Rise of the Gryphon (Belador #4)(32)

Quinn had offered to turn himself in to Macha when he’d realized his mind had been breached by Kizira. To do so would have meant Quinn’s death, a sanction he would accept for his failure, but Tzader was convinced that the Beladors needed Quinn’s powerful mind to protect Brina and to defend Treoir. Once Quinn had accomplished all he could to help Tzader ensure the future of the Beladors, he would leave. Go far away where he couldn’t be the weak link, because he’d never stopped loving this woman either.

But he’d broken enough vows today. He wouldn’t add admitting to that love when there was no way for them to be together. “What can I do for you, Kizira?”

She stared at him, the love in her eyes fading. “Nothing.”

The words gutted him. He ran his hand through his hair, pacing to and fro, but never more than two steps from her image. He stopped in front of her, torn between doing his job and caring for her. “What do you want me to do then?”

Her face altered into fierce determination, but her shoulders trembled, starting to lose shape. “Leave North America. Now.”

That wouldn’t bloody happen. “Why?”

Sweating, she implored him with her eyes. “Think, Quinn.”

Right. He’d asked a direct question. How was he supposed to know what to ask? He searched his mind, going back over Kizira’s last statement to leave this country. “Does Flaevynn value North America?”

“Sometimes.”

“Would she value it over Treoir?”

The weary arch of her eyebrow said that was a stupid question. Her form wavered again, jamming Quinn’s pulse into overdrive.

Her next words seeped out weary and strained. “Too slow.”

He’d heard about a game once where one person had a hidden word and tried to get another team player to guess the word by giving suggestions. “I’ve got an idea. I’ll say something and you say the first thing that comes to mind. Okay?”

“Yes.”

“Beladors.”

“Enemy.”

He had to fine-tune this better or they’d need two days to share information. “Treoir.”

Her eyes stared off for a moment as she thought, then her gaze returned to him. “Immortality.”

Now he was getting somewhere. Flaevynn must be after immortality, which would make sense. But what made her think she could gain it by capturing Treoir? He thought she couldn’t leave T?μr Medb. He wouldn’t get the answer he needed this way, but Tzader might know, so Quinn moved to specifics. When would Flaevynn make her next move? “Deadline.”

“Three days.”

“For what?” he snapped.

She just sighed.

“Sorry,” he muttered and concentrated. So she was talking about . . . “Tuesday?”

“Funeral.”

Who was going to die? He countered with, “Funeral.”

“Flaevynn.”

The Medb queen would die in three days for some reason? Now all the attacks made sense. She had a deadline for gaining immortality and couldn’t afford to lose.

What happened if Flaevynn lost? “Missed deadline.”

“Retribution.”

What type of vengeance would the crazy queen seek? He tossed back, “Retribution.”

“Annihilation.”

“Location.”

“North America.”

How would a dead queen accomplish that? She’d need an army, which meant . . . “Warriors.”

“Alterants.”

He had the next word before the question fully formed in his mind. “Leader.”

“Evalle.”

Quinn couldn’t accept that. The Medb queen really thought she could send Evalle and other Alterants to destroy North America if she died? Impossible.

Kizira gasped. “More.”

He couldn’t watch this any longer. “Tell me how I can bloody get to you, Kizira.”

She wrenched her neck, struggling as if she was being dragged backward. “Should have told you . . .” Gasping, she said, “Save . . .”

“Who?”

Kizira vanished, a whip of smoky image sucked out of the room.

Dropping his shield, he reached out to touch her mind.

And slammed into a wall. Had Kizira thrown up a barrier powerful enough to keep him out? Or had someone else entered her mind and caught her talking to him?

His hands shook. What should she have told him?

Who had she been telling him to save?

Kizira, Evalle . . . or someone else?





TEN





Don’t attack Macha. Evalle kept repeating that in her head, hoping she’d survive this meeting with the goddess.

Storm had good reason to question whether she could do this.

She’d lost patience while brushing her hair. A tangle had caught in the bristles.

She’d yanked.

The tangle hadn’t loosened.

Note to self: buy new brush.

Showered and dressed, she rode the elevator from her underground apartment back up to ground level the minute sundown was official. Food and sleep had gone a long way toward rejuvenating her. She’d even had an hour to play with Feenix, her pet gargoyle.

Glancing at the freaky armband on her wrist, she muttered, “Mess with me while I’m meeting with Macha and we’ll both end up in the spare parts yard.”