The dinner was late enough in the day to give her time to stew.
There was a note at the end of the invitation, in an elegant yet efficient scrawl.
A gift—and one I hope you’ll wear tomorrow night.
She chucked the card onto the table and waved a hand to Aedion or Rowan to open the box as she walked to the window and looked out toward the castle. It was blindingly bright in the morning sun, glimmering as though it had been crafted from pearl and gold and silver.
The slither of ribbon, the thud of the box lid opening, and—
“What the hell is that?”
She glanced over her shoulder. Aedion held a large glass bottle in his hands, full of amber liquid.
She said flatly, “Perfumed skin oil.”
“Why does he want you to wear it?” Aedion asked too quietly.
She looked out the window again. Rowan stalked over and perched on the armchair behind her, a steady force at her back. Aelin said, “It’s just another move in the game we’ve been playing.”
She’d have to rub it into her skin. His scent.
She told herself that she’d expected nothing less, but …
“And you’re going to use it?” Aedion spat.
“Tomorrow, our one goal is to get the Amulet of Orynth from him. Agreeing to wear that oil will put him on unsure footing.”
“I don’t follow.”
“The invitation is a threat,” Rowan replied for her. She could feel him inches away, was aware of his movements as much as her own. “Two companions—he knows how many of us are here, knows who you are.”
“And you?” Aedion asked.
The fabric of his shirt sighed against Rowan’s skin as he shrugged. “He’s probably figured out by now that I’m Fae.”
The thought of Rowan facing Arobynn, and what Arobynn might try to do—
“And what about the demon?” Aedion demanded. “He expects us to bring it over in all our finery?”
“Another test. And yes.”
“So when do we go catch ourselves a Valg commander?”
Aelin and Rowan glanced at each other. “You’re staying here,” she said to Aedion.
“Like hell I am.”
She pointed to his side. “If you hadn’t been a hotheaded pain in my ass and torn your stitches when you sparred with Rowan, you could have come. But you’re still on the mend, and I’m not going to risk exposing your wounds to the filth in the sewers just so you can feel better about yourself.”
Aedion’s nostrils flared as he reined in his temper. “You’re going to face a demon—”
“She’ll be taken care of,” Rowan said.
“I can take care of myself,” she snapped. “I’m going to get dressed.” She grabbed her suit from where she’d left it drying over an armchair before the open windows.
Aedion sighed behind her. “Please—just be safe. And Lysandra is to be trusted?”
“We’ll find out tomorrow,” she said. She trusted Lysandra—she wouldn’t have let her near Aedion otherwise—but Lysandra wouldn’t necessarily know if Arobynn was using her.
Rowan lifted his brows. Are you all right?
She nodded. I just want to get through these two days and be done with it.
“That will never stop being strange,” Aedion muttered.
“Deal with it,” she told him, carrying the suit into the bedroom. “Let’s go hunt ourselves a pretty little demon.”
39 
“Dead as dead can be,” Aelin said, toeing the upper half of the Wyrdhound’s remains. Rowan, crouching over one of the bottom bits, growled his confirmation. “Lorcan doesn’t pull punches, does he?” she said, studying the reeking, blood-splattered sewer crossroads. There was hardly anything left of the Valg captains, or the Wyrdhound. In a matter of moments, Lorcan had massacred them all as if they were chattel. Gods above.
“Lorcan probably spent the entire fight imagining each of these creatures was you,” Rowan said, rising from his crouch bearing a clawed arm. “The stone skin seems like armor, but inside it’s just flesh.” He sniffed at it, and snarled in disgust.
“Good. And thank you, Lorcan, for finding that out for us.” She strode to Rowan, taking the heavy arm from him, and waved at the prince with the creature’s stiff fingers.
“Stop that,” he hissed.
She wriggled the demon’s fingers a bit more. “It’d make a good back-scratcher.”
Rowan only frowned.
“Killjoy,” she said, and chucked the arm onto the torso of the Wyrdhound. It landed with a heavy thump and click of stone. “So, Lorcan can bring down a Wyrdhound.” Rowan snorted at the name she’d coined. “And once it’s down, it seems like it stays down. Good to know.”
Rowan eyed her warily. “This trap wasn’t just to send Lorcan a message, was it?”
“These things are the king’s puppets,” she said, “so his Grand Imperial Majesty now has a read on Lorcan’s face and smell, and I suspect he will not be very pleased to have a Fae warrior in his city. Why, I’d bet that Lorcan is currently being pursued by the seven other Wyrdhounds, who no doubt have a score to settle on behalf of their king and their fallen brother.”
Rowan shook his head. “I don’t know whether to throttle you or clap you on the back.”
“I think there’s a long line of people who feel the same way.” She scanned the sewer-turned-charnel-house. “I needed Lorcan’s eyes elsewhere tonight and tomorrow. And I needed to know whether these Wyrdhounds could be killed.”
“Why?” He saw too much.
Slowly, she met his gaze. “Because I’m going to use their beloved sewer entrance to get into the castle—and blow up the clock tower right from under them.”
Rowan let out a low, wicked chuckle. “That’s how you’re going to free magic. Once Lorcan kills the last of the Wyrdhounds, you’re going in.”
“He really should have killed me, considering the world of trouble that’s now hunting him through this city.”
Rowan bared his teeth in a feral smile. “He had it coming.”
Cloaked, armed, and masked, Aelin leaned against the stone wall of the abandoned building while Rowan circled the bound Valg commander in the center of the room.
“You’ve signed your death warrant, you maggots,” the thing inside the guard’s body said.
Aelin clicked her tongue. “You must not be a very good demon to be captured so easily.”
It had been a joke, really. Aelin had picked the smallest patrol led by the mildest of the commanders. She and Rowan had ambushed the patrol just before midnight in a quiet part of the city. She’d barely killed two guards before the rest were dead at Rowan’s hand—and when the commander tried to run, the Fae warrior had caught him within heartbeats.
Rendering him unconscious had been the work of a moment. The hardest part had been dragging his carcass across the slums, into the building, and down into the cellar, where they’d chained him to a chair.
“I’m—not a demon,” the man hissed, as if every word burned him.
Aelin crossed her arms. Rowan, bearing both Goldryn and Damaris, circled the man, a hawk closing in on prey.
“Then what’s the ring for?” she said.
A gasp of breath—human, labored. “To enslave us—corrupt us.”
“And?”
“Come closer, and I might tell you.” His voice changed then, deeper and colder.
“What’s your name?” Rowan asked.
“Your human tongues cannot pronounce our names, or our language,” the demon said.