Chapter Twenty-Four
“Alexander Morrow,” I say in careful greeting to the man now haunting the doorway of my Roxborough dorm room at one o’clock in the morning. “How can I help you?”
Despite having cracked the small but cleverly hidden series of Horsemen’s codes, the sum total of information I have on this man and his three colleagues would barely fill a single sheet of foolscap paper.
Each.
If I’m lucky.
“No, Little Bo-Peep,” he says, a dark smirk carving across his pale, marble features, “the question is how might my brothers and I help you ?”
My eyes dip to where his fingers dance silently against his thigh, tapping out an unknown rhythm. Across the back of four of his knuckles are the letters M-O-R-S.
Mors.
Death.
My throat bobs as I swallow.
“Is it?” I clarify, as evenly as I can, because the first lesson any Imperium fledgling learns is that nothing in this world comes for free.
Knowing that it will cost me something , I suppose then, the question I should be asking myself is: Am I willing to pay that cost?
“ You found our lost sheep.”
I blink, internally cursing how sluggishly my sleep-logged brain is moving.
Their lost sheep?
Sheep.
Lamb of God.
Right.
The victory broadcast had rolled in the moment we had contacted the Herald via secure line with our findings, two nights ago.
〉〉〉〉START OF ENCRYPTED MESSAGE
〉〉〉 THE TWELVE LABORS OF SUCCESSION
〉〉 TRIAL II
〉 NOTICE OF LABOR TASK STATUS UPDATE
├ STATUS: DISCOVERY COMPLETE
├ TARGET: THE LERNA CORPORATION
├ LOCATION: Maker’s Bay
├ ACHIEVED: 08 hrs, 47 min from digital receipt of message
├ VICTOR: THE GRAY MEN
“Yes,” I reply, eyeing him, and not for the first time, wondering at the consequences of having brought to light the head of the LERNA serpent. Perhaps the Horsemen had wanted to remain in the shadows.
I clear my throat. “Had you, uh, wanted your lost sheep brought home?”
The only response Morrow gives me is more of that faint smirk. A disconcertingly handsome man, he towers over me, pitch black hair framing porcelain white skin.
“Right,” I say awkwardly, before trying again. “So how can I help you, then?”
A pair of wireframe glasses glint gently against the low lighting of the hallway as he shifts his weight.
“I’m here to offer you and yours a single boon.”
I blink again.
Perhaps I’m still asleep, and instead of happily dreaming about spit-roasting little blond fuckboys, I’m conjuring up this paralysis demon instead.
My fingers flex against the wooden edge of the door.
“You’re not upset the cat’s out of the bag?”
“Let’s just say that change is on the wind. We might have found a lost lamb of our own.”
Okay. Heaven help that lamb, then.
I bring my finger up to run along my scar while I think.
A single boon.
“Parameters?”
When he shifts again, the light reflects off the surface of his glasses, and for a moment I’m unable to see his eyes.
“A single question and a single answer,” he intones.
My brain kicks off with a zap of uneasy electricity.
Fuck , I’ve never been good at political intrigue. It’s why being sent here to be a Front Man for the Grey Men was such a fitting punishment.
I wish Zeus was here. Or even Apollo. Someone a hell of a lot better at war games and strategy than I.
“I saw you at the Symposium, speaking with Trick Mahoney,” I hedge, deliberately trying to buy a little more time while I think through my options.
“That’s not a question,” Morrow states, shifting again. I can see his eyes now, and they’re almost coal-black in color. Like two voids. “But if you must know—I spoke at length with Sebastian Grayson, as well.”
It’s good information to know. If he was striking deals in secret with the Strange Aces, it would be a major faux pas to be seen with such a direct rival.
But I also don’t know if that knowledge makes me feel better or worse.
Having Sebastian anywhere near this was just as equally disconcerting.
My stomach squeezes as I realize he’s still waiting on an answer while I’m busy tugging at the ball of tangled threads.
How do I even know this visit isn’t Sebastian’s doing in the first place? And I can’t even ask him that outright—I don’t want to accidentally waste my question.
“You should probably know that Sebastian isn’t our biggest fan right now,” I offer, hoping that might force him to steer this conversation in a clearer direction.
“There’ve been rumors,” he only agrees, bemusedly.
Oh wow, fuck. Also good to know.
Nothing like having your dirty laundry aired for the entire Underworld to see.
“You still haven’t asked your question,” he prompts, and now his voice has lost some of its jovial tone.
“Okay,” I say, trying to stall once more.
Think.
Something pertaining to the Labors, obviously.
A bone that we can throw to Sebastian to keep him off our backs for just a little bit longer.
A bone.
That’s it.
“Why would we not go searching for bones in a lion’s den?” I blurt.
“ Very good, Bo-Peep,” Morrow praises, a flash of satisfaction briefly lighting up his dark gaze.
He spreads his palms wide.
“Because they were hidden in the rook’s nest all along.”
I’m starting to think this locker room is cursed. Either that or my last cheque to Lady Karma must have bounced.
Just as I’m trying to slip my sweaty self into one of the shower bays, I’m rudely intercepted by the one person I’ve been wanting to see even less than Leo Baker.
