Sweet Ruin(38)

Everything about her was different. When she’d pointed out his solitary chair, he’d barely stopped himself from explaining that he had allies he’d die for. That they lived communally, and he came here only for respite.

Damn it, information flowed to him.

He’d had no impulse to tell the lovely shopkeeper Loa his secrets. Never in all his lifetimes had he divulged one. So why the urge to with Josephine?

He had little appetite, had never been so eager to interrogate a subject. Get focused, Rune. He dug in his pocket for his talisman. He rolled it in his hand, contemplating those indecipherable symbols yet again.

He’d received the talisman the day his sire had died, the day Magh had made her decree about Rune’s future. He’d pointed out the flaw in her plan to make him an assassin. . . .

“I can’t trace.” If he could, he would have long escaped.

“You possess demon blood; you can learn from my guards.”

Excellent. He would learn to teleport, then use that ability to get free. He hadn’t thought Magh the “Canny” would be so stupid—

“I might reunite you with your dam, should you serve me well.”

As if struck, he swayed on his feet. “She still . . . lives?” For years, he’d believed her dead, the most likely fate for a slave who’d disappeared in the night. He pictured his dam’s lively blue eyes. She’d always had a ready smile for Rune, striving so hard to mask her misery from him. “You or your henchmen killed her.”

“As much as I would have enjoyed that, she lives.”

“I-I don’t believe you.” Gods give me the power . . .

“No?” Magh snapped her fingers. One of the guards traced to Rune, handing him a small bag. The homespun material carried traces of his dam’s scent—tinged with fear.

He ripped into the bag. Parchment had been folded around his mother’s talisman, her sole possession. He opened the note, scanning the familiar handwriting and the language of demons, but some of the script was smudged, illegible:

My cherished son, please accept this talisman as a token of my love. It will always remind y ________________________________________.

I know not the runes, but I believe th __________________. You must ______________________________________________ constantly and nev ______________________________________.

Do not allow the queen to use me to h________. Strength and power flow through our family’s line, and the years will bear out the following tru _______________________________________________.

Never forget that. I love you so much and only wis _______________.

Rune swallowed, dragging his gaze from the letter to Magh. “ Where is my dam?”

The queen raised her blond brows. “I cannot tell you, else forfeit my leverage.”

“The letter is smudged.” He held it up accusingly. “I can’t read all of it.”

“The poor dear wept as she wrote it. I said she lives—I didn’t say she was glad of that fact. There are some fates worse than death.”

His breath left him. He would do whatever this evil bitch asked of him to free his mother.

And Rune had.

The old queen had been right about his prospects as an assassin, about the value of his seductive nature. His first target had sneaked Rune into her sanctuary, lowering all her protections. A fatal mistake.

He’d been more poisonous than anyone could’ve dreamed.

With the deed done, Rune had returned to Magh like a trained dog, leaving behind a contorted corpse and a puddle of his own vomit.

But after years of his faithful service, Magh had the last laugh, selling him to a brothel—

A sudden chill overtook him. He glanced around, getting the impression he wasn’t alone.

Moments passed. Another chill skittered up his back; then the feeling was gone. Odd. What could have affected him like that?

Josephine returned not long after, distracting him from his thoughts. She wore a white robe and her necklace. Her small feet were bare. A minuscule silver ring circled one of her tiny toes.

His attention roamed upward. None of her makeup had washed off. Those shadows still highlighted her eyes and cheekbones, and her translucent skin remained as pale as alabaster. She must have a glamour in place.

His gaze locked on the helix rings at the top of one ear. Alluring female. “You don’t see many immortals with piercings. At least, not freeborn ones.” He’d been spared because no one relished drawing his blood.

“Why?”

“Long ago, they were used to mark slaves.”

“That so, huh.” She sat at the table across from him, meeting his eyes with an unexpected directness—as if she were challenging him. Did he detect a hint of superiority?