Page 113 of Demon’s Snack

Lady Syrenya lifts both hands lazily, though the little smile on her mouth says she expected the reaction and enjoyed winning it.

Her skin is warm beneath my fingers. Her pulse stays calm. That alone tells me she is either brave, foolish, or too well trained to be entertainingly killed.

“Unhand me, hybrid,” she says, sounding more amused than threatened. “I bruise beautifully, but I prefer choosing the audience.”

I release her.

She smooths the collar of her cloak. “Your restraint is improving.”

“Your survival instincts are not.”

“I disagree. I found the most interesting person at the wall.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

“That has been clear since you arrived in my district like a storm wearing boots.” Her gaze flicks toward the dimmed anchor. “Vaerith is moving documents.”

“I assumed.”

“He is also moving Isolde’s legal status.”

My body goes still.

Syrenya’s amusement fades. “Permanent wardship invocation has been drafted, though not yet sealed. He requires grounds. Fabricated grounds, if necessary.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

I look at her, and whatever she sees in my face makes her stop playing with the edge of her sleeve.

“Yes,” I say. “I know.”

“Then intercept the courier heading toward the south archive entrance. Small thing. Wings like torn paper. Smells like grave pepper and wax. It carries sealed orders.”

“Why tell me?”

“Because Vaerith will be less dull if he bleeds influence slowly.”

“That is still not morality.”

“No, but it is directionally useful.” She steps back into the cypress shadow. “Try not to massacre anyone before supper.”

“I’ll consult my schedule.”

Her smile returns briefly, then the shadows take her.

I hate nobles.

I hate helpful nobles more.

The courier demon appears nine minutes later.

It scuttles along the inside edge of the west wall, no taller than a child, with folded wings tucked beneath a messenger’s vest and a satchel strapped across its narrow chest. Its face is a wet little wedge of eyes and teeth, and the smell of grave pepper and sealing wax clings to it so strongly I taste spice at the back of my throat before I see it clearly.

I drop from the wall.

It squeals.