31 #3
My only response is to shove the knife at him hilt-first, not caring that it smears blood onto the front of his shirt.
He clicks his tongue. “I should think you’d be a little more grateful for my help.”
“Grateful?” I repeat, incredulous. “You put me in that position. You could have come up with a hundred excuses, and instead you threw me to the wolves.” Almost literally.
“I didn’t know what was going to happen,” he points out. “But I had full confidence that you could handle it.”
As we approach the stairs again, I can just barely identify the hulking shape of the bouncer. He’s in discreet conversation with another man, the whites of his eyes reflecting the dim light. Watching us.
I can’t make out any of the second man’s features before he’s gone, slipping into the dark in the seconds before Slade and I draw up to the bouncer.
“Hold on,” he says, squinting at us. “Astor, right?”
Slade’s expression is far less amicable this time. “That’s what I said.”
“I was just talking to one of the Prophet’s personal guard. He wants to extend an invitation to a private service at the Prophet’s Sanctum tomorrow night. Midnight.” The bouncer’s gaze drops to me. “Come alone, of course.”
“I’d be honored,” Slade says icily. “Thank you for relaying the message.”
Then he’s sweeping past the other man, taking the steps two at a time as the cool night rushes to meet us again.
I grab his sleeve the moment we reach the landing, forcing him to slow. “See? The Prophet’s Sanctum, tomorrow at midnight. Just like I told you.”
Slade’s cold eyes sweep the courtyard before he replies. “The question, then, is who that invitation was for. Felix Astor, or me.”
Fuck. I’d completely forgotten he doesn’t know Astor was Gabriel’s idea. “We should assume that after tonight, he knows you’re one and the same. This is his attempt to lure you to the place he intends to kill you.”
“He wants me to think I’ve succeeded in making everyone fall for my disguise. He expects me to show up with a plan to catch him unawares, not realizing it’s an ambush.” Slade’s attention cuts to me, a clear indictment. “Right?”
Ridiculously, I’m seized by the urge to laugh. Gabriel is trying to play a complex game of strategy, not realizing that Slade and I are playing a game within his game. It’s almost hard to keep track of.
“I suppose.” I sound dubious even to my own ears. “But why the invitation? Why not let me simply deliver you to the sanctum, as he originally requested?”
“Because Gabriel knows me. I’m not going anywhere just because you tell me to—I need a reason. And what better reason than if I think I’m being handed a chance to kill him?”
It makes sense when he frames it that way. I nod, all the talk of murder bringing a different question to mind. “Why do you think Marcus Wagner was so angry with Astor?”
“No idea,” Slade says. “What difference does it make?”
“I’d be interested in knowing why, exactly, I killed that woman.” I mimic his light tone, though mine sounds forced.
“You did her a favor. We both know she was about to lose herself to the Bloodrot. She should have considered herself lucky.”
“To be murdered in front of a bunch of rich assholes who considered her less than human?” I stick to the wall as we cross to the far side of the courtyard. I keep expecting someone to recoil from my appearance, but perhaps it’s too dark for the blood on my clothes to be visible.
“No,” Slade says. “The circumstances were, perhaps, less than desirable. But that’s not what I meant.” He comes to stand in front of me, blocking the Citadel from my line of sight. “She was lucky you were the one to do it. To have your face be the last thing she saw.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not.” Heat flares in the depths of his gaze. “Your fury is a lovely thing to behold. I imagine death by your hand would feel something like salvation.”
My breath catches. I’m not sure how to respond—whatever I was about to say dies on my tongue.
“Now,” Slade says, as if he hasn’t just yanked the ground out from under me, “I’m going to see if I can spot Ceri and Emeric.
If Gabriel does know I’ve arrived, I want to make sure they’ve been left alone, and that he doesn’t suspect them of any involvement.
I’m not going to talk to them,” Slade tacks on, correctly interpreting my expression.
“I’m not an idiot. You wait out here—your dress is a disaster.
Don’t move, and don’t speak to anyone.” He indicates the very edge of the courtyard, where shadows congregate among a group of small trees.
A stone bench sits unoccupied alongside them.
Everything in me wants to argue, but he’s right. I can’t go back into the Citadel without drawing unwanted attention. I settle for giving him a mocking salute. For a moment he seems to hesitate, as if there’s something else he wants to add.
Whatever it is, he must decide against it, because “be good” is the only thing he murmurs before turning on his heel.
Leaving me alone once more with the unsteady cadence of my own traitorous heart.