The Onyx Vial (Shadows of The Nine Book 1) (22 page)

“He wouldn’t talk under the torture. That’s why the spy became my final task. But it wouldn’t have mattered if they did. My father is cunning. The moment the man was caught, and his part in the leads was discovered, my father knew you were ahead of him in your search.”

“And why does he want it?” Both men looked wary.

Killian considered the question. If they were indeed ahead of his father, then they knew the answer already. Or part of it. “There’s this… document. It was coded
and
in Elder Script. It took a year of translation for a single page—”

"Who translated it?"

"A prisoner in Toriel. A cryptographer."

“What did it
say
?”

This was not new information. He could see it on their faces.
“That the etâme inside the Onyx Vial—if he drank it within a minute of its being opened—would make him a Phoenix in human flesh.”

George let out a low whistle. “Indestructible.”

“Yes.”

Harold shook his head. “Immortal.”

“Without question.”

The two men stared at the walls, clearly trying to settle the information into their minds. But Harold snapped out of it and turned hard, hawk-like eyes on Killian again. “Why were
you
told?”

Killian puffed his chest, stuck his chin out. “I’m his son.”

George’s gaze returned to Killian. “One whom, should the King get his wish, will
never
attain the throne.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Not the reason.”

George nodded, concurring with his brother. “What's your part in this?”

Killian bit his cheek, his nostrils flaring. They were going to dig out every detail his father had spent years hiding from the world. But he had no choice. He had to get to his brother before his father did. “He can’t touch it.”

There was silence. He held their stares, watched as the pieces fell into place, their expressions shifting to eagerness.

“
You
can,” said Harold, as George said, “He needed
you
to hold it, didn’t he?”

Killian nodded. Guilt slipped like a knife between his ribs. Now the Rebels —no, the
Shadows
—knew what only the Watchers had known all these years.

“You’re Tieren.”

“Tierenvar,” Killian corrected.

“And you didn’t want the job.”

He hated himself for his weakness. But George was right. “If I did, I wouldn’t be here.”

“So you spared our spy because he gave you a way out.”

“Among other things.”

“Such as?”

He was slipping. He shouldn’t have said that. “Nothing that concerns you,” he said.

This time Harold’s chuckle brimmed with humor. But it was no less unsettling. “Fine.” He stood. “We’ll let our fallen Prince hold a
few
secrets.”

Killian watched him.
A few more than you should, old man
. “Are we done?” he asked.

Harold caught George’s eye. “For now.”

“Great.” Killian stood, stretched to hold down the sudden shot of anxiety that coursed through his veins. “I want to see my dog.”

Chapter 17

Hunter stared into Falken Fyrenn’s eyes. He stared back, unblinking. The posters’ depictions were strikingly similar to the man he’d seen so often in his dreams. Each poster along the street taunted him
—
angered him, because he didn’t know who he was anymore and it was all Falken’s fault.

Perry’s face appeared, blocking the poster. Several of his Goldilocks curls flopped over his forehead. His eyes glittered with good humor. “We know you’re doing that brooding, silent thing right now, Hunter,” he said. “And it’s
really
fun for all of us.” He rolled his eyes. “But do it inside, would you?” He nudged Hunter with his elbow.

A
grin stir beneath the despondency and anger and confusion that had filled Hunter in the records room. Perry slipped through the door beside him. Hunter heaved a sigh, gave the poster one last look, then opened the door and followed.

He was greeted by a cramped vestibule with wooden walls and a dingy glass door. He peered through the grime, making out the restaurant. Its dark, wooden tables and plush leather chairs were occupied by a handful of people all shrouded in thick white smoke.

Hunter’s face twisted in disgust. Nothing about this place was going to lift his spirits. And it certainly wasn’t going to clear his head. Clog his lungs, maybe. He started to tell Perry this, then realized he wasn't there.

“Perry?”

The outer door opened and Tehya popped inside.

“Where…?”

She seemed confused by his confusion, and then she smirked, and whispered, “Of course he did. This way.” She stepped toward the wooden wall decorated with a hand-painted tin sign that read:
Sit anywhere you’d like, except for the floor
.

She pulled off her gloves, put her hand on the sign, and slid it left. Behind it hid what looked like a keypad carved in wood. Tehya had no trouble depressing the numbers in a long and complicated series, each button clicking under her fingertips like a computer keyboard. When she finished, the sign slid soundlessly shut, almost catching her fingers.

With a soft whoosh, the wall receded, revealing a thin opening. Tehya slipped through it like a fox to her den. Hunter wasted no time darting after her. He ducked through the opening and emerged in a decently large restaurant crowded with people.

The sounds of conversation and clinking glasses and utensils filled the air. It smelled like Grandpa's morning coffee, fresh greens, and roasted meat. A warmth hung in the smokeless air, thawing the tips of Hunter’s fingers and nose.

