Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

ASH

He should kill the apprentice, take the Sahar Stone, and return to the Underworld.

Ash drummed his fingers on his knee, his gaze sweeping across the skyline before dropping to the car he’d stolen after dumping the prefect van. The rusting sedan was parked between two vehicle skeletons in a graveyard of old cars, the dead machinery scattered randomly or stacked in flattened piles.

He’d chosen one of the tallest piles of crushed automobiles as a lookout spot, where he could surveil their surroundings while keeping an eye on the car. Not that he cared about the car. It was the apprentice inside it that he didn’t want out of his sight.

The apprentice and the Sahar Stone.

A low growl of frustration rumbled in his chest. He slashed his gaze across the city block again. The only sign of life was a scrawny cat slinking among the trash. Zwi, who was gliding in lazy circles on the heat rising from the miles of concrete, hadn’t reported anything of concern.

Scuffing sounds preceded a muttered curse as Lyre climbed the stack of twisted metal. Reaching Ash’s narrow perch a few feet below the top of the stack, Lyre sat beside him and squinted against the midmorning light. He was wearing a pair of shoes stolen from a nearby shop when they’d switched vehicles. They didn’t look comfortable.

Ash wasn’t particularly comfortable either, the sturdy pants and shoes he’d stolen from the same shop fitting him just as poorly. He deeply regretted changing into sleep clothes in an attempt to convince the apprentice he had been obliviously slumbering in his bedroom instead of waiting for Quinn to give away the Sahar’s location. If only Ash had realized that Quinn had already passed the Sahar off to such an illogical recipient that Ash had missed it entirely.

“So,” Lyre said. “The Sahar Stone.”

His words were heavy with implication. Ash didn’t reply, keeping watch for danger he knew wasn’t there—yet.

“Is that your assignment?”

Again, Ash said nothing.

“When are you planning to take it from Piper?”

Ash’s attention snapped to Lyre, who gazed back at him steadily. Ash shouldn’t have been surprised. Very little slipped past Lyre.

With a rough exhale, he shook his head. “Not yet.”

Lyre propped his chin on his hand. “Assignment or not, you know the Sahar’s reputation—what it’s supposed to be capable of. That isn’t something we want in the hands of your ‘employer.’” Mocking distaste filled his voice on the last word.

“Obviously not,” Ash replied.

“But you’re still trying to steal it for him?” Lyre waited for a beat. “You’ve disobeyed orders before.”

“That isn’t an option this time.”

“Handing a weapon like that to the most powerful warlord in the three realms isn’t an option either.”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice.”

Ash cast a glare at Lyre, but the incubus didn’t flinch.

“We’ve made impossible things happen before.” Lyre pointed at his own chest. “For example, I’ve been alive for the past five years.”

Ash ran a hand over his face and into his hair, pushing the tangled locks off his forehead. He should just kill the apprentice and take the Sahar to the Underworld. It would solve half his problems immediately… but leave him exponentially more fucked by the rest.

With a muffled clunk, the sedan’s passenger door opened. An auburn ponytail appeared as the apprentice climbed out of the car.

“I thought she was sleeping,” Ash growled.

Lyre shrugged one shoulder. “Guess not.”

They waited silently as the girl climbed up to join them. She sat beside Lyre, her gaze darting over Ash with wary consideration.

Human or daemon, they all made the same mistake. Ash was the more obvious predator, so Lyre was labeled as harmless and then ignored. A foolish mistake.

“We need to talk,” she said firmly, rubbing her bruised wrists. Lyre had removed her handcuffs while Ash had been stealing shoes.

Ash studied the girl. For a human who’d been attacked by an Underworld beast, found her dying uncle in a room full of mangled corpses, didn’t know if her father was alive, and was on the run with an incubus and a draconian, she was remarkably calm.

“I’ve been thinking,” she went on without waiting for a response, “about what you said, Ash.”

His eyebrows crept up. “What did I say?”

“That the only way anyone will believe we didn’t steal the Sahar is if the real thieves are caught red-handed.” Her eyes, brown-specked green, blazed with determination. “That’s what we need to do.”

Lyre propped his arm on his knee. “You’ve lost me.”

“We need to find the real thieves and make sure they get caught with the Sahar,” she explained impatiently. “It’s the only way we won’t be hunted for the rest of our lives by daemons who think we have it.”

Lyre gazed at her for a moment, flicked a glance at Ash, then said, “Ah, of course. Find the real thieves. That makes perfect sense.”

She frowned at his dry tone, unaware both he and Ash knew the Sahar hadn’t been stolen. Regardless of whatever pain-fevered babble had escaped Calder, there were no “real thieves” to catch.

When Ash had described the Sahar for her, fear had tinged her scent. He was certain that was the moment she’d realized what she was carrying, but it also begged the question of why she had the Sahar if she hadn’t known what it was. Had Quinn handed it to her with no explanation?

“Going back to the Consulate to look for clues isn’t smart,” she plowed on as though Lyre and Ash had agreed with her idea. “But Uncle Calder knows what happened. He can tell us everything.”

“He might not be in any condition to answer questions,” Lyre pointed out. “And the prefects will expect you to try to reach him. It would be smarter to lie low.”

The apprentice shook her head vehemently. “Finding the thieves is the only way. Even if Uncle Calder can’t point us toward whoever attacked the Consulate, he should know what happened to my father.”

Ah. So that’s what she wanted. Not the Sahar Stone—which she already had—and not the nonexistent thieves. She wanted to find her father.

And the little apprentice was using Ash to make it happen.

Looking away from her determined expression—more of a glare—he scanned the drab urban vista. He didn’t care about the Head Consul or where he’d disappeared to. He didn’t care who had attacked the Consulate, killed the delegates, set a choronzon on him, and attempted to steal the Sahar.

However, only four people knew for certain that the Sahar hadn’t been stolen: Ash, Lyre, Quinn, and the apprentice. To everyone else, whoever had attacked the Consulate had also stolen the Sahar. And that false assumption might be enough for Ash to salvage this mess.

He pushed to his feet. “Let’s go, then.”

The girl blinked up at him. “Go where?”

Ash glanced once more across the decrepit, crumbling maze of concrete, shadows, and trouble. “To find your uncle.”