Chapter Fourteen

Graves's eyes flickered up from his book as if he'd been so engrossed that he hadn't heard anyone come in. Then those gray eyes found Kierse across the room. They darkened considerably as he took her in. Down the formfitting dress to her exposed legs and then back up to meet her gaze. She shivered at the attention. He remained unreadable, and yet she knew what it meant when someone looked at her as he just had. He found her attractive, too.

But "Ah" was all he said before returning to his book.

Edgar pulled out her chair, and she sank down, her back stiff against the delicate cushion.

She tried to ignore Graves seated next to her, but he had a certain presence, as if he filled the entire room. And though he was lethal, she couldn't help but admire him in kind. He was dressed in an all-black suit with a crisp white shirt and black tie. His stormy eyes moved swiftly across the words, turning the pages with a black-gloved finger. He'd exchanged his normal black leather for fine evening gloves. But still... gloves.

She cleared her throat. "Do you always wear those?"

Graves looked up briefly. "Hmm?"

"The gloves. Do you always wear them?"

But then his eyes dropped down to the necklace at her throat.

"Do you always wear that?" he countered.

She brushed her finger against the wren. "Yes." He'd seemed surprised by the necklace on their first meeting. "It caught your attention before."

He nodded and held his hand out. "May I see it?"

The last thing she wanted was to take the necklace off and let him touch it. "You're dodging my question about the gloves."

"I prefer gloves," he answered, giving just a little. He made a beckoning gesture, and with a sigh, she took the necklace off and placed it reluctantly into his palm.

He studied the delicate artwork of the wren. The way her wingspan extended to the edges of the circle pendant. The faint filigree around the edges that led to the metal backing. It was her most prized possession, and just seeing it in his hands made her feel sick.

"Do you know the symbolism behind wrens, Miss McKenna?"

She shook her head. "No."

"In some cultures, the wren is a symbol of spring and rebirth. To see a wren in the winter is a sign that spring is forthcoming, that winter will not last forever. It is a positive sign. The day after Christmas is called Wren Day. Wrens are hunted down and slain. They are put on pikes and carried through the town. It's thought to help banish the winter god."

Her eyes widened in alarm. "Wow. I've never heard of that before. So, you thought it meant something when I wore it?"

"I believed you to be a good omen in winter." His eyes flicked up to hers. "Where did you say you got this?"

He removed one glove, and she caught a peek of that tattoo once more. Her eyes lingered on it, trying to make out what was hidden beneath that impeccable suit. More vines and a glimpse of thorns, but that was all she could manage in the dim light. Then her eyes were drawn away from the ink to Graves's finger running over the face of the pendant. He dragged it down slowly and decisively. It was almost obscene.

"It belonged to my mother."

"And where did she get it?"

Kierse turned her face away from him. She didn't like talking about the mom she'd never known. "I never got the chance to ask her."

Graves's eyes flicked up to hers, abandoning the pendant at the harsh quality to her voice. "She passed?"

"She died in childbirth."

Now there was interest in his look. "My apologies for your loss."

Kierse shrugged.

"And you've always had the necklace?" She nodded. "Well, it might be a key to learning why you are immune to magic. Have you worn it every time we've been together?"

"I wear it everywhere."

Without preamble, he grasped her wrist. She gasped at his bare skin against hers. At the heat of him and the unexpected physical contact. He sent a chill up her back, and goose bumps exploded on her arms. He looked deep into her eyes as if willing her to reveal herself. She inhaled at the heat of him. His concentration was focused on her. Direct. She hovered in anticipation as she waited.

Then he blew out his breath in a huff and released her.

She rocked back in her seat at the loss of him and covered it by reaching out for her glass of water and taking a long sip.

"Just a trinket," he said as he handed her the necklace.

She tied the wren into place, contemplating how he could possibly know that from one touch. "You can... tell that by touching me?"

"Yes."

Which meant that his magic had something to do with touch. Was that the reason for the mystery gloves? She watched him slip his glove back on, more curious than ever.

