17. Asha
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ASHA
As soon as we’re inside the warehouse, I know we’re not alone. After all these years, I’ve honed the sixth sense of knowing when I’m being watched.
A man comes out of the farthest aisle of crates. I scan his face first, then his clothing. He’s wearing a black wool jacket, no markings. There’s the outline of a dagger strapped to his right forearm. He must be left-handed. No other weapons. No swords, no pistols.
His trousers are fitted, his black boots freshly polished. A flash of silver around his neck reveals a necklace, but the pendant at the end is tucked beneath his black button-up shirt.
There’s a tattoo on his left ring finger—two interconnected Ms.
Myth Maker.
He has the olive complexion, tawny hair, and broad, aristocratic nose of the founding line of Makers—the del Coir family.
“Malachi,” Roc says.
The man smiles. “It’s been far too long, Crocodile.”
I think over what I know about the Myth Makers. If I remember correctly, Malachi is third-rank Myth, so not on the Council, but if he has del Coir blood, he’ll rule eventually, provided he can find his way back to Lostland.
The Myth Makers on the other isles like to pretend they are homeless, their island lost to the mists of the sea. But I don’t buy that. I think they enchanted Lostland a long time ago so their enemies couldn’t find it. They position themselves as vulnerable, without a place to belong, all while they plot and infiltrate. I didn’t learn enough about the Makers until I’d left home, but sometimes I wonder if I returned to my palace if I would find a Maker’s mark within the walls. My former husband couldn’t have pulled off his coup without help.
“Please do tell me,” Roc says, stepping forward, “why you have broken into my warehouse.”
Malachi pushes away from the stack of crates and clasps his hands behind his back. He isn’t as tall as Roc, but his shoulders are thicker, more muscle rippling beneath the taut lines of his jacket. Still, a Myth Maker isn’t as powerful as whatever Roc is, so I’m not worried about a confrontation.
In general, I’m rarely worried about brawn. It’s the intellect, the secrets that concern me.
“I heard you were busy in Everland.” Malachi smiles.
I glance at Wendy and give her a quick nod, gesturing for her to step behind me and Roc, just in case.
I know she can hold her own, but depending on Malachi’s intentions, Wendy could be a target and her powers are offensive, not defensive.
She sees my gesture and takes a step behind me.
“I’m always busy,” Roc answers. “You know me, idle hands and all that.”
“Yes. And Mareth?”
There it is. He already knows Roc devoured the witch.
“Let me ask you again.” Roc takes another step. “Why have you broken into my warehouse?”
“I never knew you to be so impatient.”
“I have an itch that I need to scratch and you are prohibiting me from scratching it.”
“The hat.”
A ripple of consternation rolls through us.
None of this is a coincidence.
All of the levity is gone from Roc’s voice when he says, “Where is it?”
“Not here.”
Darkness kicks up around Winnie and Vane. Vane tightens his hold on her.
I’ve never seen their shadow at work, but the way the hair is rising on the back of my neck, I’d say it’s a force to be reckoned with.
“Now everyone calm down,” Malachi says over Roc. “I have a proposition.”
“I’m not in the deal-making mood,” Roc answers.
Malachi shrugs. “I mean, you could kill me. But then you will never find the hat and really, what would be the point?”
Vane leans into Winnie and whispers, “Stay.” Then he pulls away and steps around his brother, facing Malachi. Some of the darkness abates, but tendrils of it paint the diffused light. “What’s the proposition?”
“Vane, you always were the logical one.” He looks between the brothers. “I’m sure it will come as no surprise to you to hear that the Darkland monarchy is in disarray. The only surviving member of the Remaldi family is Juliette and right now, the Privy Council is trying to sell her off. But her claim to the throne is thin at best. There always were rumors she was a bastard. Not your type of bastard, of course.” He winks at Roc. “As you can imagine, chaos is exactly what the Myth Makers feast on. They are in place to overthrow Darkland. I want to help you stop it.”
Vane tsks. “You expect us to believe that?”
“I will not be without my own reward.”
“Go on.”
“Lostland being lost, obviously that’s a lie. But it’s not entirely without truth. The longer we’re away from home, the fewer Myths on land, the harder it is to find it upon our return. If we spread ourselves too thin, it really will be lost. For good. They’ve become too fucking greedy, too sloppy. If you want to know my philosophy, I believe each island has a ruling class for a reason. Just like the Roman Empire in the mortal realm, the more you absorb, the more likely it is you will crumble.”
He takes a breath and looks at Roc. “There’s another Myth here named Amanon. One of the Seven. This Myth has a sister. I’m sure you’ve heard of her.”
“Mareth,” Roc guesses.
Malachi nods. “She knows you devoured her sister. She will come for you, here or Neverland or any of the other islands. So really, what choice do you have? It’s better to partner with me.”
Vane and Roc share a look. They say nothing to one another, but the silence stretches on, almost like their silence carries words.
Finally Vane says, “I assume you have a plan?”
“Of course.” Malachi smiles. “I’m not sure if you heard, but after your role in the death of the Remaldi family, the Privy Council decided to requisition Maddred Manor.”
Roc visibly tenses.
“They’re hosting a ball there tonight to announce Juliette’s engagement. It’s to be her summer residence. That place is fucking frigid. It’s the perfect place to escape the city's stinking heat. But I digress. The Myth will be there tonight. Kill her, and I’ll give you the hat.”
He extends his hand. “Do we have a deal?”
Regardless of whether or not Roc and Vane want to go through with this, I know they’ll shake on it. I think Roc holds pinkie promises in higher regard than handshakes.
Both brothers shake.
“I’ll see you tonight then,” Malachi says. “It’s black tie. Dress appropriately.”
He breezes past us, the warehouse door slamming shut in his wake.