The voice was carnal and lovely and cruel. But the tone, the demand in it …
Something in Vernon’s smirk now seemed too strained, his tan skin too pale.
“Who are you,” Manon said to the stranger, more an order than a question.
The man jerked his chin toward the unclaimed seats at the table. “You know perfectly well who I am, Manon Blackbeak.”
Perrington. In another body, somehow. Because…
Because that otherworldly, foul thing she had sometimes glimpsed staring out through his eyes … Here it was, given flesh.
The Matron’s tight face told her she’d already guessed.
“I grew tired of wearing that sagging meat,” he said, sliding with feline grace into the chair beside Vernon. A wave of long, powerful fingers. “My enemies know who I am. My allies might as well, too.”
Vernon bowed his head and murmured, “My Lord Erawan, if it would please you, allow me to fetch the Matron refreshments. Her journey has been long.”
Manon assessed the tall, reedy man. Two gifts he had offered them: respect to her grandmother, and the knowledge of the duke’s true name. Erawan.
She wondered what Ghislaine, on guard in the hall beyond, knew of him.
The Valg king nodded his approval. The Lord of Perranth hustled to the small buffet table against the wall, grabbing a ewer as Manon and the Matron slid into the seats across from the demon king.
Respect—something Vernon had not once offered without a mocking grin. But now…
Perhaps now that the Lord of Perranth realized what manner of monster held his leash, he was desperate for allies. Knew, perhaps, that Manon … that Manon might have indeed been part of that explosion.
Manon accepted the carved-horn cups of water Vernon set before them but did not drink. Neither did her grandmother.
Across the table, Erawan smiled faintly. No darkness, no corruption leaked from him—as if he were powerful enough to keep it contained, unnoticed, save for those eyes. Her eyes.
Behind them, the rest of the Thirteen and her grandmother’s coven remained in the hall, only their Seconds lingering in the room as the doors were sealed again.
Trapping them all with the Valg king.
“So,” Erawan said, looking them over in a way that had Manon clamping her lips to keep from baring her teeth, “are the forces at the Ferian Gap prepared?”
Her grandmother yielded a short dip of her chin. “They move at sundown. They’ll be in Rifthold two days after that.”
Manon didn’t dare shift in her seat. “You’re sending the host to Rifthold?”
The demon king flashed her a narrowed glance. “I am sending you to Rifthold, to take back my city. When you have finished your task, the Ferian legion will be stationed there under the command of Iskra Yellowlegs.”
To Rifthold. To finally, finally fight, to see what their wyverns could do in battle— “Do they suspect the attack?”
A lifeless smile. “Our forces will move too swiftly for word to reach them.” No doubt why this information had been contained until now.
Manon tapped a foot on the slate floor, already itching to move, to command the others in preparations. “How many of the Morath covens do I bring northward?”
“Iskra flies with the second half of our aerial legion. I would think that only a few covens from Morath would be necessary.” A challenge—and a test.
Manon considered. “I fly with my Thirteen and two escort covens.” No need for their enemies to get a good count on how many covens flew in the aerial legion—or for the entirety to go when she’d bet good money that even the Thirteen would be enough to sack the capital.
Erawan just inclined his head in agreement. Her grandmother gave her a barely perceptible nod—as close to approval as she’d ever get.
But Manon asked, “What of the prince?” King. King Dorian.
Her grandmother shot her a look, but the demon said, “I want you to personally bring him to me. If he survives the attack.”