Page 86 of The Lost Reliquary
Again, a distinct lack of chastising, which is suspicious to say the least. And there’s a brightness to his eyes, a frantic energy about him that seems out of place in someone who was lamenting failure not long ago. I thought he’d regained some composure after the outburst on the beach. Maybe I was wrong. “As a matter of fact, I had a little run-in with a couple of Salt priests.”
He blinks, then shakes his head. “No, not them. Anyone else?”
“Why?”
He grabs a fold of paper from where it sits beside the ignored pastry. “I found this slipped under my door.”
“This wasn’t there when I woke up.” There’s a short note written within.
We regret the Caerula’s involvement in our recent affair, and bear you no ill will around Machias’s unfortunate end. Your business—which we would make ours—remains unfinished. Come at nightfall tomorrow, the Shrine of the Final Tide.
I read it once, then again. No signature. Nothing else that might indicate who sent it. “You missed this being delivered?”
“You weren’t the only one who was exhausted.”
But the tight way he says it betrays him. Someone was sneaky enough to get into the Petrel, up to the landing outside the door, and then leave this note without a trace. Not exactly a comforting thought given the current circumstances.
“You think this is from the heretics Machias was with?”
“Who else?”
“This”—I hold up the paper—“is not exactly forthcoming, information-wise. And it sounds about as much like a trap as it can without a postscript that literally saysThis is a trap. Anyone could have left this. The Caerula. The Salt priests.”
His mouth opens to retort, closes, then opens again. “The Salt priests?”
“Yup. Guess who is well informed enough to find out about what you were trying to sell? According to two of her errand boys—who cornered me in an alley, by the way; I’m fine, thanks for asking—Marzela is quite offended that she didn’t get a chance to put in a bid.”
Nolan mulls this over. “If she sent someone after you, also sending a note wouldn’t make much sense.”
“No. But it still could be the Caerula.”
“Trying to trap us instead of just surrounding the Petrel and dragging us out?”
I throw up my hands. “I don’t know, maybe they figured they’d inconvenienced Hiram enough.”
“No,” says Nolan. “Thishasto be from the heretics.”
“Who,” I remind him, “include Renderers. Trap. Trap trap trap.”
“We don’t know they know we’re Chosen.”
“We don’t know they don’t!”
He rips the note away. “We don’t have any other leads!” Another flash of rage, another glimmer of the beach.
I hold my ground. “That doesn’t give us a reason to do something stupid.”
Nolan takes a breath, steadying himself. “I know. Iknow. But give me an option that isn’t.”
He’s got me there.Rion, I almost blurt, but that was never really tangible. The note, on the other hand, is real. And if the heretics want us dead, there’s no reason to send us an invitation to our deaths; they could have thrown that surprise party right here and now, easily taken us unaware, apparently.
Still…
Nolan isn’t a fool. But desperation limns him, more than ever.This isn’t over.No matter the setback, he won’t… hecan’tfathom giving up the search for the reliquary any more than I can. Which means giving into that desperation, taking a chance that any other time, any other place, would be downright idiotic. But we both want what we want—him to become Tempestra’s next avatar, me to kill them. And failure most likely means a lifetime of the aching distance from them that’s picking us both apart, bit by bit.
It might be a trap. It’sprobablya trap.
But Nolan’s already decided something I’m just coming around to: that we don’t have a choice.
