Page 40 of The Crow Games
He reached for the pistol pieces I was reassembling with interest. I was about to swat his hands away, but then he began lining them all up neatly. The screws and springs he put in order by size and shape and purpose, and I was hypnotized momentarily by his big hands working over the small parts. It was like having someone scratch an itch in the center of my back I couldn’t quite get at.
“Bram has taken over the Alwin library as his headquarters,” he told me.
I dropped the revolver’s hammer down into the frame, lining it up just right before replacing the first screw. “The library’s not far from the clock tower. I could visit there tomorrow. Nola says the next trial is manageable. It shouldn’t exhaust me.”
“You could. I’m familiar with Bram’s schedule. He’s a man who keeps a fixed routine and expects his coven to do the same,” Asher said, handing me the small tool I was using to tighten the screws.
“What else did you learn?” I hoped there was more. He’d been gone for most of three days.
“There’s a rumor Bram is god-born and has the power of all the elements,” he said. Behind him Nola did a poor job of pretending she wasn’t eavesdropping.
I snorted. “All the elements? That’s nonsense.”
“It is. But he lets the rumor fly because it’s good for recruitment. He’s a mind warlock with a powerful god-made relic he wears on his head. He has a talent for suggestion, and the circlet amplifies it. His instincts are unmatched, according to his admirers, of which there are many. In any conflict, he stays several moves ahead of his opponents, of which there are also many.”
“But is he actually god-born?” I worked the springs into place next. Wrestling the main spring was the worst of it.
“The circlet puts out so much divine energy it’s hard to decipher what’s natural and what’s not. He never takes it off. Even to sleep.”
“What are you doing tomorrow?” I asked, securing the pistol’s trigger piece in place.
His lashes lifted, and the crinkles near his eyes deepened. “Helping you get to Bram, of course.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.” And because I was not a fool, I added, “And what will you need in exchange for such a service?”
He lowered his voice to a murmur that not even snooping Nola would be able to hear clearly. “Teach me to tear an exit into the Otherworld.”
Biting my lip, I set the pistol down. “I don’t think I can.”
“Why?” He frowned at me.
I disliked the impact his disappointment had on me, tugging down my own mouth to mirror his. “Death magic isn’t compatible with others.” I rubbed at the phantom sizzle in my abdomen, remembering the way the Old One’s magic suffocated the fire in my chest. “What you touch, it smothers. It dies. The magic we want needs to be amplified, not put out. I’m the amplifier. You’re . . . the opposite of that.”
Scooting to the edge of his chair, he rolled the last of the screws between his fingers. “Then you’ll just have to do it for us.”
“I don’t know if I can do it again . . . I’m too depleted all the time just trying to survive the trials. Even if the conditions were right, it’s not like the gods leave their sigils lying about for me to use as I wish.”
Nola whispered into Ruchel’s ear like a gossiping hen.
“But you’ll try. If I secure a god sigil, you’ll try?” He rolled the screw backward and forward and backward again.
“I’ll try.” Of course I would. I needed out of here so I could plot my next move against the guilty god, whoever they were.
“In the name of our new partnership, I’ll help you with Bram, and then you’ll owe me.”
I squinted at him. “I’ll owe you what?”
“Cooperation.” In his baritone, the simple word sounded absolutely filthy, and my stomach tumbled.
The singed bullet hole in his leather waistcoat leaked a smoky essence faintly when he moved. Now that he was possibly, probably, maybe not my enemy, I didn’t like seeing it there. I placed my palm over it, stifling the leak.
He looked down at my hand, his sharp chin at a tilt like the crow he was named for, a faint smile on his lips.
The shadows that slid between my fingers were warmer than the death magic pooling around my feet, grazing my shins, brushing over my knees. “Does it hurt?”
“Like Hel,” he said fondly. “Your bullet is still in there.”
“Oh?” I blinked at him. “Should . . . should we get it out?”
