Rain needled the top of my head, stitching a chill all the way down my spine.
Ellis had the SUV running. We scrambled inside as the crunch of cruiser doors echoed, hustled Cress into the backseat between us. Ellis pumped the gas and drove with controlled franticness, and we all held our breath, staring through a veil of neon haze and falling diamonds, waiting for the sirens to catch up. They never did. We hit every green on the way back to Umbra, but all I saw was red.
———
The Little Wolf was waiting.
As we walked into the meeting chamber, her expression went from studiously blank—Laney’s version of furious—to bewildered. She touched Blythe’s mouth. Blood transferred to her fingertips.
“Please tell your thug to unhand me,” Cress said dryly.
Laney blinked. “Untie her, Ren.”
I slid my knife against Cress’s wrist and paused, touching cold carbon to her skin. Then I cut her loose.
If she made a wrong move, she’d regret it.
Laney regarded us each in turn and settled on me. Those big eyes were luminously blue, teal marbled with aqua, little schisms of sea light. They seemed innocent, artless, but she always stared too long until you felt your layers peeling, your tendernesses rising to the surface. She left you feeling soft and raw, exposed. Laney said she learned that look from her mother.
Ordinarily I would’ve thrown myself at her feet and begged for mercy. Now I faced her with reserve, picturing Crito’s face.
“I can explain,” Ellis began.
“Just tell me: Is Crito dead?”
“No,” Cress said, elongating the vowel. “But he is bleeding quite profusely, so it’s certainly a possibility.”
Ellis fidgeted. “This is all my fault. I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s my fault,” Blythe said.
I said nothing.
Cressida raised her eyebrows, amused.
“I don’t care whose fault it is,” Laney said. “I care that you went behind my back. All three of you.”
Blythe crossed her arms. “Technically, you went behind our backs. Trusting an outsider, sending her out alone—”
“Blythe,” Armin said sharply.
“What? I’m saying what we’re all thinking. Right?” Blythe cocked her chin at Cress and I. “You sent her when you should have sent him.”
Laney’s mouth tightened. “He was drunk.”
“Off his arse,” Cress said cheerfully.
“But he’s one of us,” Blythe said. “And he deserved to be a part of it. Drunk or not.”
I suddenly had the uncanny sense that two conversations were occurring: one I understood, and one lying beneath that, full of allusions and riddles.
“What are you—” I began.
“Don’t.” Laney stared stonily at Blythe. “Don’t question me, either of you. That’s not how this works. I run the show.”
“You deliberately withheld information from him.”
“I did what needed to be done to protect us all, Blythe.”
“You’re keeping secrets from us. From your friends.”
“For good reason. Because otherwise you’ll fly off the handle and do something stupid, like you did tonight.”
“Oh, sure. Blame it on good old manic Blythe, and hothead Ren, and tagalong Ellis.”
Ellis winced. Blythe could be brutally blunt, especially when pissed.
I shifted my weight and Laney looked at me, and I almost said, So when were you going to tell me I know Crito? That you’re going after someone from my past?
But something stayed my tongue. Some inarticulable misgiving. The air pulled taut around me, thickening like a web.
He deserved to be a part of it.
Armin spread his hands. “Let’s not character-assassinate each other, okay? Laney knows what she’s doing. Tonight was our window of opportunity. We had to take action.”
“Besides,” Cress said crisply, “I needn’t have shot him if you bumbling twits hadn’t cocked the whole thing up. You weren’t supposed to be there.”
My jaw tensed. “If you hadn’t tried so hard to prove you’re better than me, it might’ve gone smoother.”
“If you weren’t so butthurt about losing to a girl, perhaps it might have.”
“I didn’t lose. And it makes no difference that you’re a girl.”
“You certainly seem to resent the comparison.”
“Stop putting words in my mouth.”
Cress merely gave me that cool, sardonic look.
Hothead Ren indeed. I made myself unclench my fists.
No comment from Laney, but her expression silenced us. A bar ran along the back of the room and Blythe stomped over and sifted through bottles, tossing empties. Shards burst across the floor, amber, tourmaline, crystal, a jagged jewel puzzle. Eventually I realized she didn’t want a drink but simply to break stuff. No one stopped her. That was Blythe: her emotions manifested physically, whirling around her like debris in a cyclone.
“Where does this leave us?” I said.
Armin answered calmly over the shattering glass. “It depends. Gunshot wounds have to be reported to the police. He might seek discreet care to stay off their radar. Last thing he wants is police attention.”