At that moment, Isolde and Edgar entered from the kitchen with trays laden with food. Once the food was on the table, they removed the silver covers and served them. Kierse's mouth watered as food was added to her plate. Some sort of beef on a bed of rice, a side of steaming creamy corn, glossy dinner rolls, a leafy salad, and even out-of-season berries. God, she loved berries. It all looked delectable, but she reached for a raspberry first, popping it into her mouth. It was even better than she remembered.

Graves stared at her with open interest.

"What?" she asked, grabbing for another berry. "They're out of season."

For a moment, he said nothing. Then, as if it was against his better judgment, he said, "I don't remember ever enjoying something that much."

"When you live on the streets, you learn to appreciate what's in front of you. Guess you probably don't know what that's like."

"I did not always have what you see before you. I was once discarded as you were."

She covered her wince by cutting into her beef. Discarded. He wasn't wrong. It just sounded like she was the trash that had been tossed out.

"How could someone get rid of someone like you? Someone with magic?"

"Easily. And without remorse."

She had no response to that. She didn't know why she had been discarded, either. She had no memory of before. The earliest thing she remembered was standing on the street, starving. She'd had no other option than to turn to theft. Stealing was better than dying of hunger, and she'd gotten really good at it fast. Jason found her a short while later. She'd all but given up hope of discovering who she was... until Graves happened.

She went back to her food. She ate the beef so quickly that she barely tasted it. The meat was so rich and tender in some sort of cranberry sauce. She'd never had anything like it.

"Before we begin, tell me about the book I lent you."

"It's a bit dark," she confessed. "Everyone dies in all the tales. I thought the will-o-the-wisp would have some happy moral ending at least."

"Why? That's a product of modern storytelling."

Kierse paused at this conclusion. When she met those storm-cloud eyes, she saw interest in them. She decided to meet him with her own interest. "I felt like I understood the little girl who was led astray by a will-o-the-wisp. It was a common theme in the city during the war."

"Ah," he said as understanding narrowed his eyes. "And you wanted a happy ending for the girl when there wasn't one for you."

She refused to recoil from his assessment. "I didn't need a savior. I saved myself. But others weren't as lucky as I was."

"That's the way of the world."

"It is. I assume you wanted me to see that I could be consumed by the monster that was waylaying me. Was that a metaphor?"

"She isn't consumed by the monster at the end. She's consumed by the bear."

"Fine," she acknowledged. "Then the only real monster in the story is the bear." A natural monster, like the very human monsters Kierse knew all too well.

"Well, the bear and the monster that pulled her off her path—the wisp. They both led to her death."

"She never stood a chance."

"No, she did not."

"But you still haven't told me anything about me."

He cleared his throat. "Well, we know that your pendant isn't controlling your immunity. Which likely means you're like me."

She leaned in eagerly. "Like you how? A monster?"

"We're all monsters. But for simplicity, yes. I'm a type of monster you've never encountered. Though with your immunity you might not have ever known what you were experiencing."

"And what do they call you?" she asked. Labels didn't always matter, but putting a word on what she was felt important. Solid.

"There are several words for what I am. The others who are like me choose which word they prefer to be called. It usually depends on when they were born or how they were raised. Though most of us choose one word over others—a warlock."

"A warlock." Her mouth went dry. This was real. This was her life. "And there are others?"

"Yes. Not many. Unlike the other monsters, who have come into the light, we chose not to. We're rare and very territorial." He looked strikingly possessive in that moment. "Most cities have no more than one master warlock at any given time. We prefer our privacy."

"Okay, but what does it actually mean to be a warlock?"

"Traditionally, we were called wizards or sorcerers or warlocks. The word ‘warlock' actually came first—around 900. It was generally believed to mean ‘oathbreaker' or ‘devil.' Most people of the time were superstitious." He cut his meat into pieces with deliberate precision, not bothering to look up as he continued. "They believed that the magic they perceived was a negative force. That it went against God and nature. It wasn't until around the fourteenth century that other words developed to discuss magic in a positive light—wizard, mage, even astrologer."

"Why don't you call yourself one of those, then?"

His stare was dangerous, and she knew before he answered why he'd chosen "warlock." Because he was the darkness.

He shrugged. "I choose to claim what I am."

