Smoke and Iron (The Great Library #4)(81)

“Oh, I would have, for a few days after your dramatic departure,” she said. “You beautiful fool. I forgave you at least an hour ago, as soon as I knew I might see you again.”

He was almost shaken by that. He hadn’t realized until she was here, real, how much he’d missed her explosive brilliance and calm energy. She released him and stepped away, and the next was Dario, who offered only a grave handshake. “Still alive after all,” he said.

“And I see you’ve already found yourself a decent tailor,” Jess said, and pulled him into an embrace. Dario returned it briefly, but with real feeling. “You had to tell your cousin your nickname for me.”

“Of course,” Dario said. “I tell everyone to call you Scrubber. And as for my tailor, one must keep up standards.” Dario’s tone was light, but he was taking in Brendan’s bloody clothes, and Wolfe, who was staring motionless at Santi. Taking in all information, as he usually did, even if he came to the wrong conclusion half the time. Well, that was unfair. A quarter of the time.

Dario stepped aside, and Glain gave him a grin and a one-armed, briskly martial hug before stepping back.

That left Captain Santi, who was moving straight for Wolfe, slowly, as if he couldn’t believe his lover wouldn’t vanish . . . and Thomas.

Thomas stood where he was and made Jess come to him. He looks different, Jess thought. As glad as Jess was to see him, the careful expression in Thomas’s eyes made him slow down.

Then he understood why. The last time he saw me, I was lying to him. And it hurt. Khalila and Glain had forgiven him, for their own reasons; Dario had already known. But Thomas . . . it had cut Thomas deep.

So the first thing Jess said was, “I’m sorry. Truly sorry, Thomas.”

Thomas nodded, and they stood there staring at each other, with an awkward, uncomfortable space between them . . . and then Thomas jerked his chin toward Wolfe and Santi, and Jess turned to look.

Wolfe extended a hand to Santi. It trembled badly, until Santi grabbed it and pulled Wolfe into his arms, and the sound he made came deep from his soul, a raw sound of relief that seemed to echo through the air. When they parted, it was only to arm’s length, and Santi looked at Wolfe, into him, and said, “I should have been with you. I would have been with you.”

“You were,” Wolfe said. “Every moment.”

Then they were kissing, and Jess looked away, back at Thomas, who was smiling a little now. “Good to see that,” Thomas said, and the smile faded when he focused back on Jess. “You left us. You left us thinking—God knows what we were thinking. But I nearly killed you, and I am not sorry for that. It was the right thing to do, at the time.”

“What I did was the right thing to do,” Jess said. “At the time. But I’m still sorry.”

Thomas sighed. “I suppose it will have to do, as an apology.” He pulled Jess into a hug, slapped his back so hard it stung, and then pushed him back. “Talk later. We have things to do now.” He frowned then and stopped Jess from moving with a hand on his shoulder. “Something’s wrong.”

“Obviously,” Jess said. “But we’re not going to solve it standing here.”

Thomas nodded and slid a look to Brendan, who was still standing where Jess had left him. “And him? Is he all right?”

Jess shook his head but didn’t try to explain; Brendan wouldn’t want anyone knowing his grief, at least, not here. Not now. That was why he had a slight smile on his face and empty eyes. It was a mask, and sooner or later, it would have to come off . . . but if it helped now, so be it.

“Ambassador.” Jess moved to Alvaro Santiago and bowed. He made sure it was profound, even though it hurt. “Thank you. I assume we’re safe here . . . ?”

“For now,” Santiago said. He didn’t seem quite as lighthearted as before. “As safe as anyone is in this city at the moment. But the moment is changing, and I think you know that.” He raised his voice. “Everyone, welcome. Come inside. I’ve set aside rooms for you, baths, clothes, meals. When you’re rested, we will meet to discuss our futures.”

Somehow, Jess didn’t think the ambassador’s future would run quite the same path as his own, but for now, at least, it was enough.



* * *





Trouble came when Jess was in his room, stripping off his chemical-soaked shirt with real relief; he was naked to the waist when a knock came at his door, and he sighed and threw on the soft white shirt that had been provided for him before he opened the door.

Niccolo Santi grabbed him by the throat and walked him four brisk steps backward to the nearest wall. The impact drove the breath from Jess’s chest, and he tried to gasp out a question, but Santi’s hand tightened. The captain’s hand was brutally strong, and his eyes were cold. “No,” he said. “You don’t talk. I talk, Brightwell. Do you know why? Nod if you do.”

Jess jerked his head awkwardly up and down. He’d seen Santi in a killing mood, but never aimed at him . . . and this was very definitely personal.

“You took him,” Santi said. His voice was low and calm, the one they all knew was the most dangerous sign of his temper. “You ripped him away and handed him to the Archivist. You had no way of knowing what they would do to him or what hole they’d throw him into. And you—you, of all of them, knew what he’d endured. You sent him back to hell, boy. And I do not forget that, even if he walked out of it alive.”