“Marchosias tries to push the border out farther every season; he tries to protect his people. He is flawed, but he works hard to be a good ruler for The City,” the assassin said. She looked at Aya briefly, revealing the red-and-blue-ringed eyes of a Watcher, before adding, “I have ample reason to hate him, but he is better than the alternatives.”

The flat tone of the Watcher’s voice told Aya what the daimon didn’t: this was someone who knew Marchosias personally.

“His last child was the child of a Watcher,” Aya said with as little affect as possible.

Although Aya couldn’t see it, she thought the Watcher might have smiled behind her mask because the tone of her voice was amused as she answered, “I am not the girl’s mother.”

Aya tensed as the undergrowth quivered with the movement of either an animal or a soldier. A growl quickly revealed that it wasn’t a soldier approaching.

“Should we—”

“Move,” the Watcher directed. She launched herself forward as a bovine creature charged toward them.

In the same moment, she’d retrieved a small ax from somewhere under her coat. Before Aya could help in their defense, the Watcher buried the ax in the animal’s neck. It fell, making noises of protest. As it died, the Watcher rejoined Aya.

“Out there”—the Watcher gestured with the gore-coated weapon—“that is normal.”

Aya was transfixed as a group of Watchers appeared from the same thick undergrowth and began dragging the animal away. She didn’t want to stay here, didn’t want to wander into that part of the world. She stepped backward. “Why did you bring me here?”

“To see why Marchosias needs your help,” the Watcher said.

Aya shuddered. “I’m not sure why you think I can—”

“We know,” the Watcher interrupted.

With two simple words, the daimon beside her became more frightening than the creatures hidden in the Untamed Lands, more awful than the thought of death or loss or most anything Aya could imagine. She forced herself to try to stay calm. “I’m not sure what you think you know.”

“Evelyn,” the Watcher said. “We know what Evelyn did, what you are.”

Aya had drawn a knife and stepped farther back so that the Watcher was between her and the Untamed Lands. There was a risk that the Watcher could disappear into that foreboding growth, but better chance that than try to fight with the possibility of being attacked from behind by an animal.

“We don’t share secrets without reason. We have no reason to reveal yours.” The Watcher didn’t react to Aya’s posture or weapon. “Help Marc, and you will help yourself.”

Two more Watchers walked out of the Untamed Lands and stood one on either side of the Watcher who had been speaking. Both were unmasked.

The one to the left said, “The cur knows where one of the missing daughters is. We’ve seen them together.”

“Daughters?” Aya repeated.

“Ask the cur,” the first Watcher said.

“You cannot trust Evelyn,” the third Watcher added. “Help Marc.”

“How?”

“Tell him who your mother is,” the masked Watcher said.

Then all three of the Watchers turned and walked into the Untamed Lands. They’d apparently said all they intended to say for now.

Moments passed, and all Aya heard were the sounds of the creatures who roamed in the wilds. No daimons, Watcher or otherwise, appeared. No assassins arrived. The conversation they’d had could’ve been held in a stall in The City, but doing so wouldn’t have afforded the Watcher the ability to make an example of the nature outside The City—or afforded Aya the privacy she cherished.

Unfortunately, their wisdom didn’t make sense. There was no way that she was telling Marchosias what she was or who her mother was. It would be suicide. Aya didn’t put her knife away as she walked toward the familiar overcrowded streets of The City—nor did she stop watching for black-masked daimons. There were more secrets than she could make sense of. Right now, all she knew for certain was that Kaleb needed to share his secrets. After that, she could try to figure out what to do about Haage and Marchosias.

And the missing daughter . . . or daughters.

CHAPTER 22

WHEN KALEB ARRIVED AT Mallory’s door that evening, he was greeted by her stepfather. Adam Rothesay looked like a lot of men who could pass by unnoticed on the street. He was a shade over six foot, trim, with nondescript clothes and nondescript features. He wasn’t remarkable in any way, but he still made Kaleb uncomfortable.

“Mallory isn’t available,” Adam said, coming out and pulling the door to the house shut behind him. “We should talk.”

The way that Mallory’s stepfather smiled genially made Kaleb even tenser. It wasn’t the smile of true friendliness, but the sort of smile that often accompanied trouble. Maybe I’m overreacting. Living in The City made a person suspicious. They were in front of a quiet house in a quiet town in the human world.

Before Adam could say anything further, the door opened, and Mallory herself stood there staring at the two of them. “Daddy? Kaleb?” She smiled at him. “Hi.”

Adam turned his back to Kaleb. “I was just going to talk to him. You ought to—”

“If there’s something to say, I deserve to hear it.” Mallory leaned on the doorjamb.

The displeasure on Adam’s face was undeniable, but his remark was said too low for Kaleb to hear. He gestured for Kaleb to go into the house.

As soon as they crossed the threshold, Adam stepped around Kaleb and directed Mallory to a worn brown sofa. She looked exhausted, and a new bitter scent tinged the air around her. It smelled more like magic than sickness.

Is he a witch?

Kaleb glanced again at Adam. The telltale blue-gold witch eyes were absent. There were, however, rare witches who didn’t have blue-and-gold eyes. It was exceedingly unusual, but not impossible. Aya didn’t have witch eyes.

The unease Kaleb felt grew as Adam smiled with the practiced ease of one who hid what he was thinking more often than not.

Kaleb stayed in the doorway, not quite in the living room, and watched the older man warily. Attacking Mallory’s father would cause problems, but the sense of self-preservation that Kaleb had counted on since childhood made him wonder if an attack would be necessary. Something was very much not right here.

Adam started, “I need to fetch a blanket and things, so you—”

“I can get it,” Mallory interrupted.

“No. You rest.” Adam smiled at her, gently now. He bent down and kissed the top of his daughter’s head. “I’m going to talk to Kaleb.”

Mallory opened her mouth like she wanted to say more, but instead, a strange look of calm suddenly came over her. She smiled meekly at her father and then murmured, “Okay.”

Again, Adam motioned for Kaleb to precede him through the hallway. As Kaleb ascended the stairs to where he assumed the bedrooms were, he watched for dangers or traps.

The house was small and, by human standards, modest. Boxes still remained to be unpacked, but what was in place was nondescript and orderly. Three rooms opened up from the short hallway. One door was closed. One open door revealed a bed, dresser, and footlocker; all were equally drab, but serviceable. The third door revealed what was obviously Mallory’s room. A vase of fresh flowers, an iPod, and a pile of books covered a dark wooden dresser. Fluffy slippers poked out from under the edge of a bed that was heaped high with pillows. It was the only room so far that contained any hint that a person lived there. Kaleb wished he could take a few moments to see what she read, what she listened to, what secrets were revealed by what she chose. Hers was a life completely different from his, and he wanted to understand her.

Instead, Adam ushered him toward the nondescript room.