TWENTY-TWO #2
Lewis’s flat was a single room, with brightly patterned rugs and tapestries to keep the warmth in, and—though they were currently hidden behind heavy curtains—south-facing windows that brought the light in during the daytime.
A narrow bed with a patchwork quilt was tucked into one corner, while a small table, strewn with papers covered in Lewis’s chaotic scrawl, and two small chairs sat next to the cold fireplace.
“It’s actually about your work.” Calum closed the door.
Lewis’s eyebrows drew together. “How so?”
“I found out who sent that blackmail letter to Edzan, the one with the animal head seal we couldn’t figure out.” Calum fought to steady his galloping heart. “It’s a wolf’s head, from a crime lord who calls himself the Wulver.”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“He’s probably the most dangerous crime lord in the city. He’s also a master in the Guild of Brewsters, known as Grant Mercer.” He looked at Lewis as he spoke. “I think he’s the one trying to push through new harsher penalties for criminals.”
“You’ve found the Wulver?” Lewis’s voice was fast and breathy. He hurried to the table, snatching up a pen and patting about for an inkwell.
“Lewis, stop.”
Lewis paused, looking at Calum.
“You need to stop looking into him.”
Lewis set the pen down. The sound was deafening in the quiet room. “Excuse me?”
“He’s dangerous.” Sweat formed on Calum’s back, making his shirt stick to his overheated skin.
It was too late; he’d told Lewis that Grant was the Wulver, and now he needed to convince Lewis to back off.
“You’ve no idea how dangerous. If he finds out you’re a journalist, if he even finds out that you know he’s the Wulver, Méabh only knows what he’ll do. ”
Lewis folded his arms. “Why do you think I’m trying to expose him?”
Calum’s limbs rattled with nervous energy and he started pacing, as much as he could in the small room.
It was so bloody typical of Lewis, to seek out the truth without regard for his own safety, but he had no idea what he was getting into this time.
“This is different.” Sorcha’s words came back to him.
They hadn’t spoken since that argument the previous evening.
Calum had chapped on her door before leaving the house that morning and there’d been no response, though he was pretty certain she’d been awake and ignoring him.
He sighed, stopping his pacing. Aly had believed him.
Aly, who had far less reason to trust him than Lewis.
“When I say he’s dangerous, I don’t just mean because he’s a rich and powerful man.
” The Guild of Scriveners had its own powerful legal team that could protect Lewis against anything Grant-the-Brewster could throw at him.
“Or because he’s a violent crime lord.” Comparing those to the dangers of a fae’s power was like comparing a midge to a wolf. “He’s much worse than that. He’s fae.”
There was a long silence as Lewis stared at Calum, his face impassive. Then he lifted his chin, his nostrils flaring. “I didn’t think even you would stoop to that.”
Calum reeled as though Lewis had hit him. “What?”
Lewis ran his hands over his face, pressing them together in front of his lips.
“I know you’ve always been—anxious, and when you get anxious about things that people you care about are doing, you get possessive.
” Calum opened his mouth to protest, but Lewis spoke over him.
“Sorcha knows it, I know it, and we deal with it because we know you’re not trying to be controlling, you’re just scared. ”
Calum’s mouth went dry. He didn’t recognise this person Lewis was describing—and yet he did.
His fear wasn’t constant, but it was pervasive.
Every time a letter from Sorcha failed to arrive on time, his skin flushed with panic, fretting that she’d ventured too deep into the forest and been hauled off to Faerie.
Every time Lewis had investigated anyone influential throughout their relationship, Calum’s gut had twinged with worry if he worked late, despite knowing Lewis got held up all the time—just as Calum did at his own work—and couldn’t always send a messenger.
And so he’d made demands, asking Sorcha for weekly letters even if all she had to say was ‘Still not in Faerie’, and expecting Lewis to send a message any time he’d be more than ten minutes late.
It didn’t help much, of course; it just meant that if the post was late or Lewis couldn’t get hold of a messenger, he fretted all the more.
“But it’s one thing for you to ask me to check in so you know I’m not dead,” Lewis went on. “It’s another thing to outright invent dangers to keep me from doing my job.”
Calum stared at him, at the way his peat-brown eyes narrowed. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”
“You should have left it at Mercer being the Wulver,” Lewis said, his voice cold. “I’d have believed he was a crime lord, but a fae?”
Calum shook his head, his throat tightening with fear.
“No, you have to believe me.” He lifted a hand towards Lewis, but it was shaking.
He curled it into a fist and stuffed it in his pocket.
“You’re right, I can be controlling, and I’m so sorry.
I know I need to work on that, but this—this is different. Sorcha agreed I should tell you.”
Lewis yanked the door open. “Get out of my house.”
Calum reached for Lewis, but the other man jerked his arm out of the way.
Calum pulled his hand back, his fingertips burning.
“Look, Grant was wearing a glamour when I met him. That was how I knew he was fae. Just please, next time you see him, promise me you’ll really look at him, like you’re trying to”—he racked his brain, wondering how to describe penetrating a glamour to someone who didn’t even believe glamours existed—“like you’re trying to see through the fog. ”
Lewis’s lip curled with scorn. “Sure, whatever, I’ll do that.” He gestured to the open door. “Now get out. I need to get to work.”
Terror clutched at Calum’s insides. Lewis didn’t believe him, and he had no idea what he was facing with Grant. Calum reached for the buttons on his coat, intending to show Lewis his knives, but Lewis grabbed his arm and all but shoved him into the corridor.
“We’re done here,” Lewis snarled, locking the door with a violent jerk of the key. “The next time I see you, you’d better have an apology ready.” And with that he was gone, striding off down the corridor without looking back.