Chapter Twenty-Seven

Kierse had no reference for how long she'd been out when she woke up again in her bed in Graves's brownstone. Her mouth tasted like she'd eaten cotton balls, and her throat was just as dry. She was no longer burning up. She just felt a general malaise.

It was exactly how she'd felt the time she contracted influenza. She'd gotten it right after the war started, when the worst strain in recent history had been running rampant. She was working with Jason, and he'd told her he didn't care if she was sick—they had a huge job lined up, and she couldn't pull out of it. And she'd done it, because she'd weighed that the consequences of saying no to Jason were worse than the illness.

Her fever had topped out at a hundred and five for a whole day, and she'd seen stars. The next three weeks, she had been laid up in bed. Normally, she healed so quickly. She should have died from it. A lot of people did during the Monster War, but even after she'd officially gotten over the illness, it had clung to her like a dryer sheet unable to shake off.

The aftermath of the wish powder felt much the same.

She needed to figure out how long she had been unconscious. They were short on time, and any loss would directly impact the mission. Fuck.

Kierse kicked off her covers and found thermal sweats in her closet. She tugged on a pair of Sherpa slippers, then snatched her wren necklace off the counter and put it back around her neck where it belonged. She grabbed the book Graves had given her and padded downstairs.

Early-morning light from the windows outside her room made her squint. She held her hood tight over her brow and walked like a specter to the kitchen. It felt like dragging her body over hot coals and then dry ice by the time she made it. Two flights of stairs were two too many.

The kitchen was empty. So, Kierse padded to the sink, poured herself a glass of water, and downed it in two seconds flat. Then she poured herself a second glass. She shivered as she held the cold liquid in her hands and headed to the open sitting room door. Secretly, she was hoping it would just be Anne curled up in front of a lit fire, but what she found instead was Graves.

He was seated in the armchair closest to the fire with the packet of letters open in the lap of his black slacks. His gray sweater was fitted, exceedingly expensive and high-quality, but it was disarming to see him look almost... normal. That blue-black hair fell into his eyes. It was still wet, as if he'd come straight from the shower. Her cheeks heated at the thought of him in a shower. She was most surprised to find that he wasn't wearing his gloves. He always wore them, even in the house.

Kierse took a step forward as if drawn to him. His head snapped up. Their eyes met, and the memory of their kiss slithered through her mind. The way he'd slammed her back against the wall. The moment he'd called her a siren. It flooded her, heating her through.

Because she had liked it. And the look on his face said he had liked it, too.

Graves jumped to his feet. "Wren, you're awake."

The nickname brought a ghost of a smile to her face. "How long have I been out?"

"Just over a day," he said.

"Fuck," she whispered. "We can't afford to lose a day. I should be in training." Even though it felt like the last thing she could do.

"Forget about training," he said. "You could have died. Take a seat."

She accepted his offer. The warmth of the fire licked at her, and she leaned into it, remembering that this was what his body felt like against hers.

"Thank you."

He sat across from her, dropping the letters onto the side table. "It's good to see you up and about again."

"Yeah. I haven't felt that bad in ages." Her eyes lingered on the letters, and she wondered what he'd found in their contents. If it was the last bit of information they needed to get the spear. She could do this job and then... leave. Because that was what she wanted. As her eyes slid over his handsome face, it was hard to make those words form in her mind.

She was saved from having to think more about that when Anne slunk into the room from the door Kierse had left open.

Her yellow eyes glanced between both of them before she jumped up onto a pile of books and made herself comfortable.

"Hello, kitty," Kierse said. She stroked the cat's back once, and when Anne only glowered at her, she did it again.

"I see you met Anne Boleyn," he said fondly. "She's as tempestuous as her namesake."

Kierse blinked. "Wasn't she the queen of something?"

"Indeed. She was Henry VIII's second wife. Famous for beguiling the king and turning the world upside down from the force of his affection."

"Sounds like my kind of woman."

Graves grinned. "And then he cut her head off for it."

Kierse couldn't help the short bark of a laugh that escaped her. "Of course he did." She glanced to the ceiling and back. "Sex and danger. The best kind of stories."

"Such an interesting perspective," Graves said as he shook his head at her and returned his attention to the pile of letters. Kierse had her sights set on the cat.

"We are going to be fast friends," she insisted.

"I don't know that Anne has friends."

"So, she is your cat," Kierse said, meeting his gaze.

"She is," he said softly. The one thing he seemed to soften for. And then he added, "I've been checking on you."

"Personally?"

Maybe she was wrong. Maybe he was starting to soften for her, too.

"Yes, personally," he said, his eyes boring into hers. "The magic burn is hard on your system. I gave you an antidote, but it didn't seem to be speeding up your recovery. Or at least not fast enough for my liking. How are you feeling?"

"Not great," she admitted. "I still don't understand how I wasn't immune. I know you told me on the plane, but it's fuzzy. Actually, a lot after the wish powder is fuzzy."

He frowned. "I believed that you were immune to Imani's wish granting, because it was in the ventilation system. So you would have been breathing it in all night and you didn't appear to be addled."

