CHAPTER 2
ZEPHYR
SHE LOOKS DECEPTIVELY HARMLESS IN THE AMBER GLOW of TWO SPUTTERING LAMPS, their flickering light barely holding the creeping dusk that presses against the windows at bay.
Her hair spills in fiery, red curls over the armrest of the settee I laid her on, the ends brushing the scuffed wood floor.
Round, rosy lips are puckered in a pout that would be adorable under different circumstances, dark lashes fanning over freckled cheeks like shadows dancing across sunlit marble.
But then she’s awake, and gone is any trace of harmlessness.
With the elegance of a feline, uncaring that her bound hands are of no use to her for support, Davina Lachlan sits up.
Her tangled curls spill around her shoulders in a cascade of copper and flame, catching the faint glow of the lamps as though alive with embers.
Her spine remains rigid as her eyes sweep over the room, assessing, but her focus promptly falls on the most immediate threat.
My two companions and I.
“Where am I?” she asks, pushing her hair from her face with cuffed hands.
“I’m afraid you’re not going to be the one asking the questions today, Lachlan.” I smirk, meeting her stare.
Her brow twitches, then smooths. She lifts her chin, looking every inch like the monarch of a sprawling empire rather than the war prisoner she must know herself to be. Defiance simmers in her gaze, daring me.
Ask away, then, it says.
Once again, she’s too clever not to know that absolutely every word she speaks will be turned against her. Unfortunately for her, that’s exactly what we’re here for.
“There are a few things I’d like to clarify,” I begin, gesturing loosely toward the trio seated before her. “And we’ve got all the time in the world to hear it, straight from the source.”
A lie. Time is ticking, and every minute that passes lowers the noose hanging over my head.
Her gaze settles on my companions. First Abenza, then Nyakumo, lingering on the swell of muscle beneath the latter’s sleeve.
“I could come right out and ask what happened two days ago,” I say, drawing her attention back to me with a slow roll of my tongue over my teeth.
“But I won’t. If I’ve learnt anything in the last month, it is that you,” I point directly at her, voice dropping, “are the most cunning, duplicitous person I’ve ever met. ”
She blinks, unimpressed. “Compliments will get you nowhere.”
“Oh, believe me, I know.”
She lifts a single eyebrow, its hue somewhere between toasted hay and defiance given form, daring me to remember the one time when beautiful words did have an effect on her.
I refuse to give her the satisfaction.
“So,” I say, straightening in my seat, “let’s begin. What’s your name?”
She blinks once, her mask slipping for a moment when her eyebrows shoot up.
Of course, I know the name we were given, but considering everything . . . even that is in question.
“This will go much faster if you answer when I ask.” I let the slightest note of threat enter my tone.
She still watches me like I’ve grown a third head.
Very well.
“She’s a sentient.” I incline my head slightly toward where Abenza sits, silent and watchful.
Davina’s eyes immediately drop to the dark-skinned woman’s neck, where a gold-plated necklace hides what she’s looking for. Her furrowed brow brings me far more satisfaction than it should.
Got you.
Abenza is one of our most valuable assets for a reason: her ability to sense dishonesty, more commonly known as truth-telling, has proven to be critical through the years.
Such skill, granted by the Evergreen Mahogany sap inked in a swirling pattern around her neck, is one of the few forbidden ones, which is why the open admission throws Davina off balance.
“Or maybe she’s not,” I taunt. Let her believe Abenza’s necklace hides nothing but smooth, dark skin. “Only one way to find out.”
She swallows, resigned. “My name is Davina Lachlan.”
From the corner of my vision, I catch the smallest dip of Abenza’s chin. Truth.
I press on. “Where are you from?”
“You already know.”
“Entertain me.”
Her jaw tightens, lips drawn in that practiced, cold line of hers. When she speaks, her voice could chip stone. “The Republic of Widesight,” she says, naming the sprawling continent that lies west of the Kingdom of Kobra, across the Prishter Ocean.
“Where within Widesight?”
“The Hook.”
The Hook is a remote peninsula that’s known for being a land of scenery. Of endless, lush forests and glittering lakes. A land whispered to hum with ancient magic even before sap was ever found. To have cold, calculating Davina Lachlan originating from a place so wild and untamed borders on absurd.
And yet, there it is, Abenza’s slow nod. Another truth.
Just like I did when she first told me, I can’t help but wonder: How does someone from the most untouched, remote corner of the world become one of the most dangerous weapons of the Republic of Widesight’s arsenal?
Even across the sea, I’d heard of her. The red-haired falcon who hunted rebels across the continent. The terror of the Widesightian Sapless.
Much as I hate to admit it, I have to tread carefully. I don’t think she’ll offer truly critical information so freely, and too much hangs on the line of her doing exactly that. My stomach knots at the idea of what I might have to do to her if she doesn't.
Even if I will. If that’s what it takes.
“When were you last there?” I ask.
“Fifteen years ago.”
Her file said she’s twenty-five now, which means she was ten when she left her homeland. “Why did you leave?” I suspect she did not lie about this, either, but I need to know how much she’s willing to offer.
“My mother died.” No break in her voice. Just flat, polished stone.
So well trained, precious Davina.
“And?”
“I never knew my father, so I was sent to the Republic’s Academy for Orphans.”
I glance toward Abenza. She nods once, confirming it.
“A joyful childhood, I’m sure.” Davina doesn’t flinch. Her eyes remain locked on mine, steady and unreadable. “Cat got your tongue, Lachlan?”
“There was no question asked, Kentar.”
The venom with which she spits my surname shoots a line of goosebumps down my spine. Whether it’s because of the defiance in her voice or the way she says Kentar like a curse, I can’t tell.
I tilt my head, the one concession I’ll grant her tonight.
“Then let’s move on to heavier things, shall we?
” When silence is her only answer, I continue.
“How did you end up in this mess? I want every detail, down to the most irrelevant scrap. And I want the truth.” I drive the last word into her with a glare.
“Your role before, how you were assigned the mission, what you were told going in . . . I want it all.”
The smallest twitch of two fingers on her left hand betrays her unease. She clenches them into a fist, composing herself, spine rod-straight once more, and chin lifted like a soldier facing death.
“I was called into the Supreme’s office, who told me of Dr. Sircelen passing, and of the stash he’d left—”
“Ah, ah.” I cut her off with a wave of my hand.
“You misunderstood.” I lean forward slightly, letting my voice drop.
“Everything means every thought that ran through your head. Every room you stood in. Every fucking step you took that led you to the temple two days ago.” She draws in a breath, slow and measured, but I don’t miss the flicker of unease behind her eyes.
“None of us are leaving this room until I say so,” I say.
“And I won’t be sated with some prepared, sanitized version of what happened. ”
I pin her under the weight of my stare, but she doesn’t wince. Doesn’t even look away. The icy blue of her eyes slices into me with the precision of a metallokinetic-driven arrow.
Why does she have to look so ruinously beautiful while I break her?
“You’d better start speaking in more than clipped little phrases, Lachlan.
Because I promise you, we’re going to be here for as long as it takes.
How you walk out of this room . . .” I huff out a dry, humorless laugh.
“Well, that depends on you.” I lean in even closer, voice dropping to a growl.
“I know you’ll try to keep things from Abenza’s radar.
Be my guest.” My eyes narrow. “Try your goddamn best. But I want. Every. Single. Detail.”
And I won’t settle for less.