“Hopefully not for long.” Lore turned and looked at the stone man in the cart. The trash they’d piled on top of him had shifted, uncovering Milo’s terror-stricken face.
Mari glanced at the cart. She arched a brow at Lore.
“Give me just a second, and I’ll fix him,” Lore said. “I just needed… I just needed privacy.”
Privacy, and a place she felt comfortable. Lore hadn’t realized just how tightly she’d held herself until the tension bled out, a drop at a time. Despite everything, this warehouse still felt like home, and gods she missed it. Being here filled a hollow in her chest she wasn’t aware of carving out.
“You can have it.” Mari glanced toward the door. “Val should be here soon.”
The hollow emptied again. Lore gnawed on her lip. “Will that be a problem?”
“I don’t think so, to be honest.” Mari looked her in the eye, something softening in her face. Sadness and resignation shaped her mouth. “She was between a rock and a hard place, Lore. The Priest Exalted didn’t give her any choice. It was you, or the whole crew swung.”
Behind her, Gabe stiffened.
“Swung?” she repeated quietly. Val said it’d been a choice between her or the crew, but Lore thought that meant prison time, fines, maybe the Burnt Isles…
“Death for us all,” Mari whispered. She chewed the corner of her lip. “He wanted you, mouse. Badly.”
She thought of that first day after Horse, when Anton told her the Church had been watching since she was thirteen, since she first raised Cedric from the dead. Watching, keeping tabs, letting her live a life she thought was free until the rope finally pulled taut.
They’d waited until she got older. Until her power over Mortem had matured, grown. Because it had—the stone man in the cart was proof. She wouldn’t have been capable of something like this weeks ago, as if her time in the Citadel had somehow strengthened her ability.
Her time in the Citadel, and the slow march toward her twenty-fourth birthday.
Instinctually, her eyes darted to Bastian, seeking some kind of strength from the Sun Prince. She didn’t realize Gabe had stepped away, far enough into the warehouse to be out of earshot, until he crossed behind Bastian, pacing like a caged animal. The Presque Mort looked back once, his gaze cutting between her and the other man, before turning away again.
A knock at the door. The same pattern Lore had used. Mari went to open it.
Val stood on the other side.
“Sorry, love, I was…” Val trailed off, mouth staying open and no words coming out, eyes round as she stared at Lore.
“Mouse,” she said, and then she rushed forward.
Lore didn’t know what to expect. By the wall, Bastian looked ready for a fight—shoulders loose, fists curled.
But Val threw her arms around Lore and hugged her tight.
Of the hugs they’d shared, it was the longest. Though there’d only been three before this, all carefully cataloged in Lore’s mind, so maybe that wasn’t a fair metric—Mari was the softer one, the mother more likely to give comfort. Still, after the initial moment of being frozen in shock, Lore returned the embrace just as tightly, her anger forgotten in the familiar scent of Val’s hair, the familiar rasp of her shirt against her cheek.
“Oh, mouse.” Val’s voice was choked and hoarse. “I’m so glad you’re all right.”
Lore didn’t respond. She tucked her chin, burying her face in Val’s shoulder, and hoped the older woman didn’t feel the warm salt seeping through her work shirt.
Lore didn’t let herself really cry, though. That was a dam she couldn’t strike just yet; there wasn’t time.
She had a better hold on herself when they broke apart, tears drained away, chin steady. “I understand why you did it,” Lore said softly. “I know he’d been watching since… since Cedric. And Mari said he threatened to hang the whole crew.”
Val’s eyes were tired. She nodded and ran a hand over the scarf holding her pale hair in place. “He made it sound like it’d be good for you, too. Living in the Citadel, where your… your condition could be better understood. He made it sound like they’d teach you about it.”
Lore shifted uncomfortably. It pained her, to hear that Anton had used the promise of teaching her to make Val agree. It made her wonder how often Val had wanted to help and just not known how.
The old poison runner’s sinewy arms shook as she placed her hands on Lore’s shoulders. “If I’d known they were tracking you, I would’ve protected you,” she murmured. “I hope you can believe that.”
“I believe you,” Lore murmured. And it was true. “I’m sorry I brought this all down on you, Val.”
“Don’t.” Her mother gave her an impatient little shake. “This isn’t your fault. None of it. I’m just glad you’re here, and you’re fine.”
“Not that fine,” Mari said. “What with the man in the cart turned to stone, and all.”
Val’s eyes widened. “Pardon?”
“It’s a long story,” Lore sighed.
“Save it, if you want.” Val had finally noticed Gabe and Bastian. The grizzled poison runner eyed them both warily, one hand dropping from Lore’s shoulder to hover over the leather holster on her hip. Val always had a pistol. “I’m more interested in the not-stone men currently in my warehouse.”
Lore opened her mouth, trying to run together cover stories, but she needn’t have bothered. Of course Bastian beat her to the punch.
“Blaise,” Bastian lied, with a bow. “And my surly friend is Jean-Baptiste.”
Gabe’s jaw flexed at the flowery false name Bastian had given him. It was almost a relief to see annoyance spike across his face, something different from cold detachment and simmering anger.
“And the two of you know Lore how?”
Bastian didn’t falter at all beneath Val’s shrewd eye. “We’ve been helping her in the Citadel,” he said, skirting close to the truth without revealing it. Then, with a wry smile, “Us outsiders have to stick together, my lady.”
“Don’t my lady me.” Val’s eyes swung from Bastian to Lore, calculating. “If Lore trusts you, so will I. But something easily given is easily taken away, and if you put so much as a toe out of line, I will cut it off.”
“We wouldn’t dream of it,” Bastian replied. “All appendages will stay exactly where you want them.”
Val gave him a curt nod, apparently placated. “Now,” she said, crossing her arms. “What are you planning to do about the stone fellow?”
The complete lack of a plan shook out something like this: Bastian, ever the charmer, chattered mindlessly as he and Gabe lifted the strangely light stone man from the cart and propped him against the wall. Lore caught snatches of shipping talk, questions about whether Mari and Val ever frequented the boxing ring—the answer was a resounding no—and comments on the excellent camouflage they’d constructed for the warehouse, but she was only half listening. All her concentration was on Milo, the human being she’d knit death around, and how she could unravel it.
If she could unravel it.