“What do you want?” Manon demanded.
Asterin took up her place by the door, arms crossed.
The duke pointed to the chair across from him. “We have matters to discuss.”
Manon remained standing. “My mount is hungry, and so am I. I suggest telling me swiftly, so I can get on with my hunt.”
Lord Vernon, dark-haired, slim as a reed, and clothed in a bright-blue tunic that was far too clean, looked Manon over. Manon bared her teeth at him in silent warning. Vernon just smiled and said, “What’s wrong with the food we provide, Lady?”
Manon’s iron teeth slid down. “I don’t eat food made by mortals. And neither does my mount.”
The duke at last lifted his head. “Had I known you would be so picky, I would have asked for the Yellowlegs heir to be made Wing Leader.”
Manon casually flicked her nails out. “I think you would find Iskra Yellowlegs to be an undisciplined, difficult, and useless Wing Leader.”
Vernon slid into a chair. “I’ve heard about the rivalry between Witch Clans. Got something against the Yellowlegs, Manon?”
Asterin let out a low growl at the informal address.
“You mortals have your rabble,” Manon said. “We have the Yellowlegs.”
“What an elitist,” Vernon muttered to the duke, who snorted.
A line of cold flame went down Manon’s spine. “You have five minutes, duke.”
Perrington rapped his knuckles on the glass table. “We are to begin … experimenting. As we look to the future, we need to expand our numbers—to improve the soldiers we already have. You witches, with your history, allow us the chance to do just that.”
“Explain.”
“I am not in the business of explaining every last detail of my plans,” the duke said. “All I need you to do is give me a Blackbeak coven under your command to test.”
“Test how?”
“To determine whether they are compatible for breeding with our allies from another realm—the Valg.”
Everything stopped. The man had to be mad, but—
“Not breed as humans do, of course. It would be an easy, relatively painless procedure—a bit of stone sewn just beneath the belly button. The stone allows them in, you see. And a child born of Valg and witch bloodlines … You can understand what an investment that would be. You witches value your offspring so ardently.”
Both men were smiling blandly, waiting for her acceptance.
The Valg—the demons that had bred with the Fae to create the witches—somehow returned, and in contact with the duke and the king … She shut down the questions. “You have thousands of humans here. Use them.”
“Most are not innately gifted with magic and compatible with the Valg, as you witches are. And only witches have Valg blood already flowing in their veins.”
Did her grandmother know of this? “We are to be your army, not your whores,” Manon said with lethal quiet. Asterin came up to her side, her face tight and pale.
“Pick a coven of Blackbeaks,” was the duke’s only reply. “I want them ready in a week. Interfere with this, Wing Leader, and I’ll make dog meat of your precious mount. Perhaps do the same for your Thirteen.”
“You touch Abraxos, and I’ll peel the skin from your bones.”
The duke went back to his map and waved a hand. “Dismissed. Oh—and go down to the aerial blacksmith. He sent word that your latest batch of blades are ready for inspection.”
Manon stood there, calculating the weight of the black glass table—if she could flip it over and use the shards to slowly, deeply cut up both men.
Vernon flicked his brows up in a silent, taunting move, and it was enough to send Manon turning away—out the door before she could do something truly stupid.
They were halfway to her room when Asterin said, “What are you going to do?”