“We need to get closer,” she whispered to Fordham.
He raised his eyebrows, as if to ask how the hell they were going to do that.
She shrugged and inched out a little further. It would be beneficial to have some sort of advanced hearing, but even Fae couldn’t hear that acutely. She had no hope. She tried desperately to make out what Clare was saying.
Crack.
The boards beneath them splintered. She looked at Fordham with wide, panicked eyes before the roof gave way, and they plummeted.
29
The Weapons Deal
Kerrigan woke tied to a chair.
She struggled against the chafing bonds, but there was no escape. Her chest, arms, and legs were bound so tightly that she could barely breathe, let alone get out of the constraints. Her head hurt like… well, like she’d just fallen through a roof. She had no concept of how much time had passed since then, only that the room was now empty, save for Fordham, who was passed out beside her, and a guard with his arms crossed, drifting off into space.
A warehouse. A length of rope. Well, that part of her vision hadn’t been particularly useful. It would have been nice to know what the warehouse and rope were going to be used for.
“Fordham,” she hissed, low and urgent.
But he didn’t move an inch. Just sat there with his head back, eyes closed. Very much knocked out.
“Looks like someone is finally awake,” the guard said.
Then he disappeared through the door, and a few minutes later, a woman with raven hair that fell like a waterfall over one eye entered. She was even more beautiful in person. Skin the color of milk and her one visible eye so blue, as if plucked straight out of the ocean. She wore black leather from head to toe and had so much steel on her, she would have dropped like a stone in the sea.
“Well, well, well,” she said in a slow, concentrated drawl. Her accent was thick, like those from the north. “What do we have here?”
“Hello,” Kerrigan said, hoping for chipper. “It appears there has been a mistake.”
“A mistake?” the woman said, chewing on her words. “Yes, there has been a mistake.” A knife appeared in her hand as if out of thin air, and it tipped Kerrigan’s chin up. “You made the mistake of crossing Clare Rahllins.”
“Clare… who?” she asked innocently, widening her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“And I might have believed you, pretty thing,” Clare said, “but for him.”
“Him?”
“He is a competitor. That means you must work for the Society,” Clare said. “You are here on their business. What do they want with Clare Rahllins?”
The woman was mad. She was referring to herself in the third person, and Kerrigan didn’t know how to get out of this one. The last thing she wanted was to get sliced open over a botched weapons deal. She had only been there to find out who they were selling to in hopes of getting a lead on her assassin.
“I really don’t want anything with anyone,” Kerrigan said hopefully. “If you could untie me, we could go about this in a civilized manner.”
Clare snorted. “Civilized?” She wrenched back her black hair, revealing the side of her face that had been concealed. Her left eye was missing, and a scar ran from the edge of the empty socket across to her ear, which was mangled.
The only sign of distress that escaped Kerrigan was a small intake of breath. Clare had clearly shown her this to shock her. And Kerrigan was shocked—that she would hide it. Clare was stunning. All full lips and arched eyebrows and high cheekbones. The scar was just a part of her, and it made her more complete, if less symmetrical.
But who was Kerrigan kidding? She hid her ears all the time. Anything that could create enmity was a thing to hide… though not be ashamed of.
“Yes, please, civilized.” She smiled brightly.
Smack.
Kerrigan cried out as Clare’s fist connected with her face. Her nose was broken… again. Scales!
“How is that for civilized?” Clare spat, straightening.
Kerrigan couldn’t even bring her hand to her nose or stanch the bleeding. The blood flowed freely down her face and coated the front of her shirt. Her face throbbed. What had she gotten herself into now?
Clare flicked her head at one of the guards nearby. He hefted a bucket and threw the contents into Fordham’s face. He came to, sputtering and coughing.
“What the hell?” he spat out.
“Hello, darling,” Clare crooned, twirling a knife again. “Thank you for joining us.”
Fordham blinked rapidly, expelling the last of the water from his storm-gray eyes. He took in everything around himself in a matter of seconds—the binding, Clare, and Kerrigan beside him, bleeding.
“We fell through the roof,” he said simply.
“Ah, so you do speak. That’s a relief. This one,” she said, pointing her knife at Kerrigan and nicking her jaw, “likes to play dumb.”
Kerrigan grunted at the new pain and wrenched her head back.
“I’m not here to play dumb,” Fordham said, icy cold. “But I will have to retaliate if you do not untie us immediately.”
Clare raised an eyebrow. “Not bloody likely.”
Fordham glared at her. “You’ll regret this.”
“You’re in the tournament, and you think I’m dumb enough to tie you up without slipping you some dampening drugs?”
Kerrigan’s face paled. “That’s illegal!”
Clare quirked a half-smile at her. “Thanks for the tip, sugar.”
Fordham strained against his ropes, and Kerrigan could practically feel him trying to access his magic, but nothing happened. No black smoke. No fierce elemental abilities. Nothing.
Kerrigan swallowed down her fear and reached for her own powers, hoping that Clare had been stupid enough not to dampen her. To see Kerrigan’s slight ears and not find her a threat. But no, when she dove down into her well of energy, there was… nothing. The emptiness made her want to vomit all over the walls. There was a reason magic-dampening drugs were illegal. Removing magic from magical users was like severing a limb. People went insane from it… most couldn’t even stomach living. Suicide occurred at a severely high rate.
“What do you want with us?” Kerrigan asked , trying to ignore the yawning chasm within her.
“Want? Nothing. You were the ones spying on Clare Rahllins,” Clare said, pointing the knife at her own chest. “It’s your turn to tell me who sent you.”
“No one sent us,” Fordham spat.
Clare nodded at the guard. He punched Fordham in his face, cracking hard against that chiseled cheekbone. He grunted as the man pummeled him in the chest and stomach.
“Stop!” Kerrigan cried. “Stop it! No one sent us! We’re telling the truth.”
Clare flicked her blade. “If no one sent you, then why were you spying?”
“We weren’t spying.”
She tipped her head again, and the guard came toward Kerrigan. She froze, caught in a trap. There was nothing she could do. She couldn’t tell this woman that she was trying to find out who had attempted to kill her. That an assassin with a knife bearing the raven sigil had attacked her. She would surely kill her to finish the work for the person. It might be better to let Clare think that they were here for the Society. At least then they could extract information from them. But she didn’t want to get hit. Not again.