I leap over the table, taking its black wool covering and my fake crystal ball with me, and latch on to Basil’s arm. It takes all my weight to keep his hand from moving.
“Back off,” I warn the warlord. “It’s Medusa’s Dust. It’ll turn you to stone.”
He uncurls his hand from around Basil’s neck and steps back, leaving me dangling like an idiot from the traitor’s wrist.
“How do you know that?” His question sharp, the warlord shifts his focus to me, and I think maybe I should have let him die.
“Poison expert.” Sort of. I blow a damp curl out of my eye. The only thing keeping Basil from shaking me off is Carver’s very long and very lethal sword at his back. We’re surrounded by big men with scary weapons, and no one’s doing anything. “Someone cut off his arm. Or kill him. If I let go, he’ll throw dust all over the place.”
Flynn hefts his ax. “That would be suicide.”
“Thank you, Flynn.” I roll my eyes in the auburn-haired man’s direction. “Do you really think he cares?”
Flynn shrugs. “He’s dead anyway.”
Exactly. So get on with it.
A Promise of Fire
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