Abolisher [Drothiker #2]

32.

Days swept by.

Faolin spent them in the warehouse, trying ways to speak with Maycusen, make him conform. She'd gone so far as trying to speak with him—using words.

But he didn't yield.

I'll speak with the duce only.

After the whole reviving-the-prince errand, when Faolin had returned to the warehouse, she'd been surprised to find the Jaguar still trussed to the wooden chair. He'd been whistling to himself, as if it were just any other day. A better day, even.

Day and night, Faolin tried to pluck out any weaknesses—anything that would have him spilling the information. But it was as if the man held no weaknesses. As if he'd been hardened against every single one.

Fitting, she supposed.

Under any other circumstances, she might have actually brought Syrene to the warehouse. But Syrene ...

She was in no condition to speak, let alone probe Maycusen. Even if Faolin tried and brought her here, she doubted the Jaguar would survive the smoldering rage slowly intensifying in the duce's eyes every passing second. Faolin was afraid Syrene might literally open the man up to see what answers lay inside.

"You said you're here to warn Czar," she'd tried again earlier today. "Help her stop Felset. Then speak."

Maycusen chuckled, blood cascading down his lips. "Your Darkness will eat up whatever information I might feed it."

She'd been shocked enough that she froze.

He noticed it—and grinned. "It's on display, sweetheart—the Darkness. It's the same one Her Majesty has around herself. Rukrasit's."

She didn't know what in Saqa was Rukrasit. But the punch she dealt him had his jaw cracking.

He groaned, still grinning. Then—

"You don't call Faolin Wisflave sweetheart unless you're fishing for inevitable pain, Maycusen."

Faolin's jaw clenched as she turned.

Ferouzeh stood tilting against a pillar, arms crossed. Her hair was braided today—the plait hanging from her shoulder, sunlight caught the thick knots.

Her eyes were bagged—as if she hadn't caught herself a shuteye for days and days. She hadn't, Faolin supposed, since she'd learned about the ripper's death—the man had been lying unconscious since. Everyone had learned about the leash that day, and to everyone's surprise, Syrene herself hadn't had the faintest idea that Ianov's Pall Moira had been bound to her by soul.

And in all honesty, Faolin hadn't been surprised. She'd seen the naked concern and fear on his face on the day of the duel—when Syrene had driven Windsong through her chest. As if he'd been ripped of everything he was.

She'd thought the prince truly cared for the duce. Fool. A ripper learning to care was no more possible than the existence of gods and goddesses. Otsatyas coming to grounds seemed more possible than a ripper getting a hold of something so humane as affection.

Ferouzeh was smiling—not at Faolin, but Maycusen. Though it didn't reach her eyes. "Hello."

The Jaguar frowned. "Been a while, Ferouzeh. That's not how friends are supposed to be. What happened?"

She shrugged. "You grew up, that's all." Her smile shaped a grin, but a sadness entered her eyes.

"Damn," he drawled, though humor seemed to ebb from his voice. "Her Majesty did a number on you, didn't she?"