Flay flinched when he said the girl's name. “What are you doing here? I told you back in Alexandria that I would call for you when I wanted you.”
“The war has changed, Flay. Grenoble is in Equatorian hands. Along with its sizeable herds.”
“So I hear. Congratulations. Another triumph for the Greyfriar. Your father would have been proud.”
Gareth's face turned stern. “I know you could have gone to Cesare with the knowledge of my other identity, and whether he believed you or not, you could have used it as an excuse to strike Edinburgh. Thank you for your discretion.”
“Don't thank me. I will go to Cesare when it suits me. I'll ruin you yet, Greyfriar.” Flay lowered her gaze and flicked her claws in and out. “Are you here to kill me? You're welcome to try.”
“I'm not here to fight.”
“You smell scared.”
Gareth willed his nerves to calm. He hesitated as if conflicted. “I'm here…to ask for your help.”
“My help? Do you think I would help you do anything except die?”
“I'm going to kill Cesare.”
“Is that so?”
Gareth could sense the shock that went through her as she backed a few steps farther away. Smart. She wouldn't be lulled into allowing him within reach.
However, she slit her eyes with suspicion. “I assume you've heard, then?”
“Heard what?”
“About your father.” Flay studied the curiosity that flashed uncontrolled over his features as he made a quick gesture of unease. “The king is dead.”
Gareth heard her words and discounted them at first. Even so, he felt his legs weaken at the thought of his father's death, and he found himself breathing steadily through his nose, studying Flay's face for signs of a lie. She smiled slowly, smelling the wash of emotion that poured out of him.
She was telling the truth. He knew it now. Dmitri was gone, his willpower to fight for life finally spent. Gareth would never see his father again.
The prince of Scotland couldn't maintain any pretense. His shoulders dropped with an exhalation of grief and he sank into a chair. “When did he die?”
“Some days ago perhaps. I only just heard myself.” Flay's voice lilted with the joy she felt at causing him pain and uncertainty. She seemed heartened by his sudden vulnerability, like a hunter smelling blood. She couldn't stop herself from pushing deeper as she stared at Gareth's stricken face. “I can't help but recall the last time I saw His Majesty. Last year, I was in London and had the opportunity to speak with the king without Cesare around. It was quite odd. He had a moment of lucidity, as if he was his old self, as if he had some special purpose that allowed him to pull away from the fog that consumed him. It was quite bracing to have a little glimpse of the great Dmitri again. He recognized me, and looked directly into my eyes. And he asked for you.”
Gareth looked up expectantly, eagerly. He couldn't help himself.
Flay continued in a conversational tone. “He said to me ‘I wish Gareth was here with me. I want him to be my son again.’ Before I could answer that of course I had no idea where you were, no one did, his mind faded again. His eyes clouded. Your father disappeared inside himself, never to emerge again.”
Gareth grasped the arms of the chair, threatening to rip them from the base. His heart shuddered as she twisted the knife inside it, but his anger grew. He glared at the war chief. “Flay, you know that there was little in this world I cared for more than my father. Therefore, might I offer you the advice that you should refrain from goading me at this time.”
Flay paused at his cold rage and betrayed apprehension when the prince made a slight movement, but she soon recovered her advantage. Then she mimicked wide-eyed surprise at his threat. “I only tell you the final words I heard from your magnificent father to give you some comfort.”
Gareth slowed his aching breath, willing his claws to stay sheathed. He had come to her with a purpose. He had hoped to spark Flay's once-powerful infatuation for him. His plan was minimal, it was true. Adele always accused him of being unable to think ahead; she was more correct than he liked to admit.
Now, however, Gareth realized what he needed to do. He almost smiled at the thought that his father had given him a last gift: a way to get a grip on Flay and perhaps a handle on the future. It was for Adele. After several minutes of menacing silence, he shook his head and straightened. His voice was soft, but laced with resolve. “I've made a terrible mistake, Flay.”
She gave a derisive laugh at the ridiculous boyish simplicity of his statement.
He continued, “I don't know if it's possible to repair the damage I've done, but I will try.”