Chapter 18 Missing Thread
Castien watched Wren. The haunted look in her eyes told him that her refusal to talk was based in fear.
She lifted the teacup to her lips with trembling hands.
He gripped the arms of her chair to keep from touching her again.
The desire to sweep her into his arms and hold her until the darkness melted away with the dawn swelled within him.
Castien did not fault her for not sharing with him, but he wished she would.
He could tell the pain was eating away at her.
“Are you certain you are not upset with me?” Wren asked again in a soft tone.
Castien knew his hold on his emotions had slipped when he saw her thrashing in the armchair, but it didn’t make sense that she would think he was upset. Perhaps her fragile state had confused her Gift. Maybe her emotions affected it the way his affected his own.
“I promise you I am merely concerned for you,” he reassured her.
Wren’s brow creased. “What if the scratch does not go away quickly? What will you tell others?”
Castien’s lips turned up at the edges.
“Perhaps you could weave a story for me? Something about fighting a great beast and coming away with the smallest of scrapes?”
His goal of lightening her mood was accomplished. She pulled her soft bottom lip in between her teeth to keep from smiling. He cursed himself for wanting to kiss her.
“You are trying to get me to write a story for you.”
Castien sat back on his heels. The fire warmed his back. He took comfort in the heat combined with the light it brought to Wren’s face. The color was starting to return to her cheeks.
“You told me the price was more letters from me. How many do I have to write for you to hold up your end of the bargain?” he teased.
She shook her head.
“I’m afraid I spoke too candidly, as I often do in our exchanges. There is something about ink and parchment …”
“That frees the soul,” Castien finished for her.
Wren nodded. She looked past him rather than meeting his eyes.
His chest ached as he wondered if she missed her journal.
He doubted she started another after her privacy was destroyed.
By him. Finn might have stolen it, but Castien read it.
An action he could not undo. One he wasn’t sure he would if he had the chance.
“I am not certain I could write something of worth.” Panic stole over her features as she realized what she said. A Gifted writer shouldn’t doubt such things.
“I understand. My Gift has its limits too, remember?”
Castien could have used the slip to get her to confess, but it didn’t seem right after watching her overcome with fear and pain just moments ago.
“Y-yes.” Wren stumbled over her reply. “Limits. The past few days have stretched me to mine, I’m afraid.”
Castien dipped his chin. He knew what she meant. In more ways than one.
“I was only teasing, anyway. I wouldn’t have you use your Gift on something so trivial.
It might come in handy for our investigation, though.
” He gestured to the mess of papers on the floor with a chuckle.
“Your ability to make a comprehensive report would prove useful. My Gift does not make sense to many beyond myself at this stage.”
Wren looked at the scattered parchment. Castien had decoded sentences and drawn connections between words.
He was starting to make sense of everything when Wren began to stir.
Heron’s words were unsettling. There was a snake slithering through the ranks of the Order.
Castien needed to scent it out, then crush the head beneath his boot.
“You found something, then?” Wren asked, her voice clothed in hope.
Castien moved back so she had room to join him on the floor.
“Several things, actually. Some of which you might be able to help me with, given your knowledge of him.”
Wren nodded and quickly came to kneel beside Castien on the floor. Her blonde curls brushed his script as she inspected the pages. A soft laugh escaped her.
“You were not in jest. I am going to need some assistance in understanding your words. It feels as though I have traded one encryption for another.”
Castien wished to smile, but it felt wrong given what he was about to reveal to her. He pointed to a piece of paper where he had decoded a line of numbers.
“Heron used numbers to hide his message. It took some time, since he also made the sentence backward, but I figured it out.” Castien traced his finger over to the phrase.
“Grimhaven games. Rigged.” Wren read the words aloud. She turned her head, her face inches away from his. Castien’s breath caught in his throat. “Someone rigged the games? Aren’t they meant for criminals?” she questioned.
Castien’s wits were dandelion tufts in a breeze. He struggled to grasp for them with Wren so close.
“My hypothesis is that someone was placed in the games that shouldn’t have been there,” he rasped.