He turned back to see if the others had followed them. But the door was already closed. No seam was visible in the wall. The sign hanging on this side read:
Tip your waitress. She’s not a Huntsman (so you know she needs the money).

“There’s Perry.” Tehya tapped Hunter’s shoulder. “Come.” She cut a path through the restaurant, leaving Hunter to chase after her.

As he wove between the furniture, he noticed how mismatched and varied everything was. No two chairs were alike. No table had the same shape or height. In fact, the style of each piece was so different, they might all have come from different eras. And the people who occupied them were equally varied and mismatched.

He caught up with Tehya just as they reached the tall, round table at the back, where Perry sat, waiting. He flashed his easy grin and crossed his bulky arms, elbows on the table, the sleeves of his coat stretching unwillingly for the muscles inside them. Hunter lifted himself onto the chair beside Perry, considering a few pushups before going to bed tonight. Tehya took the seat next to Hunter.

“So this is a Shadow restaurant?”

“The Dusty Shelf," Perry answered like a travel guide. "The safest place in Eastridge outside of your own home.” 

Hunter shook his head, but cracked a smile. “So, why here? How is a restaurant supposed to cheer me up?”

“If you have to ask, then you’ve never had a Hopscotch or a Fizzle.” Perry shot a hand in the air and waved at someone in the crowd.

“A what?”

A tall, broad woman in a deep red, figure-flattering dress and white apron appeared beside the table. Her tar-black hair was pulled into a clump at the top of her head, a stick of some kind shoved into the thick of it. Her weary smile was kind. “Be having our usu—oh. You’re new,” she said, catching a good look at Hunter.

He averted his eyes and nodded.

“The usuals sound great, Madame Tenner, thanks,” Perry said. “And get this one a Fizzle sampler.” He leaned into Hunter’s personal space. “You can try my Hopscotch.”

“How about the others?” the waitress asked, her voice a low purr, as Perry pulled a Scale and several boults from his pocket and placed it on the table.

“Finn and Dilyn should be here any moment,” Tehya told her. "Wil and Grant are busy at home, preparing travel schedules, I think."

Madame Tenner nodded. "It was nice of them to come home this break. The older ones don't generally come back until they've completed their Mastery."

"It was because of me and Perry," Tehya said. "They wanted to escort us back after our first quarter."

"Ah." She smacked her lips. "Such good older brothers."

Perry, for once, didn't crack a joke about Grant in response. "They really are. Most days." Okay, so maybe he cracked a small joke.

"Too bad they can't escort us on the return," Tehya said.

"No?"

"Too many of us going this time," Perry explained.

"One less than there should be," Tehya said softly. 

Madame Tenner's full lips tightened together. "Oh, yes. Ariana. I heard. I'm so sorry."

Tehya waved her words away as if they were gnats. "Thank you, but it'll be okay."

The woman studied her for a moment, then nodded curtly and pat Tehya's shoulder. "I sure hope so." Then she turned and disappeared into the mess of tables.

Hunter waited until the heaviness of the moment was too much.
“You come here a lot?” he asked, hoping to break the mood.

Perry shook his head. “No.”

A small, slow smile.
“Never,” Tehya said. Then she winked at him.

That wink was a trap. Hunter found himself suddenly, entirely, unable to look away from those vibrant green eyes. For a few seconds
—or maybe an eternity—
her gaze froze him. And then he realized that her eyes were locked on his with matching intensity.

His chest harbored a slight tingling burn. Somewhere far away, his inner voice screamed,
Breathe
.

“Your drinks.”

Madame Tenner’s voice startled Hunter’s exhale from his lungs as she set down the drinks. He jerked his gaze from Tehya’s face and glued his attention to the cups in front of him. Madame Tenner was gone before Hunter returned to his senses enough to thank her.

Unable to think of anything to break the awkward silence, he continued to focus on the drinks. It was amazing how conscious he was of the distance between himself and Tehya. Perry hardly registered in his awareness
—
except that he spoke, which reminded Hunter that he, too, was just a seat away from him.

“Try my Hopscotch first,” Perry said, indicating a glass tankard thick with frost.

Its contents reminded him of orange juice, but closer in color to sunflower petals in late October, when lower temperatures had siphoned the brightness from them. Hunter grabbed the cold handle and lifted the glass to his lips. The drink was cold, but it warmed his tongue as he swallowed. It went down with the taste and consistency of melted butterscotch ice cream. “Not bad,” he said, licking foam off his top lip.

Perry chortled and slid a rectangular platter containing four tasting tumblers in his own drink’s place. “Yellow one’s Obble Fruit. Blue’s Blisterberry
—
and tastes much better than it sounds. The green is Tartenjaede I think. And the pinkish one’s Pearberry
—
pear and foxberry.”

