“They’re gone,” I whisper. “Please help me. I need to find my little sister.”
He stares at me for a long moment. He pulls out a pen and a pad of paper, the kind a waiter might use to take your order. He scribbles something on it and hands it to me. The note reads, “Leave now while you can.”
I put my hand out for his pen and write on the same piece of paper. A few months ago, it would have been natural to use a new piece of paper for a new note, but now, the paper we have may be the last we ever have. “Can’t. Must rescue sister.”
He writes, “Then you’ll die.”
“I can tell you stuff about them you probably don’t know.”
He raises his eyebrow in question.
What can I say that he would be interested in? “They’re in political turmoil. They don’t know why they’re here.”
He writes, “How many?”
“Don’t know.”
“Weapons?”
“Don’t know.”
“Plan of attack?”
I bite my lip. I don’t know anything that’s immediately relevant to military strategy, which is obviously what he’s looking for.
“Please help me,” I whisper.
He gives me a long look. His eyes are calculating, devoid of emotion, which is an odd combination with his pink, freckled face. I don’t need this cold-hearted spymaster. What I need is the boy-next-door Dee-Dum who jokes and entertains.
I write, “You owe me, remember?” I give him a half-smile, trying to nudge him back to the playful twin I met at the camp. It works, sort of. His face warms up a bit, probably remembering the girl fight. I wonder how bad the damage was after. Did the demons leave them alone after we left?
He writes, “I’ll take you to where there might be kids. But then you’re on your own.”
I’m so excited I hug him.
“Is there anything else I can get for you, Miss?” He nods vigorously at me, telling me to order something new.
“Uh, yeah. How about…a chocolate bar?” Paige’s bite-sized chocolates are still at the bottom of my pack in the car. I would give a lot to be able to give her chocolate as soon as I see her.
“Of course,” he says as he pulls out a lighter and ignites the paper we’d been writing on. “I can get that for you right away, Miss.” The flames quickly consume the little note, leaving behind only curling remnants and the lingering scent of burnt paper.
He runs the water in the sink at the bar, where he drops the burning note until all traces of the ashes are gone. Then he picks up the fork from the tray and scoops an enormous portion of the cheesecake into his mouth. With a wink, he leaves, showing me his open palm in a signal to stay.
I wear down the carpet some more, pacing in circles until he returns. I think about his refusal to say anything out loud and what he might be doing here.
It seems like the note-writing thing is overly cautious considering the thickness of the walls and the racket in the aerie. I think Raffe would have warned me if the conversations in the rooms could be heard. But I suppose Obi’s people don’t have the benefit of an angel telling them they’re talking too loud. Despite all of Obi’s spies and contacts, it’s possible that I know more about angels than any of them.
When Dee-Dum returns, he brings a servant’s uniform and a large bar of milk chocolate with hazelnuts. I change into the black and white outfit as fast as I can. I’m grateful to see that the shoes are practical, soft-soled flats made for waitresses who are on their feet all day. Shoes I can run in. Things are looking up.
When Dee-Dum takes out his pad of paper, I tell him the angels can’t hear us. He gives me a skeptical look even after I reassure him. He’s finally startled into speaking when I pick up Raffe’s sword.
“What the hell is that?” His voice is low but at least he’s talking. Dee-Dum stares at the sword as I strap the scabbard onto my back.
“Dangerous times, Dee-Dum. Every girl should have a blade on her.” I have to strap it upside-down and at an angle so that it fits my back without the hilt sticking out through my hair.
“That looks like an angel’s sword.”
“Obviously not, otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to lift it, right?”
He nods. “True.”
There’s too much conviction in his voice for a man who’s never tried lifting one for himself. My guess is that he’s tried it several times.
I test the leather thumb strap around the guard to make sure I can unlatch it easily to draw the sword one-handed.
He’s still looking at me a little suspiciously, like he knows I’m lying about something but can’t put his finger on what. “Well, I guess it’s quieter than a gun. But where’d you find a thing like that?”
“In a house. The owner was probably a collector.”