Blood Heir (Aurelia Ryder, #1)(36)

Conlan spun around on his chair, leaned to the side until he was nearly horizontal, and plucked a metal sphere from the nearest pedestal. It was about the size of a basketball, a ball of delicate metal lace and gears. I had placed six of them around the sanctuary.

Conlan tossed it up over his head, sending a spark of magic through it. The sphere unfolded into a monstrous metal spider above his head, razor mandibles out, metal claws poised for a kill. For a fraction of a second it hovered above him, looking ready to devour his head, then the tiny drop of magic powering it ran out, and it fell, rolling back into a ball. Conlan caught it with his other hand. The control required to achieve this would make the sages back at New Shinar giddy with joy. Conlan spun the sphere in his fingers and tossed it back up.

Sphere, spider, sphere, spider, sphere…

I finished with the ham, flipped the bacon, and moved on to slicing the mushrooms. “What’s the deal with you and Ascanio?”

“I don’t like him.”

I cut the cheese into thin slices. “Did he do something?”

Conlan shrugged. “That’s not important.”

“Okay, I’ll bite. What is important?”

I took the bacon out, drained most of the fat into a jar, and tossed mushrooms and ham into the pan.

“I want to help.”

“Help with what?”

“Help with the secret thing that you talk to grandfather about when I’m not there. The secret thing that makes you stay here and prevents you from coming home.”

“Ah. That secret thing.”

I took out six eggs, cracked them into the pan, and moved them back and forth with my spatula. Conlan, like his dad, couldn’t stand runny eggs. He’d complained about them before when discussing school meals. And like his dad and most shapeshifters, his tolerance for heat in his food was almost nonexistent. If I’d been cooking for me, I would’ve been throwing jalapenos into the pan.

I salted the scramble and reached for the cheese.

My cutting board wasn’t there. Conlan sat on the table, holding the cutting board with the neat stack of cheese slices out of my reach.

“Really?”

“You’re avoiding the answer.”

“Give me the cheese and we’ll talk about it.”

He handed the cheese over. I tossed it onto the eggs, stirred it a bit and took the pan off the fire. He watched me. I took a fork out of the drawer, added a big plate, slid the eggs and melted cheese onto it, and pushed it toward him.

He tried it. “Tastes like Mom’s.”

Well, of course. “Who do you think taught me to cook?”

“Do you remember when I was seven and I had a problem with the druid clique at school?”

“What about it?” Druids had a lot of magic that directly affected animals. He had been seven and the group of kids that tried to torment him were twice his age. He’d refused to tell Kate or Curran about it, and if he’d resorted to violence, he would’ve been expelled.

“You remember what you said to me? You said, ‘You have to tell me these things. I’m your sister.’ And the next day, when we went on a lunch break, Roman was waiting for me in the yard in his black and silver robe. He had his staff with the bird head that screeched at people, and when I got near, it started purring. He gave me a big hug and announced he’d brought me pirogi his mother had specially made for me. We had lunch and talked about family and what to get people for Koliada and Christmas. Never had a problem after that.”

Roman was a black volhv, a Slavic pagan priest. He served Chernobog, the god of decay, war, and darkness. All Neo-Pagans were taught from an early age about other Neo-Pagans, and Roman was officially listed in their registry under the heading of “Do not fuck with.” His mother, Evdokia, was one of the witches of the Witch Oracle. I took lessons from her when I was young, which was how Sienna and I became friends. Calling Roman for a minor favor was no trouble. The priest of the God of All Evil loved helping people. It was his chance to shine, and he made the most of it. Kate had done something similar for me when I was a teenager.

“Your point?”

He raised his head from the food. There was barely half left on his plate. “You have to tell me these things. I am your brother.”

Aw.

But he was only nine. The ma’avirim were dangerous as hell.

Conlan leaned forward, his gaze unblinking and direct. “I’m not a baby.”

It’s like he was telepathic sometimes.

“You’re not a baby, but you often act like one. You don’t like to study, you don’t apply yourself, and you squeak by doing the bare minimum to keep Grandfather from losing his temper…”

Conlan raised his hand. Claws burst from his flesh. The hand stretched, fingers elongating into monstrous digits. Coal-black fur sheathed the new hand. He sliced at his forearm. Thin threads of blood stretched from his wounds, wound about his hand, and snapped into a gauntlet.

Someone had been practicing.

“Let me see the range of motion.”

He moved his fingers, bending them toward his palm, pinkie to thumb. Blood armored claws cut through the air. The hair on the back of my neck rose.

Making blood weapons and armor was one of the two most important skills to the Shinar bloodline. Dealing with the shar, an irresistible urge to claim land and defend it from all threats, was the other. Blood armor had its limits and blood weapons broke after a few hours of use, their magic exhausted, but while they lasted, they made you practically invulnerable. A blood blade cut through solid steel like it was nothing.