Page 38 of Demon’s Snack

“Talen.”

Her mouth hardens into a thin line. “That rotten boot heel.”

“Corin confronted him privately.”

“I assume the fool survived, since nobody is screaming.”

“He survived.”

“And Corin?”

The question lands differently. Softer. More cautious.

I think of ember light beneath Corin’s skin, of his hand pressed against his chest as though holding himself together by force, of the rough honesty in his voice when he admitted fear.

“He is frightened of himself,” I say.

Mira studies me in silence for a long moment, fingers unconsciously tightening in the linens she carries. “That does not make him safe.”

“No.”

“But it makes him less stupid than most dangerous men.”

“That is one possible interpretation.”

“And yours?”

I hesitate just long enough for her to notice.

“My interpretation,” I say carefully, “is that he could have killed Talen and chose not to.”

Mira exhales through her nose and shifts the linens again, unsettled. “That is a very low floor, love.”

“It is where we begin.”

Before she can answer, a bell chimes twice from the upper hall.

Both of us go still.

Mira’s mouth flattens. “That is him.”

“Yes.”

“You have ink on your sleeve.”

“I usually have ink on my sleeve.”

“You have rain on your cloak.”

“It rained.”

“You have that look on your face.”

“What look?”

“The one where your brain is trying to sprint while your body pretends it is strolling through a garden.”

“I do not have that look.”