Alex gives me a sympathetic pat on the knee. Of everyone in the room, he knows just how in the dark I’ve been all my life.
Mac leans forward, hands laced across his knees. “Jens was pretty much laughed out of the Council chambers when he accused you, Chloe. Nobody really believes you’re capable of that.”
Etienne clears his throat before taking another sip. He is not one for lies.
Mac closes his eyes briefly, annoyance stark on his handsome face. “Let me clarify: the majority of us thought Belladonna lost his mind.”
“What . . .” I struggle to put my worries and thoughts together coherently. “What were his rationalizations behind why I’d kill”—I hate that word so much—“my team?”
“Why does anyone of our ilk do anything?” Etienne muses. “Power, naturally.”
This completely throws me off guard. “It’s not like I can collect power! Is that what he thought? That I was, I don’t know, stealing crafts?”
Mac quickly interjects, “I don’t think that’s what he—” at the same time Etienne asks, “Why do killers kill?” And it makes me want to throw my cup at him in frustration.
“As I’ve never killed anyone,” I grind out, “I wouldn’t know.”
“Some do it just because they can,” Alex says flatly. “Or because they like to.”
Okay, I am officially horrified.
“Chloe, you are not being accused of murder.” Mac’s words are firm. “Not by us, not by the Council. Belladonna was stripped of his position for even suggesting it.”
Etienne studies me. “Didn’t Whitecomb talk to you about any of this?”
I look down at my tea, which I have to sip due to my throat being so tight and dry. “He said that . . .” Just what did Jonah say? “That Jens accused me because somebody in his family had been murdered by a Creator.”
Etienne nods slowly. “This is true, plucot. Many families could claim the same.”
“Plucot?” Mac asks in an obvious attempt to lighten the mood.
Etienne is incredulous. “It’s a cross between a plum and an apricot, developed by a Nymph not too long ago. Gods, Maccon. Expand your provincial palate every so often, why don’t you?”
Alex fails at holding his laughter in.
Eventually, Etienne and Alex discuss a project the Elf is helping Alex with for his class. I’m not listening, though; I’m too busy mulling over what I’ve just learned. Mac manages to drag my attention back when he suddenly says, “You do realize what Jonah Whitecomb did for you, though, don’t you, Chloe? How he went to war in front of the entire Council, refusing to let Jens Belladonna’s insane accusations even have a moment of contemplation?”
“A true leader was born that day,” Etienne says, eyes serious and thoughtful as he rejoins our conversation. “People have always thought well of him, but he really showed much maturity and intelligence in his arguments and a natural ability to simply take charge over a volatile situation. His influence over the Council grows exponentially each day. I love how that can happen in Annar. He’s eighteen and, at this moment, wields more influence in sessions than many members who have been seated for seventy, a hundred years.”
“He loves you.” Mac leans forward. “He didn’t even think about the consequences he could’ve faced, insisting that the Council remove the head of the Guard from power. Jens had his fans, that’s for sure. Still does. But Jonah insisted, and he got his way.” He looks away from us, out the window. It’s started to drizzle outside.
The mood in the room shifts, even though Mac tries his best to distance himself from the frustration and sadness of his own situation. “Mac,” I say softly, “you never know, someday . . .”
He laughs under his breath. “Right. Izadorna and I—we’ve got a fairy tale love story going, after all.”
What would he think, knowing that my love story wasn’t as cut and dry as he envied? That the fairy tale everyone sees isn’t exactly true? That Connections aren’t the covetous relationships people believe them to be?
Etienne sets his cup down. “It’s not too late, Mac. You could call it off.”
But we all know he’ll never do it. His family, as rigid as he claims, is also close-knit. To say no to Izadorna would be tantamount to turning his back on his family and culture. He won’t do it, no matter how miserable and disillusioned he is.
And the funny thing is, I get it.
Jens Belladonna is staring at me.
He’s sitting at a café across the street with some of his cronies, including the new bossman, Paavo Battletracker. None of the rest of the Guard are staring at me, just Jens, and it’s done is such a blatant way that heat crawls up my neck and spreads across my cheeks.
“You’d think,” Cora says, sliding the magazine she’d been perusing back into its slot, “he has a crush on you or something by the way he’s staring.”