“No,” he said.
“That did just happen?”
“It did.”
“Julie went and got him after Kings Row.”
“It appears so.”
The city rolled past us.
“He walks up to Christopher and says ‘hi,’ and Christopher says, ‘Come by my house’?”
Curran didn’t answer.
“He put Christopher into a cage and nearly starved him to death, and now it’s all forgive and forget?”
“I didn’t forget,” Curran said, his face grim. “I remember Mishmar.”
I’d almost died in Mishmar, because Hugh had teleported me there and tried to starve me into compliance.
“I remember Aunt B,” I said.
Curran didn’t say anything.
“What the hell did he ask me?” I asked.
“If you would accept his help.”
“I feel like I’ve gone nuts.”
“Join the club,” he said.
He braked, thrusting his arm in front of me. The vehicle screeched to a stop.
“What is it?”
“Look.”
Straight ahead a large post-Shift building sat on the corner of the city block. The lights were on and in the glow, I could see people sitting at the desks, phones to their ears. It had to be almost ten o’clock. Who would be calling anyone at this hour . . .
My brain finally noticed the sign illuminated by the feylanterns: SUNSHINE REALTY.
I turned to Curran. “Can we? Can we please?”
My husband’s eyes flared with gold. “Oh yes.”
We left the car running and headed to the door.
“The whole body or just the head?” he asked, cracking his knuckles.
“Just the head.” I pulled magic to me. “Freakier that way.”
Curran tried the door and swung it open for me. Oh goody. Unlocked. I walked in. My husband followed.
A young blond woman looked up at us from her desk. “Hi, there. My name is Elizabeth. Are you here to sell your house?”
“Elizabeth, is the owner in?”
“He is!” She put an extra spoonful of sugar into her voice.
“Can you get him for us?” I asked.
“Who should I say is here?”
“Tell him it’s Kate Lennart.” The first pulse of my magic shook the building. “Daughter of Nimrod.” A stronger pulse. People looked up from their desks. “Blood Blade of Atlanta and her husband, the God-King Curran Lennart.”
The whole building resonated, as if someone had struck a giant gong.
Curran’s human face broke and a monstrous lion head appeared on his shoulders. My husband roared.
WHEN WE GOT home, Curran went to Derek’s house and I went across the street. George opened the door and held her finger to her lips. I snuck after her upstairs.
“Where have you been?” George whispered. “Derek said the Conclave broke up an hour ago.”
“We had to make a stop.” We didn’t kill anybody. After Curran roared, everyone cleared out and then we had a discussion with the owner about appropriate phone marketing etiquette, calling hours, and the meaning of “take us off your calling list.” He walked away on his own power without a scratch on him, but I was confident the unwanted calls would stop.
Conlan was in his room, asleep on the bed. Martha lay next to him, curled up around my son.
“Let Mom have him tonight,” George said. “She lost him yesterday. She needs this.”
I didn’t want to leave him. I wanted to pluck him out of the bed, take him home, and snuggle with him to reassure myself he was okay. But he was asleep and so was Martha. I escaped the house without waking anyone.
As I crossed the street, I saw wet tire marks leading up Christopher and Barabas’s dry driveway. The lights were on.
I should wait. It was late. Even by shapeshifter standards.
No, screw it. I marched to the house and knocked on the front door.
Barabas opened it and stepped aside. “It’s for you.”
Christopher walked out of the kitchen, a cup of tea in his hands. He was barefoot and wearing sweatpants and a simple dark T-shirt. His eyes were clear—no hint of Deimos—and his pale hair framed his face like a silk curtain. “Come in. Tea?”
“No.”
“I’ll get you some chamomile,” Barabas said. “You look like you need it.”
“Right now, I’d have to drown in calming tea for it to do any good.”
“I’ll fix you a cup.” Barabas went into the kitchen.
I slipped my shoes off, walked into the living room, and sat on the sofa. Christopher sat in a big blue chair. There was a quiet elegance about Christopher, even when he slumped barefoot in a chair.
“Go ahead,” he said.
“He put you in a cage. He starved you for weeks. You were covered in filth. I don’t know of any person, aside from Raphael, who has the right to want to kill him more than you. And you invited him to your house. Help me understand this.”
Christopher looked into his cup. “Do you want to kill him?”
I sighed. “No. I don’t. I should, because his centurion killed Aunt B, because he broke Curran’s legs, and because of Mauro. Curran probably will kill him given a chance. But right now, all I want is to understand you.”
“Hugh kidnapped you and starved you nearly to death. Why don’t you want to kill him?”
“Because I met my father. I’ve trained all my life to murder him, and when we met, I put it aside. My father has the impact of a supernova. He had Hugh since he was a small child. He shaped and molded him, and Hugh had no defenses against that. It was never a fair fight. My father bears a lot of responsibility for Hugh d’Ambray. That said, Hugh is a butcher.”
“He is,” Christopher said.
Barabas came over and handed me a cup of steaming chamomile tea. “Drink.”
I took a sip. He landed in a leather chair, pulled a folder from a bag next to it, and began reading the contents, pen in hand.
I drank my tea. We sat in silence for a couple of long minutes. I exhaled. The world settled down.
“Fine,” I said finally, setting the cup on the side table. “Tell me about Hugh d’Ambray.”
Christopher smiled. It was a small smile, tinged with regret. “The first time I realized something was off, I had just been made Tribunus, second in command after Morgan, who was Legatus of the Golden Legion at the time. We were in Boston: your father, Morgan, Hugh, and I. Roland wanted to meet with a senator about matters of magical policy. The meeting went well. We were planning to leave in the morning. A hospital across the street from the hotel caught on fire. Hundreds of burn victims, mostly children. D’Ambray went down there. He healed for hours. By morning, he could barely stand. Morgan sent me down there to tell him Roland wanted to leave.”
Christopher looked into his cup again. “I found him covered in soot, going from child to child, sometimes healing two at a time. D’Ambray told me he wasn’t done. Morgan sent me down again, then went himself. We couldn’t drag Hugh away from those children. He was manic. By the time we came back, your father was awake, sitting in the hotel restaurant, drinking a cup of coffee and watching the rescue crews. He paid the bill, walked across the street, and told Hugh it was time to go. Hugh told him he wasn’t done. He had a boy, maybe twelve, and the child had inhaled hot smoke. It burned him from the inside out. Every time he breathed in, he made this whistling grinding sound. D’Ambray was trying to put him back together. Your father looked at Hugh for a moment and said, ‘It will be fine.’ Hugh dropped the boy to the ground and followed us out. On the way to the cars, he made a joke about a passing woman’s ass.”
I knew that Hugh. The one who made jokes and stepped over burning bodies. The healing Hugh . . . He did save Doolittle. He saved Ascanio too, but he blackmailed me to do it. He’d killed Mauro. Mauro was my friend.
“For the next two years, I was busy with Morgan,” Christopher said. “After I killed him and became Legatus, I looked further into Hugh. As Legatus, I answered only to Roland. I controlled the entirety of the People. I made a study of any potential rivals rising through the People’s ranks, and I studied Hugh. D’Ambray wasn’t an immediate threat. We were equal but separate, and he showed no signs of wanting to take my place. Still, one does due diligence.”