Hadn't she, though? But it certainly hadn't felt like being set on fire from the inside out. It had just felt like lust. Plain and simple desire.

"Did you know beforehand that it would be pumped in through the ventilation system?"

He was silent a moment too long before saying, "I needed to test your immunity to it, and I had the antidote with me."

So, he had known, and he'd risked her anyway. He had told her it was a test. He'd informed her from the beginning, but that didn't stop it from riling her. Not after what happened underground.

"I could have died in that vault."

"I believed it to be a controlled test," he told her. Then his eyes hardened. "Things got out of hand."

"No job ever goes exactly to plan."

"No, but I never intended to risk your health or safety as mine were when my limits were tested," he admitted, then frowned at that admission like he hadn't quite anticipated saying it. "I did not like to see you hurting."

Her heart hammered at those words. Because her brain told her that a man like this could not want that. Jason had never considered her health and safety. In fact, he had been the one to purposely put her in harm's way. It had been his hands doing the dirty work.

Yet Graves looked sincere. And in that moment, she believed him. He hadn't thought that she would get hurt. He didn't want to see her hurt. The last piece of that train of thought slotted into place: he had been upset by her sickness.

"I'm okay," she told him softly. "I'm already feeling better. With a meal, I can probably start training tomorrow."

Tension released from his shoulders. "Good."

"Well, did we even get the information we were looking for?"

His stormy eyes were dark, but he looked away from her as he casually cast one of the letters into the flames.

She gaped. "What are you doing?"

He still didn't look at her as he said, "What information did you think was in these letters?"

"You said it held information to get the spear."

"Did I?" he asked, tossing another into the fire.

She racked her brain. Had he said that? He'd definitely implied it.

No, he hadn't said it. She was the one who had implied it, and he'd agreed. She'd walked right into his plans. So eager to prove herself, to get this test over with, she hadn't even considered that he was sparing the truth for his own aims.

"So... what's in the letters?"

"They're of a personal nature. I've wanted them back for a hundred and fifty years."

She nodded her head, understanding winking into existence. A dangerous smile crossed her lips. "You used me to strike back at your enemies."

Oh, how clever he was. She'd hate him if she didn't appreciate the brilliant machinations under his dark exterior.

"Something like that."

"And if I'd failed?"

This time, he smiled, that lethal calm washing over him. "You assured me that you didn't fail."

"Of course."

"This is how things are done. I wasn't going to let you attempt to steal the spear before you even knew if you could access it."

She felt the truth in his statement. "Well, at least we are one step closer to the spear."

He stilled at the sardonic tone in her voice. Like for a moment, he wasn't sure if he'd actually gotten away with his own subterfuge or if she was going to bellow at him. They watched each other across the sitting room, his eyes considering her thoughtfully.

"We are."

"But when we go after the spear, maybe I should know all parts of the plan."

"As you say," he said simply.

She wouldn't have believed him if she hadn't seen his momentary break about her being sick. He hadn't wanted her to fall ill. And maybe he had kept the truth from her about the packet, but would it have changed anything? Looking at him right now, she really doubted it.

"Why did you call me Wren?"

"Ah." He tilted his head to the side. "I wanted them to know you are mine."

"Wasn't that the point of me playing your pet?"

"This felt... more succinct."

"Why?"

"Did you read the book that I gave you?"

"This one?" She had started it, but then he had distracted her with information about the heist.

"That one," he confirmed.

The book flopped open all on its own to the story she'd been reading—The Oak and the Holly King.

In the tale, summer and winter were gods who fought for their claim on this world. The Oak King was the conquering hero, the spring and summer champion that brought forth sunlight and joy. The Holly King was the dark, elusive winter god. He was as feared as he was praised. Twice a year, on the nights of the solstices, the two kings would battle. With the Holly King's loss, the Oak King shepherded in spring, and with the Oak King's loss, the Holly King brought forth fall.

She loved the story, the turning of the seasons explained in this fantastical way. But she didn't know how this was supposed to help her understand Graves. He was a warlock, not a winter god.

Yes, the wren was an important representation of the Holly King, just as the robin was for the Oak King. But she just wore a wren pendant. Had Graves chosen holly as his symbol because of this story? Was he calling her Wren because he saw her as a symbol of rebirth? A muse? It was so convoluted. Answers wrapped up in fairy tales.

She didn't have the words to spar with him about this today. Not with the magic burn. Not with him purposely playing her.

He smirked and slipped his hands into his pockets. "Read the book."

They breathed the same space for a tense moment. Neither of them willing to back down or move forward.

"Is that all you're going to say?"

"Now that I know where you stand, we can begin. I have to be away on business today to look for the final thing I need for the heist. You should train with Edgar when you feel well enough. We'll meet once I have what I need." He turned his eyes to the letters, dismissing her.

She stared a hole through his skull, but he never looked up. "That's it?"

"You need to regain your strength. We can do nothing until then," he said, casually tossing another letter in the fire.

She nodded, gritting her teeth. Fine. She would read the book. She would train. And she wouldn't forget that he could play her as well as she could play him.