Chapter 30 Cross-Contamination
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Cross-Contamination
In the corner of Captain Vel Karvas’s office, a pewter cauldron bubbled and simmered with the burnt-sugar smell of truth elixir—though the potion was forbidden in the interrogation rooms, Karvas was not shy about keeping his detectives honest. The scent made Auria nervous, though she couldn’t say for certain why. She had nothing to hide.
“Marriosan.” Karvas closed a file, set it to one side. His long white hair was pulled back with a strip of narrow black suede. “Take a seat.”
Auria sat, wordless, fixing her eyes on the thin black bands of ink around his neck. On the alcoved bookshelves, Aspar’s floral arrangements had been removed and replaced with wall-mounted broadswords and rapiers. Warnings of the captain’s corruption sounded in Auria’s head like klaxons.
He smiled at her, but it was empty of mirth or kindness. “I understand you were disappointed that the Broad Row murders were reallocated following the discovery of a brand on a victim’s chest.”
Auria nodded, trying to find the balance between deferential and resolute, to show she knew her own mind but respected that his overruled it.
“Yes, sir. It seems to me that the Bloodmoons and the Whitewings are so intertwined that I’ll struggle to investigate the latter without stumbling over the former. There’s too much cross-contamination.”
“An interesting turn of phrase. Cross-contamination.” Karvas pushed his silver-rimmed glasses up the ridge of his nose. “Your stakeout of the Whitewing activity hub begins this evening.”
“Yes, sir.”
If a Bloodmoon happens to stroll past in search of a tavern, will I be pulled off this assignment too? she thought bitterly.
“I’ve heard your case notes are always a work of art. Tabbed, color-coded. I very much look forward to reading them.”
“Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.”
“That was never a concern.” With a certain keenness to his gaze, he pursed his lips, as though sucking on a sour lemon. “Although…”
Anxiety curled in Auria’s stomach. “Yes, sir?”
“The night you were unexpectedly called to Broad Row. Your evening off, I believe.”
“I didn’t mind. This job is the honor of my life, and my first priority always.”
Another of those infuriatingly barren smiles. “Well, that’s a relief to hear. Given that you were spotted talking to Saffron Killoran outside the portari gate.”
Before Auria could defend herself, Karvas rose to his feet and crossed to the fountain of truth elixir, plucking an empty vial from an upper desk drawer and filling it with the thick, honey-like potion. Dread plumed between Auria’s ribs as she drank.
“What was the nature of your conversation with Killoran?” Karvas dragged a finger through the lit flame of a candelabra, back and forth, back and forth. For some reason, it felt immensely threatening.
The truth sprung from Auria. “Killoran’s father left a letter in Aspar’s custody.
She wanted to know if it was still under the care of the Order, and if so, whether I could get it for her.
She offered me details of Tiernan’s final moments in exchange.
I told her that I hated her, and that if she didn’t stay away from me, I would toss her back in Duncarzus and throw away the key. ”
“And did Killoran explain how she knew details of Flane’s final moments?”
Heart thumping frantically, Auria muttered, “She’s been branded a Bloodmoon, and thus can roam their compound and crypt freely.”
It took immense effort to speak only partial truth, omitting the fact Saffron was undercover.
Even though Nissa had confirmed Killoran was on assignment, Karvas was a dangerous person in whom to confide.
If he told the scarlets that their new recruit was a silver in disguise, they’d have her executed.
Yet Karvas did not seem at all surprised to hear of the brand.
Personal vendetta is a dangerous thing. It addles the judgment, skews the moral code. Rots inside the chest, poisoning from the heart outward. Just ask Saffron Killoran.
Disquiet thrummed inside Auria like a second pulse.
After a few seconds of deep thought, Karvas pulled his hand away from the open flame and tapped the lock on the bottom drawer. “Ashen Narrows.”
The drawer slid open, and he pulled out a parchment envelope. On the front, written in looping, swirling cursive, were the words: For My Darling Saffron.
Quirking a gray-white brow, Karvas lifted the envelope to the candelabra and dragged it through the flame, as he had his own finger.
Auria’s breath caught in her throat, but the parchment did not burn. Did not curl at the edges, did not flare orange and then black, did not flake into ash.
Karvas stared into the fire. “There are some wicked wards upon it—I can’t open it, can’t destroy it. With Killoran’s father dead, I wonder who still holds those wards aloft?”
Feeling as though her lungs had been replaced with bezoars, Auria asked, “What are you going to do with it?”
“Exactly what you suggested doing to Killoran herself. Lock it up, throw away the key.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
And why did you let me hear the password for the lock?
She knew before he spoke that this was a test.
“I have no time for turncloaks and traitors. Your relationship with Killoran is a concern, and I want to determine your loyalties—or rather, the power Killoran has over you.” He waved the unmarred envelope.
“If anything happens to this letter, if it falls into the wrong hands, if you’re ever seen exchanging words with Saffron Killoran again…
I will know you are not to be trusted.” A cold, penetrative stare.
“Stay away from the Bloodmoons, Marriosan. Your only job is to destroy the Whitewings.”
Auria dropped her chin, as though she’d been chastised. “Yes, sir.”
“Dismissed.”