Rone set his jaw. Growled.
“Come on.” He tugged her down the road, not as quickly as before, but she stumbled at the pace anyway.
Looked like Rone was taking her home after all. Just not in the way he’d originally hoped.
Chapter 7
She’d sensed a numen. Which one, she wasn’t sure. Maybe Kuracean, the level-six numen bound to Rist, Heath’s brother. Or perhaps it had been Alys or Kaili with Isepia. That numen was more humanoid in appearance. Kazen would want to use one of the less obvious ones. That he’d come for her himself, and in daylight, told her how angry he must be. And while part of Sandis yearned to see one of the other vessels again, she knew what getting too close would mean. Pain for them and pain for her. Sandis didn’t think she could bear it.
Did Rist know how his brother had died? Did he mourn? Had he been allowed to?
Sandis pushed that thought away. Regardless, she had sensed a numen nearby, and Ireth had pressed fire into her mind. What strange comfort that small act had given her. If only the fire horse weren’t trapped on the ethereal plane, far from Sandis’s reach.
She couldn’t tell Rone.
He knelt across from her in a moderately sized flat, furnished simply but with sturdy chairs and tables. It even had a second room and a small hallway, which she assumed led to a toilet. His hallway and toilet. His flat. He’d taken her, a thief, out of harm’s way and to temporary safety.
She’d painted a target on his back.
Rone groaned. “Take off the coat. It’s soaking wet.”
Sandis pulled the itchy, sodden garment closer around her instead. The brand on her back seemed to sizzle against it.
Rone leaned back on his hands. He sat on the floor, his legs loosely crossed, giving her a decent-sized berth.
He wiped a hand down his face. “I can’t believe I said ‘muck kerself’ to a grafter.”
Several expletives followed the statement.
Sandis bowed her head. “I’m sorry.” Her neck itched where it was coated in sludgy rain. She didn’t scratch it.
Another realization surfaced. Kazen was looking for her himself . . . and he’d taken a fresh sample of blood from her the day she’d run. How long would it take for her blood to leave his system? She frantically began counting . . . three days. It had been three days. Kazen usually refreshed himself every week or two, depending on how often he had to use Ireth. But was that to prevent any lapse of control, or did his system clear her blood out that quickly? If he found her before that time was up . . .
“What are you thinking?”
Sandis’s head snapped up. She must have worn quite an expression, for surprise passed over Rone’s features and he held his hands up in mock surrender. “Just asking. Your breathing quickened all of a sudden.”
Sandis breathed deeply to calm herself. “Nothing.”
Rone frowned. “You’re a grafter, aren’t you?”
The brand burned anew beneath her coat. Better that he should suspect her of being a grafter, associated with the occult, than of being a direct part of it.
Rone tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling for a long moment. Closed his eyes. His lungs inflated, deflated. Judging from his tight forehead and slack spine, he wasn’t angry, just . . . exasperated. Or simply exhausted. He muttered something about Godobia, the country immediately south of Kolingrad. A few more seconds passed before he asked, “And why are you in trouble?”
There were all sorts of reasons a grafter could be in trouble with another grafter. Sandis could think of three valid ones off the top of her head: She owed someone money. She’d killed a useful colleague. She’d traded insider secrets.
It felt wrong to lie to Rone, so she simply said nothing.
A growl echoed in his throat. He stood and ran a hand back through his hair, only to pull it free with a scowl—his fingers were covered with lingering rain sludge. He tromped toward the door.
“Stop.”
Rone paused and looked at her.
Sandis swallowed. “You can’t go out there. They want you, too, now.”
He shook his head. “They don’t know who I am.”
“They do. Or they will.” She looked back at the hardwood floor beneath her. It was old and stained. She picked at a crack between planks. “It’s not hard for them to find the information they need. If you’re connected to me . . . they’ll do whatever they can to bring you down, too. They move like shadows.”
“Is that how you knew they were coming?” he asked, sarcasm weighing down his words. “You saw ‘shadows’?”
She narrowed her eyes. “I saved your life.”
“It wouldn’t have needed saving if you hadn’t stolen my amarinth. Speaking of which.” He strode toward her with his hand outstretched.
Sandis scooted backward until her shoulder hit a chair.
Rone groaned. “I’d rather not force it from you, but I need it.”
“It’s dead for twenty-three hours,” she countered.
Rone grabbed another dirty fistful of his hair. “You are incredibly frustrating. It doesn’t matter. I want it. It’s mine.” Another growl. “I don’t have time for this—any of this. I have to find someone sooner, not later, and—”
Sandis perked. “You’re looking for someone?”
Rone’s forehead wrinkled. “Yeah, and now I’ll have to do it discreetly because your scumsack posse is probably infesting the whole damn neighborhood.” He moved toward the door and punched it, then shook out his hand.
“I’m sorry,” she offered.
He glanced at her.
Sandis steeled herself. “I know I haven’t exactly earned your favor, but please, hear me out.”
He waited.
She stood. It felt appropriate to stand. Her wet clothes itched with grit and rain. “I need help.”
“I don’t get involved with grafters.” Rone folded his arms.
“I’m not a grafter.”
Rone spoke over her. “I did once, and I swore it would be the last time. No offense, but they’re nasty sons of whores who will skin you alive if you so much as look at them wrong.”
“I’m aware.” The words were flat and without feeling. Rone frowned.
She took a deep breath. “I’m looking for someone, too. A family member. His name is Talbur Gwenwig.” She waited for recognition to pass Rone’s face, but it didn’t, and her hope dwindled. If only it could be that easy. “The grafters are after me because I ran away from them. I saw this man’s name in a bank record, and I thought he might be related to me.”
“Sandis Gwenwig?” he asked.
She nodded. “I . . . I don’t have any other family. I’ve never run before, because while the grafters are horrible—” A lump formed in her throat as dozens of memories churned through her mind. Most of them didn’t even involve her, outside of as a witness. She swallowed. “—horrible people, they fed and clothed me. I had . . . friends . . . there. I told myself it was better than living and dying on the street. But I thought, if I could just find Talbur Gwenwig . . . I’m sure he’s related to me. It’s not a common surname. If I could just find him, maybe he would take me in and help me. Hide me. Pay Kazen off.” But maybe I would bring the grafters down on him, too. Unless they couldn’t find him, either.
Rone dropped his arms. “You’re a slave.” It wasn’t a question.
“I didn’t choose to be.”
Rone turned away. Grabbed the back of his neck with both hands. Turned back. “Ah hell.”
“I’m sorry,” she tried again. “I’ll give it back. Here.” She plucked the amarinth from the back of her waistband and held it out to him. “I didn’t plan on taking it . . . I just thought it could help me. And it has. I should thank you for not finding me sooner.”
Rone stared at the amarinth. “Helped you how?”
“I jumped off the clock tower.”
He looked impressed.
She continued holding out her hand to him. “Please, take it. Just help me find Talbur Gwenwig.”
Rone stepped forward and snatched the amarinth from her palm. His countenance instantly relaxed. But he shook his head. “I don’t get involved with grafters.”
“I’m not a grafter.”
“Close enough.”