Wren turned back to the papers, reaching for a blank sheet and quill. She began writing.
“What else did you learn?”
“He thought Finn and I knew something, but we do not,” Castien told her, hoping she believed him. She did not look up, so he could not tell her thoughts. “There are members of the Order that are from Grimhaven, but I do not favor them nor do I associate with them beyond necessity.”
Wren glanced at him. He breathed easier at the curiosity in her gaze. Inquisition was better than venom.
“What dictates necessity?”
“Politics,” Castien replied.
Wren’s eyes narrowed at the vague answer.
“What else did you learn?” She surprised him by moving on.
“I think there was more than one person involved. He had no need to abstain from writing the gender of the assailant, but he uses they constantly.” Castien thumbed through the journal and then pointed to the chilling they know in Heron’s slanted script.
Wren’s writing paused. Her hair was a curtain over her features, but he sensed that she was fighting against the currents of grief.
“So two or more murderers, who are either from Grimhaven or powerful enough to be involved with the Games,” Wren said in a half-choked voice. “That would explain how they got the best of Heron. He—” She cut off. “He would not have gone down easily.”
Castien recalled the bruises on the mimicta. No, he did not go down without a fight. The weight of Wren’s sorrow settled heavy in his stomach.
“We’ll find them,” he promised Wren. “And I will ensure that you can enact whatever justice you deem fit. It’s only right.”
Wren turned to look at him again. Her blue eyes shone with tears, but there was a fierce anger there too. An indignation that was palpable in the air.
“If I demanded death?” she whispered over the crackle of the fire.
Castien met her gaze steadily as he replied, “By my hand or yours, the demand would be met.”
A tear escaped and before he could stop himself, Castien swiped it away with his thumb. Wren drew in a shaky breath. Castien’s heart thrummed.
“Thank you,” Wren breathed. The simple phrase wrapped around Castien like a warm coat, staving off the chill of the investigation.
Castien did not trust himself not to say too much or do something that would destroy everything they had built, then rebuilt after the tunnels, so he let his hand fall away and gave her a small smile in reply.
The two of them turned back to the notes in tandem.
“Where do Kelda and Alysia fit into this?” Wren asked after a moment of silence.
“They don’t,” Castien answered on a sigh. “Heron did not write of either of them, nor did he hint about their involvement with him or the assailants. They also were not killed in the same manner. I have gone over the evidence again and again. I cannot make sense of it.”
There had to be a thread, but Castien could not find it.
“What if they were planning to kill Kelda and Alysia when Heron discovered them?” Wren suggested. “They could have tried to quiet Heron but ended up killing him when they found out he would not be silenced.”
Wren’s words were grim but a possibility Castien had thought of himself.
“I considered as much, but something still seems to be missing. I don’t see the connection between the Grimhaven Games being rigged and the other victims. Kelda cared little for politics in general. The most she dabbled in was what her parents required of her.”
“The ball, with you,” Wren said quietly.
Castien nodded. “And Alysia was certainly more apt to be wrapped up in schemes, but I have known her for some time. This doesn’t seem like something she would be involved with.”
Wren flipped through Castien’s notes. He had written details from the journal and combined them with the knowledge he had obtained so far.
“You attended the ball with Kelda last year. Her heart was taken out upon her death,” Wren murmured as she wrote. “Alysia you knew. She was in the Order?” Wren questioned, glancing at him.
“Yes, she was. A valuable member, due to her Gift of memory.”
“And her ears were removed?” Wren stumbled a little over her question. Castien realized she had not been told that detail until now, in his notes.
“Yes,” he said gravely.
Tendrils of logic began connecting Wren’s words. Kelda’s heart. Alysia’s ears. They were not just gruesome acts, but a message.
“I still do not know how the Games or Heron’s death fits into this,” Wren said slowly. “But Castien … these other two.” She shook her head. “They’re connected to you. Could it be that the killers are coming after you?”
Gold swirled in the air. Puzzle pieces fell into place. Castien’s blood ran cold. Wren was right. The missing thread was him.