Gavriel’s patience, already stretched to the breaking point, snapped. “This is unacceptable. I demand to know what steps you are taking to locate her.”
“You demand?” Nestania’s eyes flashed. “We will handle this matter in our own way, in our own time.”
“That’s not good enough.” Gavriel stepped closer. “What if she dies while you sit here doing nothing?”
“It would still be witch business.”
“I will not accept that answer,” he growled.
“It is the only one you will get.”
“Then I shall take the matter to Mount Meru. Tell my father to deploy the legions.”
He sensed ley gathering around her.
“You would not dare,” she said with slow venom.
“Try me, witch,” he snarled, all propriety gone.
“You have no jurisdiction here,” she repeated, but there was a flicker of uncertainty.
“I am the chief magistrate of Sion,” Gavriel said, his voice pitched low and deadly. “My jurisdiction is whatever I decide to make it.”
A crackling silence followed. They traded glares, each measuring the other’s resolve.
“Get out,” Nestania Lenormand said at last.
Gavriel realized he would get nothing more from her. He strode from the study in a towering rage and flew in circles above the city. The more he thought about it, the angrier he grew. Either they did not care what happened to Cathrynne, or they were lying.
He would not stand for it. Gavriel sped for Angel Tower.
If it is civil war the witches want, then they shall have it.
Chapter 29
Cathrynne
The caracal stretched his lean body along the rug beside her bed, baring his fangs in a yawn. Tufted ears swiveled at every sound from the hallway, his gaze never straying from the door for long.
It had taken Cathrynne a week to gather the courage to explore her old bedroom. The armoire still had her child-sized clothes, brittle and moth-eaten like artifacts in a museum. A blue dress with silver piping. A gray cloak with pom-pom ties.
The sight triggered a flood of memories. Running through the garden as her mother called her in for dinner. Lara weaving her hair into intricate braids that were the latest fashion. Alluin Westwind, with his gentle smile, bringing her peppermint candies. She’d thought him a friend of the family. She’d had no idea he was her father.
She wandered to the writing desk and pulled open the center drawer. It still stuck halfway and had to be jiggled. There, tucked beneath a stack of yellowing paper, lay a deck of cards—the very deck she had been playing with the day the White Foxes came.
Thirty-six images, just as she remembered: The Ship, The House, The Fox, The Whip, The Crossroads . . .
The same ones that appeared in her visions, that haunted her dreams.
Tamar rose in one fluid motion. The door handle turned. Cathrynne grabbed a heavy glass paperweight, ready to smash Berti Baako’s face with it. Or Markus Viktorovich. She wasn’t sure which of them she hated more.
The door opened. It was her mother. Cathrynne set down the paperweight, surprised to notice her hand shaking. The adrenaline rush had been instantaneous. How long would she be jumping at shadows? She drew a steadying breath, though her mother didn’t seem to notice.
“He likes you,” Hysto said, eyeing the caracal, who had settled back on his haunches.
“And I like him,” Cathrynne said. “How long have you had him?”
“Six years now. His mother was called Mereth. We got her after you . . . left.” Hysto moved about the room, tidying things that didn’t need tidying. “We kept it the same,” she said, unnecessarily. “All your belongings.”
