His tone freezes. “I’ll thank you to leave my parents out of this.”
I swallow and glare back and forth between them. “How much control?”
He flicks a hand.
“How much?”
“Only enough to ensure you didn’t bleeding kill me while I trained you.”
My hand reaches out to press beneath his chin. “You tricked me.”
“I did no such thing. But thisss”—he glances toward my fingers clamping down—“this reaction has to stop. You’re becoming downright unbearable.” He shoots a glare at Rasha as if to blame her for egging me on.
I don’t care. I don’t release his narrow face. Just tilt my head at him. “Rasha, tell me about his parents. How were they irresponsible?”
“Myles is the illegitimate son of a Cashlin lord and King Sedric’s aunt.”
“And?”
She stays quiet long enough that I finally let go of Myles to glance at her, only to discover her staring at me. She finally tips her head forward, as if willing me to understand.
I frown. A Cashlin lord? Wait . . . “Are you saying his powers are Luminescent?” I almost laugh at the strangeness, and for a moment, the wretched mood in here is broken. “Is that why you hate him so much?”
“I hate him because of his despicable personality. The fact that he’s an abomination to the Luminescent race is a side point.”
I look at Myles and, without ever in a million years wanting to, feel the oddest twinge of something very much like compassion for him. Before I know it I’ve stepped back and muttered something Colin would’ve said: “Just because this world is on the verge of fear and death doesn’t mean those have to overrun who you are in the midst of it, Myles.”
He actually laughs. “Funny sentiment coming from you, and much easier said than done, methinksss you’ll find.”
CHAPTER 33
IT’S A LONG REST OF THE DAY.
And an even longer night.
One in which I can barely contain my impatience with the amount of time we’re wasting detailing what to ask Lady Isobel, whether it’d be wiser to attempt going for Draewulf while we’re still over the ocean or to wait until we’ve landed, and how exactly to use our abilities not only to get at Draewulf, but to stop the Dark Army.
The discussion flip-flops round and round, like a busted pinwheel, until my head is near busted as well. “I’m not waiting to free Eogan until we reach Tulla. We can make plans forever, but it’s not going to matter if we don’t actually do something.”
Myles peers at me. “You think those guardsss or wraithsss will let us within an inch of Draewulf or Lady Isobel if we don’t plan for every possible scenario? You may as well seal lover boy’sss death sentence yourself.”
I snort. “Draewulf and Isobel are contained with us on a flying metal box. We can’t arrange for every possible scenario, but I’d say we have a fairly good idea. Beyond that, your mirages will get us to Lady Isobel and then Draewulf. If your training has worked in the way you’re so convinced, we should be able to end this quickly and go home.”
“And what happens when Isobel or Draewulf or even you, my dear, decide to let loose powers we’ve not prepared to deal with? Handle it wrong and we’ll bring down this whole airship with usss in it.”
“If we don’t do this right, you’ll never get another chance,” Rasha says in a soft voice.
I bite my lip and stare at both of them. After a second I nod and rise, then walk out of the room because I don’t need their blasted lectures. The airship’s droning is pelting my head. Yes, we have a plan, but what part of “Eogan’s dying” do they not understand? I meander down the tiny hall to the metal door standing between us and the dining room. Will the spider in my bones be able to open it?
I try eighteen.
Nineteen.
Twenty-one times.
But apparently my vortex abilities don’t work on metal.
My night is spent lying on the floor listening to Rasha breathing and the wraiths hissing while my head is swearing that Eogan is dying while we bide our time. It’s the following morning when the large guard shows up to let us out of our quarters. He brings a squadron of two soldiers and two wraiths along—I hear the latter before they even enter the hall, with their monotonous, unending murmurings.
I avoid looking at them or replying to their hissed words that reach out to me like bony talons reaching for a fly, and instead focus in on their stench, which is so bad I half expect Myles to vomit. When I glance over, I catch Rasha smirking at him.
He withers his gaze just as the wraiths step in front of Rasha’s Cashlin soldiers. “Only these threeeeee,” they hiss, while the big guard informs the men that only Rasha, Myles, and I are being allowed into the dining area and deck.