Chapter 21
Twenty-One
Sorcha
Isat on Ansel’s bunk, basin in my lap, glaring at the red-haired man Ansel had dragged in by the scruff and tied to a chair. Neal sat beside me, and I could hear Milkweed repeating, “I have a right to be here” through the door, punctuated by the irate thump of his back paws.
Ansel dragged the man’s hat off, revealing subtly pointed ears. Elvish then. Even more concerning.
“What are you doing here?” Ansel asked.
“I’m traveling to New Orleans by way of Houston,” the man replied—English accent, perfect diction.
“On what purpose?” Ansel pressed.
“Orders from High Lady.”
“Iksura?”
The man nodded.
“Care to expand on that point?” Ansel asked.
“She said to keep an eye on you,” the man said. “Sent dozens of us to try. But you’re wily. Not staying put. Not listening. Not even leaving a clear trail. Pure luck I found you here. Luck and a few bribes to get ship rosters.”
The ship rolled and my stomach flipped. I gagged as bile splashed into the basin. The man flinched.
“I hate this damn storm,” I muttered, leaning into Neal where he sat beside me.
“Thought you would,” the man sneered.
“Excuse me?” I raised an eyebrow. “Elaborate. Now.”
“I followed you onto the ship. Thought at first we’d have a civil discussion about some options—” he began, but I didn’t let him finish.
“Regency, marriage to a suitor of Iksura’s choosing, yeah I know the drill,” I said. “Not happening. Don’t get your hopes up.”
“Oh my hopes are stranded in the depths of hell, ma’am,” he said, “because I found you, not just evading contact, not just married to your Steward and carrying his baby, but fraternizing with Ironmoot.”
“You mean Merrick?” I asked.
“Elves do not fraternize with Ironmoot,” the man repeated.
“And so . . .” I prompted.
“And so I thought I could solve many, many problems at once,” the man said, “using one handy little token I brought with me from the old country.”
Ansel immediately started rifling through the man’s pockets. He didn’t protest, didn’t react, not until a faint smile crept across his face when Ansel withdrew a rusted, old iron coin.
“This is a nixie talisman,” Ansel said immediately. “You summoned the storm.”
“What, so you didn’t like Ansel’s choice of dining companion and were going to drown a hundred people to make a point?” I asked.
“Something like that,” the man said coolly. “It would’ve been worth it. Get you and your line out of the picture. Restore proper, civilized control to the Outer Court.”
“Excuse me?” I snapped. “You were actually trying to kill us by summoning a bloody water demon? And we’re the ones you accuse of being uncivilized?”
I went to continue, but before I could say another word Ansel had his hands around the man’s neck.
“Ansel, what are you doing?” I snapped. The man’s eyes bulged in their sockets, and veins grew prominent along his neck. I clambered up to try and intervene, but Neal caught me with an arm around my waist.
Ansel’s eyes had glazed over, his grip digging into the man’s neck like an iron vise.
“Don’t,” Neal warned, arm tightening around my waist, free hand gripping the basin like he could feel how the sight made my stomach roil.
A long moment passed with no sound but the thrash of rain outside and the rasp of fading, gurgling breaths in the man’s throat. And then he went utterly still and utterly quiet.
My head swam and my stomach lurched. Neal shoved the basin back into my lap just in time.
“Well,” Ansel said, straightening his waistcoat and rolling down his sleeves, “I’ll just put this . . . detritus . . . overboard and see what I can do about calling off the nixie.”
Neal and I remained frozen, silent. Ansel had just strangled Iksura’s operative, with his bare hands, in his bedroom no less—a jarring, gruesome reminder of exactly what his Outer Court monster-hunting duties had required of him over the past four centuries.
“You do that,” I managed to choke out.