, play along. I'm the one who wanted to come, after all."

"Alright, listen up."

I glance at each person gathered around the back of our truck. My core team—Josie, Hattie, Claude, and Wes—plus a few other lower-tiered soldiers from House Pride stand, waiting for my instructions.

Silas and Wrath, on the other hand, are like two children in a candy shop, eyes wide, and their attention half on me and half on the human city.

Most fae never cross through the Veil, including Royals and Sins alike. House Pride is the only House with daily dealings human-side.

It almost makes you forget that the air is different here. It's thicker, slower to fill your lungs. The sounds of this realm are subdued, the colors muted, like an old oil painting or a piano-plucked tune played with the dampener pressed.

I snap my fingers twice, pulling Wrath and Silas's eyes to mine; the former has the decency to look embarrassed.

"I want Claude and the others to hold the perimeter while Hattie runs reconnaissance. Once she's given the all clear, Josie and I will take lead. No one is to kill without explicit orders." I pause, waiting for questions. My people know to speak up if they need. "Wes, I want you to practice putting up a shadow-veil around the building. Let people in, but don't let ‘em out. I don't want anyone fleeing before I'm done. Everyone savvy?"

"Yes, Boss," Wes says. The rest nod.

"Good," I say, then tilt my head towards the dilapidated building down the street. These Seelie exiles have taken over an abandoned boarding school and turned it into their headquarters. "Hattie, you're up."

"Finally," she sighs, shucking off her coat. "Hold this will ya'?"

Hattie throws her coat at Wrath. He catches it with a bewildered expression, and—surprisingly—doesn't immediately toss it to the ground. He watches, befuddled, as Hattie pulls dual daggers from the sheaths at her side and disappears in a cloud of shadow.

Then, he turns to me, eyes accusing.

"You just said they aren't supposed to kill anyone," Wrath says.

Hattie appears behind him in a flash of black.

"Doesn't mean I can't have a little fun with ‘em first," she cackles.

She disappears again, and I swear I can see a hint of pink flush Wrath's cheeks in the dark.

"Let's go," I say, rolling my eyes and leading the group towards the building.

It's easy, securing the property.

Once Hattie confirms their numbers, Wes releases his magic and a black shadow encases the perimeter of the old brick building. A few of the Seelie try to shift, buzzing by us as bees and birds, but they can't get past the wall of inky darkness. Jamison's men may carry big guns, but it's clear that they lack the magic to overpower us, the precision to shoot us down, and the organization to out-maneuver us.

Soon enough, we have the Seelie disarmed and corralled in what used to be the front lobby of the building. Water-stained brick surrounds us on three sides, and the doors, covered with shadow, stand at our backs. My nose twitches at the mildew stench lingering in the air as my men secure the last of the Seelie.

Silas and Wrath linger in the background. They watch our operation with hawk-like stares, and every few minutes, they whisper in each other's ears.

They follow Josie and me to Jamison's office, the wooden floors creaking with each of our steps. Josie nods at the guard Hattie placed outside the door, and he relieves himself of his post. She pauses with her hand wrapped around the handle, glancing back at Wrath and Silas.

"How is this going to go?" Josie asks.

I might not be able to hear her thoughts like she can mine, but I know her well enough to parse the true meaning of her words.

Are we letting them see this? Her eyes ask for confirmation. You trust them?

"We'll handle it like normal," I say.

Then I open my mind to Josie so she can hear my thoughts.

They'll see what they want to see. I'm not worried right now.

Josie nods.

I level with the two men. "Are you two staying for this part? I can't promise it won't get ugly."

"I wasn't lying when I said I wanted to see you in action," Silas says. He pokes at Wrath's cheek with one finger and Wrath bats it away. "And he's stuck with me. We'll be good. I promise."

Silas shoots me a brilliant white smile that has me sighing as I open the door.

"You've been warned," I mutter.

It's familiar, this part.

How many times had Josie and I entered a room exactly like this on Pride's orders? I find myself slipping deeper behind my protective mask, accessing the well of apathy in my chest.

"Pride," Jamison leers when we enter, twisting his sinewy frame our way.

His gaze tracks over me as he licks at his cracked and bleeding lip. A gift from Hattie, I'm sure.

"I wasn't expecting a visit," he continues, as if this is a simple, last-minute drop-in on our part.

Josie huffs, circling behind him. Jamison shifts in his seat, smoothing his hands over his thighs, but otherwise keeps his composure.

We'll fix that.

"Yes, well, there's been an incident that warranted me making a house call," I say, striding to the two wooden chairs that sit opposite his desk.

"Oh?" he says. "What can I help you with?"

Playing dumb? I project the thought to my Second.

Josie's nod is subtle, but I clock it.

Shucking off my jacket, I hang it over one chair. Next, I pick at my gloves. They are the softest black leather and tug easily from each of my fingers; I go finger by finger, pulling one hand free and then the other. They land with a soft smack on top of my coat.

Then, I turn the empty chair around and sit down. My legs are splayed wide as they straddle the seat, and my arms cross over the seatback.

I lean forward.

And I wait.

Most would get right to it—the questioning and the torture. But I've learned to savor the edge that silence brings to the air.

My tongue flicks out over my bottom lip. I can taste it on my skin, the anticipation, the question in his gaze as he scans over my soft smile and cold eyes— what is she going to do?

A bead of sweat trails down his face, that leering smile faltering. A single drop splats onto his desk.

