“This was done with your ink?”
The bargain keeper The Villain had hired to do it was a skittish old man who moved the ink like a liquid he could bend and control. Evie had known there was magic in the bargain she’d made, but she had no idea the magic lived inside the ink itself.
Clare narrowed her eyes, a satisfied smile spreading wide across her mouth. “Indeed. I didn’t realize this was the purpose he’d use it for.” She turned Evie’s hand over, closely inspecting the other side.
Pulling it from her grasp, Evie tucked it back into her side, feeling more than a little defensive of her boss. “It was a necessity, of course, for someone in his position.”
The Villain looked at her from the corner of the room, almost appearing grateful for her assistance.
The words Evie spoke didn’t seem to register to The Villain’s sister. “Yes, I’m sure he tells you everything he does is necessary. Everything has a reason, no matter how nefarious.”
“Nefarious is in the job title. Now, perhaps you’d be willing to quit stalling and tell me the name of every person who’s bought blue ink from you in the last three months.” The Villain gritted his teeth, standing to full height and practically creating shadows around him with his anger.
For the first time since they’d arrived, Clare looked at her brother like he was someone to fear, someone to run from. Evie knew that’s exactly what he wanted.
“I only sold two jars in the last month, Trystan. The first was to a forlorn widower, and the other…”
“What? The other what?” Tatianna pressed.
Clare winced before pulling a tattered book out from underneath the floorboards. “I didn’t know who he was until he signed his name.”
The Villain’s hand landed heavily on the table. “Tell me. Now.”
“The man introduced himself as Lark Moray.” She bit her lip and pointed to the signature below the name. “But he signed the ledger with one of the Valiant Guards’ sigils.”
The boss pored over the book, flipping page after page until every muscle seemed to lock at once. Then he turned on his heel and strode past them both, yanking the door open and striding out.
Clare stalked after him, gripping the black shirt on his forearms. “When is it going to stop, Tryst?” Her voice rose with each word. “When will it be enough that you’ll finally stop?”
Evie and Tatianna followed them both outside, standing and watching the scene helplessly.
Her boss stood there quietly for a moment before gently prying Clare’s fingers from his arm. “King Benedict went after you and Malcolm and everything I’ve built to oppose him. I knew that when this day would come, only one of us would make it out alive. I’ve learned to live with that.”
“This last hateful decade of revenge can end—you can make it so! He’d hardly recognize you now. You can move on.” The crack in Clarissa’s voice splintered something in Evie’s heart.
“You knew King Benedict?” Evie asked quietly.
His brows pulled down as a haunted look came over his dark eyes. “I worked for him…for a time.” He sucked in a large breath, seeming to brace himself for pain.
Evie’s head whipped back before she looked at him with wide eyes. “You worked for King Benedict? When?”
Trystan, The Villain, looked at Evie with a gravity that made her heart sink. “Before.”
“Before what?” Evie said, exasperated and a little fearful of his response.
“Before I became…what I am now.” There was a sharpness punctuating the sentence, like the very idea was painful.
“A monster,” Clarissa snapped, a bitter, wounded expression on her face. Before Evie could assess her boss’s reaction, though, Clarissa spun around and stormed back inside her home. She slammed the door, and the daisies painted on the wooden surface seemed to jump from the force.
“Sir, that’s not— I don’t think you’re—um.” Evie couldn’t think of the right thing to say, so instead she settled for asking, “What happened between you and King Benedict?”
The Villain’s face was unreadable as he said, “I don’t see how that is important for you to know, Sage.”
The words weren’t said to be cruel—Evie could tell he meant them as a dry and logical statement. Still, it felt pointed, and it stung. The blow of it must’ve shown on her face, because his mask seemed to crack just the tiniest bit.
“Sage, I did not mean—”
“I think it’s time to head back, don’t you?” she said, then started to walk into the forest without waiting to see if anyone followed. She kept her shoulders back, ignoring the prickling along the sides of her neck and cheeks. The grass crunched under her boots as she walked, helping drown out the sound of Tatianna’s calls for her to wait for them. Evie just wanted to return to the manor before one more ridiculous thing left her lips.
Tatianna’s voice grew distant, but Evie still heard her say, “Were you always this dumb, Trystan? Or is it a recently acquired skill?”
“As always, thank you for your help, Tati,” The Villain replied as the heavy fall of his boots caught up to her.
Sunlight brushed against Evie’s cheek, but she no longer felt the heat as keenly as she did before. Branches brushed against her arms as she was suddenly struck by all the things she didn’t know.
And all the ways that lack of knowledge could get Trystan killed if she didn’t find a way to stop it—soon.
Chapter 18
The Villain
His assistant was being painfully silent.
The two of them walked slowly back toward “Massacre Manor” after another disastrous family reunion. What spiteful god did Trystan anger to endure seeing not one but two of his family members in so short a span of time?
Trystan glanced over his shoulder to check on Tatianna, but his healer, one of the only tolerable people in his acquaintance, was staring at his sister’s front door with a longing expression.
He shrugged and continued bounding after his fleeing assistant. Tatianna would follow when she was ready.
More importantly, Benedict’s angle was beginning to become clear, sending the traitor through Trystan’s family members. To hurt him? Possible but unlikely. The king knew very well Trystan’s nature didn’t leave room to be hurt by petty power plays.
Though if anything stung, it was the anger Clarissa had inflicted when she’d called him a “monster.” It had not been his first experience with that word—he was quite at home with it, in fact; he’d learned to enjoy the sound of it. But it had been said with Clare’s face and her voice that was so like his mother’s that it felt like his chest had been cleaved in two.
In Trystan’s deepest, most private thoughts, he imagined what it would be like to walk into his brother’s tavern a different man. Clare and Tatianna would be sitting there, hands linked, waving him over with a glass of wine outstretched for him. Trystan would sit with them all, enjoy their company, and feel a sense of belonging among his family.
But that would never happen.
More proof that emotions were a useless inconvenience he needed to shove aside at every opportunity. Because of them, things kept going wrong in every sense of the word. Malcolm seemed to think there was some sort of truce between them, his sister looked at him like the scum on the bottom of her shoe, his workers were growing more restless by the day with the impending threats, and his assistant…
His assistant was walking in long strides, swinging her arms so hard that she looked a bit like a windmill. “You’re being quiet…which is unusual,” he blurted out and almost smacked his palm against his forehead.
She halted abruptly and shot him an astonished expression.
Yes, I did just make an ass of myself. Thank you for noticing.
The regret he was feeling must have been a direct result of spending too much time with his assistant, for he never wasted time on it if he could help it.