Bastian’s feral grin widened. “I will, though.”
And that felt too true, somehow, true in a way that made no sense. It plucked at Lore’s chest, made thrumming harp strings of her ribs. The air around the three of them seemed momentarily thicker, as if they’d created their own atmosphere.
Gabe stepped away, out of the pull of their collective gravity, the wind ruffling at his short hair. He crossed his arms over his chest and lifted his chin, stretching the scant few inches he had on the prince for all they were worth. “If we go with you, you’ll get us into the vaults?”
“Of course, old friend.” Bastian turned and started walking again. The wall of the Church dividing the Citadel from the rest of Dellaire loomed out of the dark, casting deep shadows. “I’ll get you into the vaults, you’ll tell me what exactly my father is up to. A win for everyone.”
Another darted glance between Gabe and Lore, another attempt at communicating without words. They weren’t very good at it. Gabe’s glare didn’t tell her anything other than that he was angry enough to kick a hole through one of these perfectly manicured trees, and Lore’s shrug, meant to convey acceptance, only made his jaw clench harder.
A small culvert covered by an iron grate was set into the base of the wall, nearly impossible to see until they were right on it, but big enough for a grown man to climb through. Bastian bent, producing an iron pick from his boot and wiggling it into the lock. It came undone easily, falling to the grass with a soft clunk.
“But before all that,” Bastian announced, lifting aside the iron grate and setting it carefully against the wall. “The two of you could use an adventure.” He ducked into the small tunnel, gesturing for them to follow, and was gone with a slight splash that made Lore wince.
Another fucking tunnel. And this one had water.
“He’s playing with us,” Gabe muttered, barely above a whisper. The heat of him was a beacon against the night air. “This will probably end in both of us bleeding out in an alley after we tell him August’s plans.”
“I think you can take him, if it comes down to that.”
“While I appreciate the sentiment, I don’t see that it helps us.”
“And I don’t see a way around it.” Lore ducked down toward the grate, but Gabe’s hand vised around her arm.
She looked up at him, scowling. “What exactly do you think he’ll do if we don’t march to his orders, Gabriel? Just shrug and let us continue on our merry way? Unless you want a one-way ticket to the Isles in less than an hour, we’re following the damn Sun Prince into the gutter.”
They glared at each other for a moment before Gabe let her go, hand flexing outward exaggeratedly. It made the candle inked on his palm stretch to odd proportions. “Fine.”
He dropped through the grate first. Lore followed. A splash, the hem of her dressing gown immediately soaked through. The tunnel was so dark it took her eyes a minute to adjust, and when they did, she made sure not to look down. She really didn’t want to see what kind of garbage she might be marinating in.
“I am curious, though.” Bastian’s voice floated out of the dark right in front of her as if there’d been no lull in their conversation, making Lore jump. A lighter flicked, mother-of-pearl and gleaming, illuminating Bastian’s face as he brought the flame to a thin cigarette in his mouth. “What, exactly, do the vaults have to do with anything?”
“You’ll find out after you get us into them,” Lore said, summoning a bravado she didn’t feel. “We can turn around and go now, if you’re that interested.”
“A negotiator,” Bastian mused. He approached the grate on the opposite wall, the orange glow of gas lamps seeping through the metal lattice. Boosting himself up onto the ledge, he pulled the iron pick from his boot again and went to work. “As interested as I am in whatever you have going on at the vaults, I think it prudent to satisfy my other questions beforehand.”
“Weren’t you going to blackmail all the answers out of us anyway?” Gabe gritted out.
Bastian glanced over his shoulder, a bladed grin tugging up his mouth and coming nowhere near the dark glitter of his eyes. “Don’t underestimate yourself, Gabriel. I’m sure you can find a way to give me only half-truths. You learned from the best, after all.”
Gabe’s scowl deepened.
The Sun Prince gestured to Lore with a courtly hand. “Ladies first.”
His hands clasped her waist before she had a chance to move forward on her own, pulling her close enough for his breath to stir her hair. “This opens on a street that leads straight to the docks,” he said in a whisper, like he was telling a secret. “Don’t stray, there’s all sorts of unsavory types who congregate here. But you know that.”
He didn’t give her a moment to react, boosting her up to the ledge with the grate. The rock was slick enough that she had to grab the iron and pull herself through immediately, if she didn’t want to splash back down into questionable water.
The culvert opened up onto a near-abandoned side street. Brine-scented wind pressed the wet hem of her dressing gown against her legs, making her shiver. She pulled the edges of it tighter, tied the belt again. Blush-pink was decidedly not the right color for sneaking out of the Citadel through a storm drain.
This was a street she recognized. She’d run belladonna here once, sewn into the pockets of an old jacket of Mari’s, one of the first times she was trusted to undertake a mission on her own.
But you know that.
Her stomach twisted and roiled like an underwater current.
Behind her, Bastian emerged from the culvert, looking hardly worse for wear. He pulled three black domino masks from his pocket, and then a length of white linen. “Here, you’ll both need these.”
“Another masquerade?” Gabe sounded like the prospect was almost as appealing as gnawing off a finger.
“Hardly,” Bastian scoffed. “Everyone wears them at the ring. These fights are illegal, technically, and no one wants their identity revealed.” He flashed a grin. “Be thankful I’m not making you wear a sack over your head. Half the nobles do.”
Scowling at Bastian, Lore tied the mask over her eyes as the Sun Prince did the same. Then he took the length of white linen he’d pulled out along with the masks and began wrapping it around his hands.
Like a boxer.
Bleeding God in a bandage.
Gabe’s face was a thundercloud as Bastian handed him his own mask, but he didn’t say anything. He just tied it on, and loomed, and glared. The mask softened him, almost, hiding the eye patch from view. Made him look less like someone whose life was indelibly marked by violence.
Bastian clapped his wrapped hands together. “Now then. Nothing like a refreshing trip through a storm drain. Onward.” He started down the alleyway. Sharing a pointed look through their masks, Lore and Gabe followed.