"Do you remember what I told you a couple weeks back?" I ask.

"Um…"

" Don't fuck around with me, Jamie ," I recite. " You won't enjoy the aftermath ."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I think you do. But it doesn't matter what either of us thinks. It's about what you know. Up here." I tap my temple. "Did you order a hit on my people?"

Jamison's face goes pale as he sputters. "Of course not!"

I peer up at Josie, and she shakes her head. She steps forward and places a hand on the back of Jamison's neck.

His mental shields must be stronger than we anticipated. Josie rarely has to use physical contact to get inside someone's head; usually she can pick the mental locks from afar. But sometimes she needs a stronger connection to break through.

"I wouldn't lie. It'll only make her mad," Josie says, leaning over his ear.

Jamison's wide eyes flick to Silas and Wrath, who stand silently at the door.

I sigh, getting out of my chair. Josie anticipates my movements and pulls Jamison's chair backward so I can get in his face. The metal wheels squeal in protest.

"Nuh-uh, keep those peepers over here." My fingers press indents in his cheeks as I turn his face to meet his eye. "They're not going to help you."

It's almost too easy, our method.

Pride perfected it when we were young. Pair a rare empath with an even rarer soul-stealer and most people crack under the pressure—whether that pressure be from fear or pain.

When I was eighteen, I learned that my magic didn't have to kill instantly. I could draw it out if I wanted. Make them feel every second of their death. I've only gotten more precise since. Now, I don't have to kill them once I start using my magic, though it's much harder.

My magic pricks at my fingertips, searing through the nerve-endings on Jamison's skin. It weaves excitedly between the muscles and bone in his jaw. I don't control fire, but I can match the sensation of his skin burning off, the layers of flesh breaking apart under my hand.

Death is a wicked kind of magic to wield.

"This is bullshit," he groans.

"This is business, babe." I smack his cheek, teasing him with a moment of relief when our connection breaks. But I'm back at it the second our skin reconnects. "Now tell us who killed my people."

"They sent two of the goons from outside," Josie scoffs.

"And was it you who ordered it?" I ask, though Jamison moans through his pain.

He doesn't have to answer. He just has to listen to me and let his mind think of the answers. Josie will pick up the rest.

"No," Josie says.

"Then who , Jamie?" I growl. "How did you know to place their bodies like that? Why did you leave the girl alive?"

The questions tumble from me without warning. Under my cold mask, my rage churns in my belly, my magic goading it from its place between my ribs. They swirl together, my fury and my magic, a volatile cocktail.

My magic wants me to stop wasting time and?—

"Nora," Josie whispers.

Our eyes meet over Jamison's shoulder, and I instantly let go of his face, my magic pulling back with my hand. Red blotches of molted flesh score across his cheeks and arms. Blood seeps through his clothes, turning his white shirt crimson. He groans, head lolling to the side.

I went too far.

Shit, sorry, I think.

Josie shakes her head, a soundless response of it's okay .

She steps away from Jamison, back straightening.

"We've got our answers. We can go."

"And?" I ask.

Josie hesitates before speaking. "A Seelie man came to them months ago, after you first agreed on a deal. He had green eyes and white hair. And he offered them a pardon if they did as he asked."

His name, Josie. I need you to say it out loud. Silas will find out either way.

"Only a Virtue or the Queen can pardon a Seelie exile," Silas says, appearing at my side. "Which one was it?"

Josie works her jaw.

"Patience," she says.

It's not a surprise to me, but Silas goes eerily still at the name. His posture turns rigid, and his face contorts with icy rage. He quickly schools his features into indifference, but he wasn't fast enough to hide the reaction completely.

How very interesting . What is our king hiding?

"This one doesn't know more than that." Josie points to Jamison. "In his eyes, they were given instructions and completed a job by their superiors."

I clear my throat.

"Thank you, Josie. I have one more question and then we can be done."

I push past her and crouch near a groaning Jamison. I smack his face twice, shocking him out of his pain-laden nap. Already, his skin is stitching itself back together, his cheeks striped with fresh pink scars.

"Hey, bud. I need to know which of your goons are the healers," I say. "We still have a deal, and you owe us product."

"N-none of them. I'm the only one making the tonics," he says.

"Excellent. Makes this much easier knowing I'm not jeopardizing the supply chain."

I smile. It's a shark-toothed grin.

My fingers slide against the slick column of his throat, and I relish the feeling of my grip tightening over his pulse; I don't care if I get blood on my hands—they're already stained red beneath the skin.

"If Patience comes to you again asking for a favor, you will tell him no. If he comes offering penance or pardon, you will tell him no. You're not Seelie anymore. Despite your magic and despite your wings, you're nothing to him. You're now my asset." I pull back, staring deep into his vulnerable eyes. "And if you ever feel inclined to assume otherwise, let today be a reminder that I am so much worse than him."

I leave him, brushing past Josie and Silas and Wrath. Their footsteps follow me, the pitter-pattering drizzle after my storm.

"Which two of them?" I ask once we reach the lobby.

No one needs to ask what I'm talking about. Josie simply points to two Seelie—the thugs that met with Wes and me.

I lift my gun and shoot.

Two sharp pops echo through the room, punctuated by two dull thumps on the concrete floor.

A sliver of satisfaction rolls through me, but it doesn't quell that thirst for vengeance. It's a hollow kind of victory, knowing I've only taken one step towards the real subject of my revenge.