Page 71 of The Fake Divination Offense
Alexo calmly, too calmly, takes his phone out of my hands and pockets it. “Don’t, please,” he whispers.
I’m instantly reaching for his face, brushing my thumb across his cheekbone. “Belle, what’s going—”
Tem screeches. “You told him your name?”
The room goes quiet. Fatalistically.
Tem’s huffing with fury. The guy who did the secure spell has one hand on his component belt. The elven woman looks almost bored.
And Alexo stares up at me, beseeching.
His eyes tear and he rolls them shut in a wince that trembles down to his very roots.
You told him your name.
He looks at the elven woman. His hands drop to his sides, his chin thrusting forward in part defiance, part holding back tears.
“I’m going to tell him,” he says to her. “I was going to tell him before you came because we’re leaving anyway, aren’t we? So what does it matter. Just let me have this. Justonce.”
His last word comes with a sob, and he’d buckle in half if I weren’t still hanging on to his hips. I pull him into me but he shakes his head like he can’t let himself collapse, not yet.
“You’re not telling him shit,” Tem snarls. “Let’s go. Now. You’ve fucked this up enough.”
“What is going on?” I demand, looking at Alexo, but my words are for the room, foranyoneto start talkingnow.
The elven woman straightens, hands behind her back. “My name is Ilbryen,” she says coolly. “This is my partner, Gulus.”
The other guy still has his hand near his potions where he hangs back by the window.
“And you already know Tem,” Ilbryen says, but I refuse to look at him.
Tem, however, spins on her. “What are youdoing? We need to get him out of here.”
Ilbryen continues, unaffected, “And you are Orok Monroe. Son of Ghorza Monroe, a former Arcane Forces soldier, and Dave Monroe, an accountant. Defensive tank for the Hellhounds, previously the Chimeras. Graduate of Lesiara University with a Mageus in Theological Evocation and an undergrad in Theology. And, for the past few weeks, one half of a PR relationship with a cheerleader to bring positive associations to your god, Urzoth Shieldsworn.”
My head cocks. Most of that information is easy enough to find; hell, one quick Google would dump all that out on any rawball tabloid site.
Except the last thing. “How do you know the relationship is for PR?”
Ilbryen smiles. It doesn’t reach her eyes. “It’s our job to know. We are members of a larger union of adventure parties responsible for the concealment and protection of victims of prophecy, sacrifice, and curses. Victims such as—”
She looks at Alexo. And smiles, truer this time.
Despite his earlier boldness, his eyes widen. “You’ll—you’ll let me?”
“You said you were going to. Do you really trust him? Even with his patron god?”
He gives a frantic nod. “I told you. He isn’t—” He glances at me, and I realize it’s him asking permission to talk about me and Urzoth.
“What does my association with Urzoth matter?” I ask Ilbryen. “I don’t understand.”
“Exactly how involved in your church are you, Mr. Monroe? Enough to be their poster child.”
“Enough to give Alexo a spot on the cheerleading squad,” I amend, hands clenching. I don’t want to get into my complicated history with Urzoth to a complete stranger. “That’s what I care about.”
Ilbryen studies me, her lips thinning. “Hm.” She looks down at Alexo. “If you’re sure?”
He nods again, just as certain.
