Page 77 of Sincerely, Secretary of Doom

Luc vanished and appeared standing before him. “Me neither,” he said.

Their fairsabers collided, sending a sharp, metallic ring through the empty museum. Thunder howled outside, muting the next three swings and blocks. When the sky deities stopped roaring, the sound of someone sighing loudly came from a large, historic Egyptian throne at the far end of the room. A small sign said: NO CLIMBING ON DISPLAY. But it seemed Cress didn’t care for human rules.

“You two took forever to come back,” he remarked from where he was draped sideways over the oversized throne, his head laid back against the armrest, his legs crossed like he’d been napping for the three seconds Mor had been gone.

Cress pointed with his fairsaber at a picture across the room depicting a human female with an elongated skull from a distant kingdom calledAncient Egypt. “Look at that, Mor. There are humans with weird heads.”

Luc smacked Mor’s left fairsaber from his grip. Mor’s blade tumbled over the floor, sliding until it hit the base of the display where the Prince of the North lounged. Mor tried desperately not to shout at Cress and point out that it wasCresswho wanted to help—a thing the Prince seemed to have forgotten during his marvelling at human paintings.

Luc raised his blade toward Mor’s throat and held it steady there before Mor could lift his right sword in defense. Mor swallowed, his neck grazing the sharp end of the Shadow sword. He couldn’t even speak to ask the sky deities why in the faeborn cursed world he’d bothered to bring Cress along.

Cress dropped from the sky like a boulder.

Luc yelped as he was pummeled into the floor, his chest crushed beneath the weight of Cress’s knee, his fairsabers clanging away. “You fool,” Cress said to him. “You came to my café and threatened my High Court. I will enjoy killing you over and over.”

Cress didn’t hesitate. He stabbed Luc—straight and true—and though it should have been a sweet relief to Mor’s eyes, something tightened in his stomach at the sight. An old memory rushed in of the last time he had watched this same fox die in front of him. Mor shook the thought away as he witnessed Luc take his last breath, as the fairy’s ruby-haired head relaxed against the tile.

Cress stood and brushed a bead of sweat from his brow. “Queensbane, this fox is as faeborn tough as you said. But don’t worry, he’s still no match for me,” he remarked. He walked across the lobby toward a human drinking fountain. After a few seconds of deliberation, Cress pressed a button on its side and a spout of water came out. The Prince ducked his face in and out of the stream a few times, grappling at the flying water with his lips before he finally figured out how to get some into his mouth.

Mor stood by Luc. Waiting.

The necklace of fox tails at Luc’s throat shivered. One of them disintegrated, leaving seven behind.

A second passed before the colour returned to Luc’s face. But the fool didn’t open his eyes or strike or vanish, even when the wound in his chest closed and the fairy blood dried up. The faint movement of his lips was the only indication he was back.

“Bravo,” Luc said, eyes closed. “Bravo, Trisencor. It seems you beat me for the first time.”

Mor angled his blade so the tip was at Luc’s throat. “All the things you’ve done to me… You’ll pay for them now,” he said.

Luc’s slow smile spread over his face. “All the things I’ve done,” he said quietly. His eyes slid open; he focused on the curved museum ceiling. “Your problem, Trisencor, is that you think everything is about you.” He licked a spot of blood off his lips then turned his head and spat it out. “Do you know how long it took for me to convince the commanders to let me come here?” Luc asked. “How much talking, how much luring, how much baiting and convincing before I had the commanders wrapped around my finger at last?” The sound of the drinking fountain ceased, and Mor guessed Cress was coming back. But Mor couldn’t take his stare off the nine tailed fox. “I never came here for you,” Luc said. “I came here for something else. It was just by the meddling of the sky deities that I happened to see you and…” The fairy worked his jaw, his lips tightening, anger flashing over his silvery eyes. Quietpoppingsounds filled the museum, like Cress was making noises with his lips on the other side of the room after his drink.

“Andher,” Luc finished.

Her.

Mor’s mouth parted, the realization settling into place that Luc knew who Violet was.

“I recognized the old fairy scents upon her when she and I first met, but it took a few tries to establish exactly where those old scents came from. I’m ashamed I didn’t figure out sooner that she was the same human from that day.” Luc lifted a hand and delicately touched his freshly healed chest.

Mor blinked. “How did you find out?” he asked in a monotone voice—determined not to allow Luc the luxury of believing Mor was even the slightest bit interested. “When she has no memories of those things?”

Luc laughed from the floor; a coarse, bellowing sound that echoed over the wide space and bounced off the walls. “I wasn’t after her memories,” he promised. “But I was afterher. And the beauty of it all is that our dear Violet thinks you’ll keep her safe from me,” he said, rolling up to sit and climbing to his feet. When he was eye-to-eye with Mor, he added, “You won’t. I would very much like her to suffer for a long time, and then die.”

Mor swung his fairsaber, but Luc grabbed Mor’s wrist and held his arm in place. “Oh dear,” he said, stealing a glance past Mor. “I don’t think you want to bother me anymore, Trisencor. Or the next sound you hear will be your North Prince screaming through a deathblow.”

Mor’s face grew puzzled. He whirled to find Cress, his stomach dropping at the sight of Cress surrounded by two dozen Shadow Fairies, armed and cloaked with dark iridescent shell plates of armour. It was a sight from Mor’s childling days he thought he would never see again: His own division of the Shadow Army, wearing the colours he wore, holding the same swords he held in his own grip now.

Cress’s fairsaber hadn’t been torn from his hand, but he didn’t dare move it. He stared across the museum at Mor with cold, turquoise eyes, saying only one thing in the tone of his expression:“The fox wasn’t lying about the Shadow Army being here.”

Luc stretched, working his arms, hands, and his fingers as though he was coming back to himself after being slain. He tilted his neck back and forth and smiled as he dragged his ruby from his pocket. The fox rolled the gem over his fingers and walked past Mor to where Cress was surrounded. He settled his dark gaze on the Prince of the North. “I warned you, Prince, didn’t I? If we both kill each other once, I’ll still be here, and you won’t,” he said.

Mor’s hand tightened around the one fairsaber he had left. He tried to calculate his odds of successfully snatching Cress into an airslip and outrunning the Army through the wind.

Luc called back to Mor, “I wonder what secrets your Prince is hiding, Trisencor?” He held up his ruby in the muddied light from the doors. “Do you think he knows the hidden passages into Queene Levress’ Silver Palace? Do you think he knows the weaknesses of the North Brotherhood of Assassins? I’d love the opportunity to destroy both.” Luc paused before he spoke again. “Do you think he knows where our dear Violet is hiding?”

Luc shoved the ruby in his mouth and grabbed Cress’s temples, sending Mor springing a step forward. He halted when the Shadows threatened to stab Cress through the neck. Cress’s flesh tightened, but he didn’t fight back.

“Luc…” Mor tried. “Luc.” He said it again, darkly.

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