“Finn Lucais,” the guard answered, saying the name with a bitof pride. Talking to the pirate-turned-naval-officer had probably been one of the highlights of his life.
“Ah.” The man—whom Gabe assumed was Eoin Iomare—smiled. “He does have an uncanny ability for giving gifts.”
Next to Gabe, Malcolm hung limp in the bloodcoat’s grip. He’d always traveled with a dagger since they left Auverraine, but it’d been taken, the sheath hanging empty. Not that it’d do them much good.
You have other weapons.
No, Gabe snarled at Hestraon.No.
Eoin Iomare’s eyes turned to him, sharp and searching, like a hawk spotting a mouse. He grinned. “Now, about that extradition. I must say, I am conflicted on the matter.”
The leader of the bloodcoats jerked Gabe again. “Beg pardon?”
“I believe I was clear.” Eoin shrugged gracefully. “Though, honestly, it’s not up to either of us. It’s up tothem.”
Gabe looked up, brow furrowed. Malcolm’s mouth hung in a confused gape.
Eoin, nonplussed, gestured expansively and stepped back. “Gabriel,” he said, nodding. “Malcolm. Who are you, really?”
It took Gabe a moment to realize it was actually a question and not some trick. “What do you mean?”
“Shutup.” The bloodcoat behind him dug the heel of his boot into the back of Gabe’s calf; Gabe fell to one knee, biting his lip bloody but refusing to cry out. “This is a matter of Auverrani justice, Iomare. No games will be played—”
The Prime Minister twitched a finger.
Behind the Citadel guards, figures melted out of the shadows. A sea of dark cloaks, all holding pistols.
All pointing those pistols at the bloodcoats.
The guard holding Gabe slackened his grip, reaching for his own gun, but Eoin wagged a finger. “Touch your weapon and you’re dead. Now, as I was saying.” He turned his attention backto Gabe, and then Malcolm, as if they were the only men in the room. “Who are you? Or, should I say, who have you become?”
The question made sense now. Between the double ambush and Finn’s information about Eoin’s fascination with the elemental gods—that’s what he wanted to know. Somehow, he’d put together the dregs of the truth from rumors out of Auverraine, and wanted to hear it from the source.
Malcolm spoke first, his voice hoarse and defeated. “Braxtos.”
The guard holding him backed up a step, his grip loosening as if he wanted to drop Malcolm to the ground. He didn’t, but it was a close thing.
“Excellent.” Eoin looked to Gabe. “And you?”
“Hestraon.” The name scoured his mouth. He didn’t want to play this sick game, but once again, he found himself with little choice. It was becoming a pattern.
“Ah.” The Prime Minister’s eyes glinted. “Of course.”
He gestured once more, a wave of his hand as if beckoning on a reluctant child.
It happened fast. The cloaked figures fell on the bloodcoats, outnumbering them two to one. Most were shot in the head in seconds, some uncanny device attached to the muzzles muffling the sound. Gabe fell backward when his guard was shot before letting go of his shackles, pulled over into a pile of still-warm corpses.
Panicking, he tried to wrench out of his bonds, cutting his wrists against metal. Then, a hand on his arm, a soothing voice. “Gabriel. Gabriel, calm down.”
Malcolm, somehow freed, pulling him up from the dead men. He’d gotten the key to the chains; with shivering hands, he unlocked them, helped Gabe shake them off his wrists.
They both faced the Prime Minister.
He smiled at them, warm as a father. “Finn truly knows his way around a gift. Come now, we have much to discuss, and the Brothers have much to clean up.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
GABE