Kierse gulped down her wine. "I see."

He finished off his glass and poured another. "As for you, the signs point to you being a warlock as well, but I don't want to say for certain. It's surprising that you survived this long with magic in your veins without your knowledge. Though perhaps, since your power is negative, passive, it didn't try to burn through you."

"Burn through me?" she asked in alarm.

"When warlocks come into their power without their knowledge, it's likely to kill the person. Even trained warlocks can use their magic too quickly and burn through it, destroying us from the inside out. I don't know why yours never manifested in that way. Warlock powers vary widely. Some can do one thing incredibly well. Some have a wide variety of base powers. Perhaps you just got lucky."

"And you? What can you do?"

He smiled tightly. "We're not talking about my powers."

A sidestep if she'd ever seen one. But already her mind was reeling with all this new information. With how reticent Graves had been up to this point, she was surprised that he'd even dished out this much.

Edgar entered then to clear the plates while Isolde set down a tiny, delicate white dessert. It was a small rectangle with layers of pastry and cream with chocolate feathered on top. It looked like she could pick it up and eat it all in one delicious mouthful.

Kierse took one bite of the dessert and decided it was her new favorite.

"A mille-feuille," Graves answered before she could ask. "It's a French delicacy."

"I approve."

Graves offered her his portion, and she didn't even feel guilty taking it off of him. His grin as she bit into it said that maybe he was enjoying her enjoyment as well.

"Shall we discuss the job? As that's why you're here," Graves asked while she ate.

"Yes. Tell me everything I need to know." She polished off the last bite of mille-feuille and leaned forward against the table. The dinner had been nice and all, but she wasn't here for fancy dinners or cute banter. It was time to get down to business.

"As I told you before, you're stealing a spear."

"Got that much already."

"How did training go?"

She grimaced. "Like bleeding blisters all over my hands."

"That's normal when you start a new weapon. You'll get there. We don't have much time. So you'll have to train daily to get accustomed to it."

"That's fine. But tell me more about this spear. Where is it? What do I have to do to steal it?"

"Have you heard of Third Floor?"

Her blood turned to ice. "I've heard of it," she said. Torra had disappeared down there and never resurfaced. It was basically a black hole. A place where people like Torra went to die.

"The spear is locked away in the heart of Third Floor, in the residence of the leader of the Men of Valor."

Kierse's smile tipped up. Finally, a chance for some revenge.

"You've heard of them as well, I presume?"

"A group of all different kinds of monsters working together against the Treaty? Yeah. That's something I think most people have heard of. Even if they haven't come across them."

"And have you?" Graves asked.

Kierse had no interest in telling him about how they'd taken Torra. So she just smiled deviously.

"I work with billionaire clientele. I've seen the gold wings-and-arrow pendants before."

"Indeed. Third Floor itself is warded, and the spear is in a warded residence."

"But I can get through the wards."

He nodded. "That you can. But you can't just stroll in and take it and expect to get out alive without a plan. To get you in and out with the spear, we'll only have one opportunity. On the winter solstice, the Men of Valor are throwing a party inside the leader's residence. The doors will open, and hundreds will flock inside. That's when we strike."

Kierse blinked at him as she realized that he was actually serious. "The winter solstice?"

He arched an eyebrow. "Will that be a problem?"

"It's only a few weeks away."

"So, you won't do it?" he asked flatly.

Graves's gaze roamed her face, as if he was waiting for her to reject him. She would be up against the worst sort of monsters in their own stronghold with a ticking clock. But she hadn't thought she was stealing from just anyone. Not with ten million at stake.

"Oh, I'll fucking do it," she said simply. "There's too much riding on it to not do it, but I sure hope that your training is good enough to get me out of this alive."

"You'll do it, knowing that you could die?"

"I knew I could die when I walked into your house," she said. "I would do anything for my family. Anything to keep them safe."

Something flashed across his face that she couldn't quite place. Remorse or pain. But neither seemed to fit with Graves.

She couldn't resist raising her glass. "To the winter solstice, then."

Finally, he smiled slow and genuine, raising his glass to clink against hers. "To the winter solstice."