Epilogue
sixty-one
Gentry
Skadra’s smallest park proved a lovely place for Maxwell Greenbriar’s celebration of life.
For being surrounded by desert, it had all the trees, bushes, and grass that reminded Gentry of the places her father preferred to run his cons.
He’d proclaimed a hatred against the desert, a speech he’d given Gentry many times before about it being an unnatural place for humans to flock, even those with magic.
“It’s just asking for something bad to happen,” he’d persisted in the car one day on one of their cross-country road trips.
Gentry had rolled her eyes, but sighed, “Oh, c’mon, Dad, it can’t be that bad.”
“Walk in the desert, hon. Walk in the desert for one mile, and tell me that again.”
They’d both started laughing at that.
More and more memories like those were returning for Gentry, and she’d taken to journaling their adventures together with the intention of sharing them with Beckett or maybe even her mother. In a way, it felt like she was getting to know her dad again.
Gentry sat a basket full of buttered rolls down at the picnic table, grinning when Wren immediately reached for two.
The attendance for the celebration of life was small — just her, her mother and sister, Kit and his siblings, and Adrienne and Wren.
Her father hadn’t left any friends behind, but she didn’t think that particularly mattered when she knew he’d just cared about their family.
She’d been sure to spread his pictures of their family on a cardboard display, and she’d caught a peek of her mom looking at the pictures and dabbing her eyes.
“Hey cutie”—Kit dragged her down to sit between him and her mom—“care to share any more stories about being the first witch coven cyber expert? I don’t think your mom’s convinced that you’re actually legit now.”
“Hey,” her mother pointed a fork sternly in Kit’s direction as she said, “I didn’t say it like that. I said that Gentry better be legitimate or I’m kicking her ass.”
Everyone laughed, Gentry included, although she knew her mother wasn’t joking in the least. From the shit-eating grin on Beckett’s face, she’d wager that her baby sister knew that too.
“My job is legit,” she said calmly, “at least in Skadra.” Skadra, as she had learned, operated on the Weavers’ rules and so she took special care to mind their boundaries and to stay in Luke’s good graces — calling her a witch coven cyber expert was really a misnomer.
Almost all of her jobs were for the enforcers under Luke’s jurisdiction.
She was really the Weaver cyber expert who was very occasionally rented out to other covens.
Kit threw an arm over her shoulders and tucked her to him, his body completely relaxed.
Her man had been his happy and relaxed self ever since he’d officially left the Jumpers and turned to freelance bodyguard work, which he was really overqualified for.
Gentry knew Luke wanted him to join the enforcers, but knew that the deep hatred between Kit and Clea would prevent that from ever happening.
The ruthless woman had taken her rightful place as Luke’s right-hand, and the entire city feared her.
But Gentry put work far out of mind as she laughed and spent time with her family. There’d be time for the other stuff.
The next day, Gentry thanked Kit for flying her to work and pushed back her guilt about what she was hiding from him.
It wasn’t anything major, but it was sensitive, and it did involve Clea, whom he’d hated with all his heart.
If she wasn’t worried for her best friend, then she certainly wouldn’t be doing it.
Whining until one of the most powerful Weavers in the city agreed to an additional favor wasn’t exactly smart, but it was what Gentry had done. Quite successfully, in fact.
Gentry walked into the Weaver manor, where only the most prominent Weavers stayed, including their fearsome leader, Darisius.
She then veered towards the very back staircase that was hidden behind the kitchen and near the broom closet.
It only led downward and she sucked in a nice, deep breath of clean air before descending into the dungeons.
She’d only been here once to visit Quentin, the one surviving vampyre of Lydia’s horde.
Once a slave, Quentin had been forced to commit all types of atrocities under his master, but her death had changed everything.
He was now a freed vampyre, with a whole suite of new abilities, which was ironic considering he was doomed to spend the rest of his immortal life in the Weavers dungeons.
Clea waited for Gentry at the bottom of the staircase, a moody scowl on her face. “Are you sure this is a good idea? I could just kill him if you really feel that bad for him. It’d be kinder.”
“Yes, I’m sure. Quentin doesn’t deserve to be here. He didn’t do anything wrong.”
The female Weaver rolled her eyes as she led the way down the small, cramped halls of the dungeon. “Remember. If I set him free, he’s out of Skadra. Forever. He’ll be the rest of the world’s problem.”
Gentry nodded her agreement as she worked to keep up with Clea’s stride.
Unlike the top levels of the manor, the dungeons were anything but extravagant.
The iron bars lining each cell were designed to keep witches in, and the cells weren’t exactly spacious.
No external light was provided, and the only reason that she could take one step after the other was by the grace of Clea’s witchlight.
Hands shot out as they walked past, begging for scraps.
She doggedly ignored the pleas, aware that when it came to the natural order, she as a magic-less human was at the bottom of the totem pole.
Finally they arrived at Quentin’s cell and Gentry knocked at the bar to get the tall, handsome blonde’s attention.
He was sitting on his bunk, his eyes closed like he was reflecting on something.
His blue eyes snapped open at the first knock, and then he was at the bars, his speed preternaturally fast.
Gentry jumped back despite herself. “Hi Quentin,” she said politely.
Quentin’s eyebrows furrowed together, appearing confused. “You’re back.”
“Yes, just like I said I would be,” she said happily, hoping that somehow her sunny disposition would rub off on the gloomy vampyre.
It didn’t. “Why are you here?”
She ignored Clea’s snickering from behind her. “I’m here to free you.”
The vampyre looked at her like she was crazy. “Free me,” he repeated, “you’re here to free me from the Weaver dungeons for crimes that I did, in fact, commit.”
“That’s what I said!” Clea cackled obnoxiously. “See, nerd, even the vampyre knows he belongs in a cell.”
“No, he doesn’t,” Gentry responded hotly. “A vampyre must obey his master’s commands. Quentin didn’t choose to do any of the crimes he’s been locked up for. Hence, he should go free.”
“So you have the power to free me?” Quentin asked, his blue eyes narrowed. “You, a magic-less girl?”
Thankfully, Clea remained blissfully quiet.
“I am freeing you,” Gentry said, choosing to not divulge the intricacies of her lack of authority, “on two conditions.”
“And they are?” For the first time since they’d come to his cell, Quentin looked intrigued.
“One, you can’t come back to Skadra for the rest of your immortal life. If you do, then the Weavers will find you, and they will lock you away again.”
Quentin waved a hand. “Done. And the second?”
Gentry took a deep breath, knowing that her entire plan hinged on his acceptance. “I need you to save my friend Mykel.”
END