Sloane’s dipping out on the Symposium had been a happy fucking coincidence, especially since I’d not exactly been looking forward to dancing around her bullshit in such a risky setting. I’d also managed to avoid her during school hours by planning my movements around her Academy schedule.
With great care— and maybe not a small amount of luck —I’d made it over three weeks without running into the O’Sullivan princess again.
Surprisingly, she’s not flanked by any of her Prefect posse, and while she’s just as annoyingly gorgeous as ever, the skin beneath her eyes is just a tad too dark, despite the efforts of her otherwise flawless makeup.
In fact, I’d go so far as to say Sloane Walker looks tired .
“Guess I needed to use something stronger, after all,” she greets me with a sharp smile that’s all teeth. “What kind of pest control even works on a Suit ?”
Ugh.
To be brutally honest, I’ve always hated the song-and-dance of identity subterfuge. I knew that eventually my figurative pointe shoes would wear thin the longer I tip-toed along the halls of Rox Academy.
But it’s actually kind of a relief to let loose the laces and slip them off every once in a while.
“Missed you in Themis, mo rós fiáin ,” I say conversationally, and the dark scowl I get in return makes me feel marginally better about the migraine I can feel building behind my eye.
“I heard they were giving out charity invites this year,” she scoffs, pushing her hair back over her shoulder. The normally lustrous red strands appear dull under the locker room’s harsh industrial lighting.
“Yep, they just let me walk right on in,” I muse, spreading my hands like can you believe that shit? Before I drop my chin and step right into her space. “Even got a little glimpse of your future while I was there.”
Sloane’s smile doesn’t lose any of its condescension, but there’s something like bemusement there now. “I highly doubt it. You have no idea what my future looks like,” she retorts with a low laugh.
I have to mirror her cold smirk with my own, though, knowing it’s only a matter of time before an arranged marriage to some high-ranking Southern asshole grinds that backbone of hers right into the dirt.
She would’ve made a hell of an imperatrix and I’m almost sorry to see it.
Almost.
I sigh. “What do you want, Sloane?”
Because I know what I want: to shower in fucking peace.
An ice pick lobotomy for this headache.
For a Horseman not to answer my riddle with another fucking riddle.
“Looking to join your friend, Zoe?” I ask pointedly, glancing at the shower and channeling all of the cool disdain I’ve borne over the years as Sebastian’s ward. “Because I’m happy to make that happen for you.”
Sloane’s answering look is just as icy.
“No? Just hoping to darken my doorstep one last time before Papa Smiley ships you off, then?” I prompt, hoping she’ll get to the fucking point soon so I can get these clothes off my clammy skin.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she snaps.
Ouch. Sore spot.
“Oh? He’s decided to let you finish school after all? Thought for sure the moment the roster went out he’d have his baby girl dressed in bridal white faster than you can say the Green Knight .”
Something flickers behind her eyes. Fear , maybe. Guilt ?
“Sloane Reilly really does have a nice ring to it, don’t you think?” I ask her sweetly.
But then the hint of trepidation is gone and she’s lifting her chin.
“He tried,” she shoots with an acidic smirk.
“And I suppose you said— no thanks, Daddy, I’ll pass —and he agreed, just like that?”
No way her father rolled over on this. The Reilly brothers already looked like the Irish mobsters who got the cream.
“ I have some fucking standards. I’m not going to just settle for a Family who can’t even secure a dead man’s estate, let alone a Crown.”
My eyebrows flick up at her outburst. Her composure’s all over the place.
Her pretty cheeks do have the decency to pink up. “Besides, I’m already spoken for ,” she states through gritted teeth.
The way she says that has my blood running cold.
“Spoken for how?”
But suddenly she can’t hold my gaze, and my eyes instantly narrow. So much for that imperatrix spine I was just giving her so much credit for.
“Spoken for… how ?” I repeat.
“I’m pregnant,” she mutters, still not looking me in the eye.
Jesus, I think my eyelids might have slipped over the back of my eyes. I was expecting clandestine engagements with Northern barons or plans to join the Maenads and swear off marriage completely.
I guess that explains the drawn features and high mood.
Hormones.
“Right, because what Sovereign wants somebody else’s bastard as his firstborn son?” I drawl, the shock of her confession still prickling my veins.
Her eyes finally flick back to mine then and they’re full of venom.
Ah, there it is. There’s that spine.
“ Not a bastard—his father promised we’d be married before the birth,” she snarls. But then again, her gaze slides off mine, and suddenly, I need answers more than I need to blink.
To breathe.
“Wait, who promised?” I bark.
So naive to think that I was deserving of such fairytales. But it is always the fate of glass to break.
“ Who is the baby’s father, Sloane ?”
I never register the triumphant expression on her face.
Just try and forget us twice, I fucking dare you.
I don’t notice when she leaves or when my phone vibrates against my caddy with a series of back-to-back texts.
Just try and forget us twice, I fucking dare you.
I don’t flinch when the hot water runs out and the cascade at my back turns to ice.
Because Tristan Sinclair Knocking Up Sloane Walker was not on this year’s Rox Academy bingo card.