Page 91 of A House of Cloaks & Daggers

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He picked up a small blade with a finely crafted golden hilt, twirled it in his hand, and put it back. “You didn’t notice the caenim until it had almost clawed out your spine.”

Instinctively, I opened my mouth to argue, but he was right.

“It’s unlikely that you’ll find yourself in a situation like that again,” he went on, sidestepping along the table with his back still turned to me, “unless you pull another half-brained stunt like that. But if magic is still so repulsive to you, then—”

A blade came slicing through the air as Wren whirled on me.

I barely had time to move out of the way before it whooshed past me, not even a hair’s breadth away from where I was standing.

Adrenaline seized my heart, stabbing through it like it was the knife Wren had thrown at me.

Swearing viciously, I checked to make sure he wasn’t about to pelt another sharp object in my direction before I started screaming at him.

“What iswrongwith you?” My voice broke at its highest pitch. “What in thehellwas that for?”

He shrugged, leaning back on his hands, and angled his face towards the light pouring in through the glass ceiling. Pure light returned to the sky, as if Lucais’s mood had improved for some unbeknownst reason at last, and illuminated Wren like a demon bathing in holy fire.

“Are you determined to have us both executed for trying to kill each other?” I demanded, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. My cheek was stinging with a phantom pain right where the blade almost cut me.

“Your reflexes suck,” he stated, meeting my furious stare with a look of cool contemplation. “Knife-throwing is no goodif you can’t get out of the way when people inevitably start throwing them back at you.” He rubbed his chin, the stubble glimmering in the light. “Your magic is completely dormant, too. I just can’t figure out why.”

I glared at him, rage simmering beneath my skin. “You don’t need to know why.”

“Ah.” His golden eyes lit up like the core of the sun in a dawn sky. “Thereisa reason. You didn’t kill that Banshee on purpose.”

“I didn’t kill that Banshee at all,” I spat.

Wren had saved my life, ulterior motive or not, on more than one occasion. I still wasn’t convinced that I truly defended myself on the road into Sthiara—especially not with light magic when it was incompatible with the thing that escaped from me in the bathroom that day with Delia.

“We can stand here all day if you like.” He shrugged and folded his arms across his chest. “More than half of the weapons in this room are designed to be wielded by those with magic, and you’ll pose a greater risk to yourself than to anyone else if you touch the other half of them while you’re dancing around in the gaps in between.”

Staring through the window-crack in the wall, I dug my teeth into my lower lip to stop myself from pouting. If the room was designed to be accessed by people with magic, then I had absolutely no right to be in it.

“Those weapons,” Wren went on, pointing to the row of glass cabinets illuminated by blue faelight, “are magical relics. On their own, they’re useless—but partnered with the power of the High Fae, they can be used as well as any blade. Better, even.”

Watching him out of the corner of my eye, I took a few careful steps towards the cabinet. I was not supposed to be in the armoury. Not when I had no magic, when I refused the offer asit lingered at my side, curling around my wrists like a hand—but curiosity was humming in my blood. Wren remained against the table, crossing his arm back over his chest.

“I’m not High Fae,” I murmured, though he surely didn’t need to be reminded.

“Maybe you could be.”

The words were so simple.But no.

Ignoring his strange remark, I surveyed the cabinets. Fixed my attention on the contents.

The top shelf was filled with rocks. All different shapes and sizes and colours of plain old rocks.

“Witch-Lapis,” he told me. “It doesn’t reveal its true form to humans, but carried by High Fae in battle it can duplicate a killing blow up to five times without taking a drop of energy or power from its wielder. Below that is the Blood Lock,” he continued, and I dropped my gaze to the lower shelf. “Coat that in the blood of the willing, and the wearer will be able to channel their combined strength.”

The Blood Lock was a necklace crafted from solid gold, displayed in its open case. The chain was thin, the amulet small, a circle filled with what looked to be the remnants of dried, crusted blood. A shudder rippled down my spine as I examined it, forcing me to look away.

“You can throw things at people, or we can cut down a tree branch for you, but you will remain your greatest enemy so long as you refuse to accept what you truly carry with you in every breath.”

He meant magic. I knew he meant magic, and he was wrong.

I did carry something with me in every breath, but it wasn’t magic. It wasn’t a gift.

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