Chapter Nine Lysander #2
He waits for Boyce to be out of sight before he shoves inside, not bothering to knock.
The door falls shut and he finds himself at the end of a shotgun.
Watery daylight spills in through the egress, haloing Asher Thorley in a dusky white.
Lysander keeps to the shadowed fringes, his hood up and his hands in his pockets, the light burning through him like an unholy fire.
“Hawthorn?” he asks, eyeing the gun.
“Oak,” says Asher.
“Superstitious?”
“Practical. White oak splinters on contact.”
“Ouch.”
A beat passes. Asher lowers the gun. “You look like dog shit.”
“I feel like dog shit. But I’m here with good news.”
“Oh yeah?”
“We’re upgrading your accommodations. Presidential wing. Third floor. There’s a great view of the mountain.”
“You want me to keep an eye on Shea,” guesses Asher, setting the gun against the wall.
“I want you to do a better job winning her over.”
“It’s been one day. I’m working on it.”
Lysander bites back a retort. “She came to see me in my room last night. Sullivan saw, and he attacked her within the hour. My lieutenant is under the impression the two things are connected.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think you’ve got an arsenal of white oak bullets and a hundred notches in your belt. We can both agree you’re no Casanova, but I’d still feel safer if you were closer.”
“I’ll bet you would.” Asher’s smile doesn’t touch his eyes. “I’m glad you brought up Conall Sullivan, actually. I asked Shea what attacked him. She said she didn’t see it. You want to hear my theory?”
“It was very dark, and she was disoriented?”
“I think she’s protecting the attacker.”
Somewhere in his head, Lysander hears the snap of bone. Sullivan’s scream.
“That’s an interesting theory.”
“It is, isn’t it?” The way Asher studies him makes Lysander want to ask if he grew up hunting.
He tracks each tic like he’s searching him for weak spots.
The light falls between them in a chalky barrier.
It makes Lysander’s blood bubble up, hot and sick in his veins. He grinds his teeth until they ache.
“The question is,” says Asher, “ why would she do that?”
“Couldn’t tell you.” Lysander tempers the urge to swipe his hood lower.
“I’ve been doing this for a little over a year now,” says Asher.
“I’ve never seen something kill like that before.
In basic, they teach you that wolves go in as a pack, usually targeting the flank.
My first week out, I saw a bear bite clean through someone’s femur.
Your kind goes for the throat. I’ve never heard of anything ripping out the victim’s heart. ”
Lysander stares at him and says nothing. He stares back.
“We brought a girl in last night,” says Lysander, when the pain becomes unbearable.
“I know,” says Asher. “Poppy Zahar. Don’t change the subject.”
“But this is relevant to your interests. I thought you wanted to find your sister. Isn’t that what you asked me to do?”
“It is.” Asher’s expression tightens. “Zahar has no idea where Camellia is.”
“But she saw her last,” says Lysander. “And so that’s where we’ll start.”
···
Poppy Zahar is waiting for them in the boardroom when they arrive.
It’s impossible to miss her—if a color exists, she’s wearing it.
It’s like a rainbow vomited and she waded right through the mess.
She looks perfectly at ease atop the table, her legs swinging, shoelaces trailing.
A possum lies beside her as though dead, belly up on the varnish.
There’s a round metal tin in her lap, a line of butter cookies printed along the rim.
She grips it tight, like it’s full of gold bricks.
Cyrus sits at the head of the table, feet up and looking grim. “Is it dead?”
“Kit? No. That’s just how he sleeps.”
“Like he’s dead?”
She fixes him with a look. “How do you sleep?”
Spotting Lysander, Cyrus launches to his feet. His relief fades the moment he catches sight of Asher sidling in after him. “What’s he doing here?”
“He’s with me,” says Lysander. “Leave.”
Cyrus blinks over at him. “You’re joking.”
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
The pause that follows is heavily weighted. In it, Lysander can practically hear his patience fraying. He’s had enough of Cyrus for one day. Enough of his sideways comments. Enough of his paranoia. With a last glance at Asher, Cyrus wedges himself past Lysander and disappears out into the hall.
The moment he’s gone, Poppy places a protective hand over the cookie tin. “You’re going to ask me to show you what’s inside here, but I’m not going to do that.”
Lysander slants his gaze toward her. “Are you psychic?”
“No. Your friend already asked.”
“And what’d you tell him?”
“Same thing I told you. It’s not important.”
“But you were at Shea Parker’s house looking for it,” hedges Lysander. “Nkosi found you searching her room.”
“Hypothetically,” says Poppy.
Lysander frowns. “You were wedged under her bed—”
“Allegedly.”
“—looking for that tin.”
They all look down at the cookie tin. Poppy sighs.
“Camellia and Shea passed notes in school,” she says. “Incessantly. One time, in fourth grade, Mr. Belrose caught them and made them read their notes aloud to the whole class. They started writing in code after that, swapping out their letters in a reverse alphabet. They got pretty good at it.”
“That’s what’s in there?” asks Asher. “Coded notes from my sister?”
Poppy’s grip tightens around the tin. “I’m only telling you this because I want to find Camellia.”
“I know,” says Asher, his voice gentling. “I want to find her, too.”
Poppy squeezes her eyes shut. It’s several seconds before she opens them again. “You have to understand, Shea is—well, she gets really attached, doesn’t she? She’s been that way since her dad left. It was so sudden, remember? He didn’t leave a letter or anything.”
“I remember.”
Lysander feels Asher’s answer like a knife to the chest. Here is another piece of Shea he doesn’t possess. Another sliver of her psyche he’s never seen—Shea Parker in the daylight, holding tight to the shattered fragments of her family.
“She started keeping letters or cards or anything similar,” says Poppy. “I think maybe it was a way for her to hold on to people. I thought if I found something from Camellia—a note, or something—I could find a clue.”
“Ellie’s been gone for weeks,” says Asher. “Why didn’t you ask Shea earlier?”
Now, Poppy is deliberately avoiding Asher’s gaze. Lysander can see her looking anywhere but at the watchdog, her eyes darting along the wall’s peeling varnish. “I couldn’t,” she finally says. “I mean, I could, but she’s— Well, it’s complicated. She and Camellia fought. Badly.”
“When?” asks Asher.
Poppy stares down into her lap. “The day before she disappeared.”