Hunter lifted the yellow glass and took a swig. It tasted the way it looked: like apple juice. But it tingled on his tongue and the roof of his mouth, as if carbonated. “Oh. I like this,” he said, and downed the other four in quick succession.

Blisterberry turned out to taste like a mix of raspberries and mulberries. The Tarten-whatever, he could've sworn, was green apple and kiwi. And the last one, the Pearberry, had that same spicy snap as the foxberries he’d had at the house, but the sweetness of the pear softened it to something delightfully drinkable. “This is my favorite,” he announced.

“We made it,” someone quite out of breath exclaimed.

Hunter looked up from his empty glasses. Dilyn and Finn took their seats around the table, both flustered, their faces red from the cold.

Tehya perked. “Where have you been? I thought you were right behind us.”

“The light changed in the Watchtower,” Dilyn said.

Hunter’s heart leapt.

“Red or black?” Perry asked.

“Black,” Finn answered.

Dilyn nodded. Hunter tried to remember what they’d said each color meant. Both Tehya and Perry relax.

“Just Huntsmen on rounds, then,” Tehya said.

“They were coming down the street, so we circled the building and came back around when they’d passed,” Dilyn explained.

"Gorse. Close call."

“I hope you were speaking of the bush, and not swearing in my restaurant, Perry Madison." Madame Tenner was back.

"Oh, yes, of course," Perry responded, his voice as teasing as hers had been.

She winked at him.

“Finn Donovan.” She faced him and grinned. “You’re looking well. Are your parents back from Gailleonne yet?”

Finn shook his head.

Hunter leaned into Tehya. “What do Finn’s parents do?” he whispered.

“They’re helping to build supply channels beneath the Sadurabi desert,” she whispered back.

“Supply channels? For what?”

Tehya swirled her drink. “For the Shadows. Western Ionia is crawling with Fyrennians. Life is far more constricted there than it is here.”

Hunter pulled his head back in surprise.

“At the moment,” she added softly.

A bubble appeared between them, a soft blue glow swirled inside it.

“Someone’s got a package,” Dilyn said.

Tehya reached for the bubble, but it dipped away from her hand. “Must be yours, Hunter,” she said.

He frowned. He didn’t know anyone here. And it couldn't be from his grandpa.

He poked at it, fully expecting the bubble to dip away from him, too. Instead, the gossamer sphere stuck to his dry skin, then burst into cotton-candy wisps. Something dark plummeted to the table, smacking into it with a resounding
whump
. The glasses rattled.

“What is it?” Dilyn asked.

“Who’s it from?” Perry added.

Hunter and Tehya peered at the thin, emerald hardback book, a letter wrapped around and bound to it with twine.

“Looks like my father’s handwriting,” Tehya observed.

“That makes no sense,” Finn said, his tone as bored and all-knowing as ever. But he, too, had leaned in to see the book better. “He’s right down the road. Why bother sending it here?”

“Same reason he eats meals in his office, probably,” Dilyn said.

Perry snorted. “His house is overrun with students he thought he’d gotten rid of, and he’s hiding out.”

“Hilarious, Perry,” Tehya said. She licked her lips and crinkled her face in a frown. “I’m wondering the same thing, Finn. I know my father has been out of sorts lately, but this seems…”

“Excessive?” Finn offered.

Hunter picked up the book and untied the twine. The earthy, brown-paper page unfurled. Hunter examined the soft cloth cover of the book. The title, embossed in silver script, read:
Masters of the Unusual
. He set the book in his lap and flattened the page on the table. “Maybe this letter explains it,” he suggested.

Hunter,

I sent word to the Council—

He lifted his eyes from the page. Everyone else was watching him expectantly. “What’s the Council?”

“Ionian Shadow Council,” Finn replied.

“Our alternative to King Fyrenn,” Tehya added.

“Oh. Okay.”

—of your impending enrollment in Ruekridge, and your status as a Tierendar, for their records. Though your Marking Day may come later than an average Tieren, I have no doubt you will advance quickly. The Council was kind enough to send me this book along with their reply. I think you’ll find it more helpful, and far more in-depth, than my explanations in understanding your abilities. Turn over.

Hunter flipped the page over. It was another letter. This one was more official-looking. In the upper left hand corner was a circled, backward S with a line through the middle of it. The symbol of the Shadows. Below it, the handwriting was so even it looked like a font.

Master Bardoc Edan, Eastridge, Ladria.

Thank you for your information, Master Edan. Good news is so very welcome these days. And while we are thrilled to hear of the emergence of another Tierendar, we must express our concern. We are dealing with such an individualized ability here, that the Academy may not be adequately equipped to see to the needs of your student’s learning for the first few years.