Chapter 20
Grayson
Well? Grayson asks Verity, but Percival is coming to his grand finale.
“And so, with that purpose in mind, The Nashville Guild will continue under my leadership, to grow this institution to the highest level in America, and the world.” Percival finishes, and for a moment, the room heaves an inaudible sigh of relief.
Kirwan claps enthusiastically, and a few of the staff reluctantly join her.
“Thank you, thank you. Now, we will begin once the Truthseeker arrives—” Percival’s head swings toward the door as a tall, good-looking man in a designer suit and sunglasses guides Verity through the door. His mouth twists when he sees Verity in her casual jeans and hoodie.
“We welcome you, Truthseeker.”
Kirwan doesn’t bother hiding it now. She sits forward, a zealous fervor clear on her face, mouth curved with expectation.
“Thank you. Why have you called on the Truthseeker today?” she asks, plopping her jean-clad butt in the lone wooden chair. It had been for Grayson, he knew, but Verity isn’t having any of Percival’s machinations.
Rowan huffs behind Gideon, but the rest of Grayson’s pack is silent with nerves.
“You are called upon to determine if Novice Grayson Pearce has been truthful.”
“Sit,” Verity waves. “I am the Truth. I bear the light,” she intones. The words land like a script she’s said a hundred times.
“By oath and appointment, I am bound to witness what is offered, and to speak only to veracity,” she continues, gaze sweeping the room. “I am not here to determine guilt. I am not here to argue motive. I am not here to punish. I am here to answer one question: Is the respondent truthful, as asked?”
Percival opens his mouth like he’s about to give another speech.
Verity keeps going anyway.
“Respondent Grayson Pearce”—she says his name clearly—“do you consent to Truthseeking under this tribunal? Consent must be spoken.”
In Grayson’s mind, her voice slips in like a quick elbow to the ribs.
Just say yes, dude. We already did the hard part.
Grayson swallows. “Yes.”
“Consent received.” Verity nods once, like she’s ticking a box. She lifts her hand, letting the room see what it expects to see. Her expression doesn’t change. If anything, she looks faintly bored by the theater of it.
“In the course of my Truthseeking,” she says, measured, “I find no deliberate falsehood in the respondent’s statements as presented to this tribunal.” Then she adds, voice still flat. “The respondent has been truthful.”
Nix makes a small sound beside him—half laugh, half breath—like he’s been holding it in so long his body forgot how to release it normally.
Across the aisle, Ignatius lets out an enthusiastic, indignant little “Ha!” that he tries to turn into a cough when a few heads swivel, but his eyes are bright with it, anyway.
Percival’s face goes smooth as color creeps up his neck, betraying him. He nods once, stiff, as if this was how he’d expected it to go from the beginning.
Out of the corner of his eye, Kirwan is deathly pale and still, like prey that’s realized the underbrush moved because something is in it. Her hands lock on the edge of her chair, knuckles white, and her eyes flick toward the back of the room.
Verity’s eyes meet Grayson’s for half a beat, a twinkle there and gone in the next blink, then her voice slips into his mind again.
Before you start spiraling—yes. You held things back.
Grayson’s stomach twists. I did.
I know. There’s no judgment in it, just fact. But you didn’t lie in the strict sense. Truth and lies differ from right and wrong, no?
His chest tightens anyway, because he’s still too close to a close call.
Here’s what I saw, Verity says bluntly. You weren’t hiding to hurt anyone. You were hiding to protect your family. That’s integrity. That’s you being who you are and have been from the beginning—even when it costs you. Besides, he should have been more specific, you know?
Grayson can’t quite believe it. Had he gotten by on the semantics of a poorly-worded question?
That’s it? It’s just…over?
Her tone turns dry, a smirk flashing over her lips. Dude. Just take the win.
Something in Grayson’s chest loosens so fast it almost hurts. He can’t stop the burst of laughter that follows.
Verity’s mask settles back into place like it was never off. She stands and turns back to the room, all business again, and whatever softness had flickered is gone. It makes Grayson’s heart pang a little to see it.
“Thank you,” Percival starts ceremoniously, reaching for control the only way he knows how.
Verity doesn’t even slow down to acknowledge him.
Enjoy your happily ever after, dude.
The phrase is taken directly from his memories, making him wonder about the burden of all the memories she’s seen in the course of her short life.
Hey, Grayson calls as she follows the guy in the designer suit toward the door. You know where to find me if you ever need anything.
