“We’re not alone. If this escalates, we’ll deal with it. Either way, we’re waiting here until we’re given the all-clear to leave. Fights happen all the time, but ones comprising of entire gangs of trained fighters isnotcommon. We need to not draw attention.”
The man continues to near us, moving through the rowdy chatter like a breeze—if I wasn’t so on edge, there’s a chance I’d completely miss him. Well, maybe not. He’s taller than most, and his chin-length black hair is partially pulled back like Donna’s, his scruff slightly thicker than Soren’s; he justlookslike a mercenary. The more I take him in, the more I can’t mistake that his clothes areverywell-fitted, black metal armor on his shoulders, forearms, and chest.
Just like Soren, this man has eyes that pierce right through a person?—
No.
Oh… oh no.
His eyes are a bright gold, and there’s a controlled chaos about him.
That’s when it dawns on me—The Basilisk.
J A N E
Dad doesn’t shift a single inch of his posture.
“Do we run?” I ask Donna, since she knows of the Basilisk. She’s flitting her gaze between the two men, like she’s waiting for a verdict. And just like Bones in the alleyway, Donna’s sociable mien is replaced with a cutthroat glare.
“No,” the Scorpion replies.
“Sir, I don’t trust this,” Donna presses with a low tone.
The golden-eyed man tilts his head to the side when he can’t be but ten feet away, looking at us with an unnerving intensity that confuses what I should feel;thisis a man who trainedSoren.
That absolutely fascinates me.
But I am also uncomfortable with the fact that Soren hasn’t spoken to him in fifteen years. That’s alotof time for loyalties to sway, especially harboring the warnings Donna gave about him.
Many clear the space around Basilisk, and some don’t even look up to notice his eyes. The weaponry and armor speak for itself. When Basilisk stops approaching, he languidly blinks before looking at my dad. “You’re unusually readable.”
“What?” my father asks.
Oh, Soren never confirmed Basilisk was aSensor, too. I bet Dad doesn’t know. Did Soren say it was a secret?I don’t remember.
The golden gaze shifts to me, and I feel the weight of it like it’s a physical thing. He studies me as if trying to solve a very important puzzle as the sound of clacking hooves is behind us, fucking finally. It shouldn’t be much longer before that bridge is cleared.
Basilisk gives his attention to my dad once more. “You know, I’ve been hearing a lot about you lately. Andher.” He finally flashes a faint, crooked grin, the act indenting the laugh lines around his mouth and scruff. “It’s fascinating to see the rumors don’t disappoint.”
My heart nearly bursts out to the point I worry I might have to catch it.
“You don’t leave your lands anymore,” Dad replies. “Not unless there’s something that calls for your personal touch. And that’s more rare than the shadow cat that follows you. So why the fuck are you here, and why are you confronting us? You’re supposed to be in the Crimson Isles.”
A…whatfollows him?
His gaze moves behind us, but I don’t pivot aninch,in case it’s to get us to look over our shoulders. “I think I’m on the right path.” He steps forward to avoid being accidentally bumped into without looking behind him.“I’ve got a skin shifter in the Crimson Isles dressing up as me. Seemed worth the effort. It’s quite difficult to find one of you.”
A feline walks behind him; the cat bigger than any house cat, its eyes as bright gold as his. I swear a faint wisp shrouds the cat that mimics hair when underwater. “Aren’t you curious, Jane, about the spreading word surrounding your name?”
Donna steps slightly in front of me, and my father remains stolid, like he did when meeting Soren.
“Nope. Not one bit,” I say before thinking, just wanting him to move on.
His eyes narrow on me, and he grunts, “Doubt it. A lot of chaos has spun up around you. You’re the topic ofmanyconversations.”
I—is he right? Well, I mean, I’m sure the villagers are all talking. Those at Ern’s Tavern no doubt spread that word like a disease, and I suppose those at the Spiraling Stone are possibly talking. The Noirs, even.
Shit.