She pauses for a second, and Grayson wonders if she’s weighing whether his offer is a kind of quid pro quo or if he’s being genuine. She doesn’t look back at him, only nods once, leaving him with the uncomfortable realization that she’d been the most powerful person in the room.
And only then does Grayson’s pack move like they’ve been holding their breath.
The hands that had been steadying him all day turned into hands that claim him.
Jay’s palm warms the back of his neck, and Nix’s fingers lace through his and squeeze hard enough to hurt.
Leo’s arm hooks around his back. Finn and Luca press in close, blackcurrant and mocha so sharp even over their scent patches that his lungs finally unclench, and his eyes burn anyway.
“See?” Luca says. “I knew it would be okay.” Like he hadn’t been worried about the exact opposite the last twenty-four hours.
“It was that easy?” Grayson hears himself ask.
“Hardly easy,” Leo says, “and it didn’t go like I expected it to go either, thank the Goddess.”
“Me either,” Rowan adds. “And not like your teacher thought, either.”
Grayson looks toward the back of the room where his teachers were sitting.
Ignatius has Augusta Shaw and Bixby engaged in an animated discussion, hands flying as he explains something that has the other two grinning.
Knox smiles over the shoulder of Percival’s assistant while they speak in low tones.
“Not them. Her.” Rowan nods to where Kirwan is shifting nervously from side to side.
Her robe catches on the edge of the folding chair, jerking her sideways. Yanking it free with a small, ugly motion, she keeps moving, eyes fixed on the exit.
“Professor Kirwan,” Percival says, voice sharpening, because if he’s going to be left swinging in the wind, he won’t be there alone. “Where do you think you’re going?”
She doesn’t answer, bolting through the door at a run.
At the back of the room, the pale man in the black suit is gone, his chair empty. Grayson hadn’t even seen him leave.
A singular instance of precognition shows him the front of the admin building and the backside of a spiral topiary.
The vision has him pulling on The Plain without a single moment of hesitation.
Grayson teleports through the door and into the hall.
It’s a near miss that he isn’t forced to a full stop by the double-plated security glass in the foyer, slipping through after Kirwan at the last moment.
He materializes in the shadow of a carefully tended shrub, the gray brick at his back. An elderly plain black sedan is parked near the sidewalk, backed in too close to the disabled space. Kirwan fumbles with her keys, hands shaking so badly that Grayson can see it even from where he’s hidden.
Kirwan tries to put the key into the lock, misses, and swears under her breath. She tries again, harder, as if force will make metal cooperate.
A familiar black SUV glides closer with tires popping on the asphalt, and Grayson doesn’t need to see inside to recognize the familiar magic signatures inside from yesterday at Ruckus.
Kirwan freezes. For one suspended second, she looks like she’s about to pretend it isn’t there.
Then her head turns. Her gaze doesn’t go to the SUV. It goes to the space beside it, the place where the light seems thinner.
The man from inside is simply there. In the daylight, his eyes don’t look human at all, almost pure black, absorbing light in a way that’s not natural.
He stands close enough to the SUV that he could have stepped out of it, yet Grayson knows he did not.
There was no metallic zip of a side door opening.
One moment, the space was empty; the next moment, it wasn’t.
Kirwan’s mouth opens, and nothing comes out at first. Then, throat working, the words spill out, “She was wrong! She lied. He’s powerful. I’ve seen it! He is the o—”
The man raises one skeletal finger.
Kirwan’s voice cuts off abruptly.
She claps a hand to her own throat and stumbles back a step. Her eyes go wild, and just like that night in her apartment, her face isn’t smug or calculating or cruel.
It’s terrified.
Then the man’s hand shifts, and the air in front of Kirwan ripples, like heat over asphalt. One moment she’s there, a scream trapped in her throat, and the next, the space where her body stood is empty pavement. The only sound remaining is her keys as they hit the ground.
The man’s black gaze finds Grayson easily, like he’s known exactly where Grayson has been the whole time.
Grayson’s body goes still, and he can admit that it’s fear that makes a cold sweat bead on his forehead and down his spine.
And then, with a faint, almost courteous lift of two fingers, the pale man salutes, and he, too, disappears into the shimmery void, leaving the air tasting like metal for a moment. The SUV speeds away, disappearing beyond the magical gate.
“Grayson!” Knox Mehta barrels through the door in a gust of wind that forces the glass door against the side of the building. He doesn’t see Grayson in his hiding spot, and he’s got his phone in his hand while he mutters, “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
Grayson finds his voice. “Hey.”