Chapter 8 · Her Father's Voice

"Cut the cuff."

Calder's voice came out like grinding stone. His left hand was ash-gray to the knuckles, cracks spreading up his forearm in thin lightning patterns. The core sat between us on the floor, dim and cold, and I could still hear my father's voice bouncing off the vault walls.

Don't save Calder.

"No," I said.

"Mara." He twisted his wrist, metal scraping stone. The binding cuff glowed faint red between us. "You heard him. Your father knew what I was."

"My father's dead." I kept my hand on the core. It was warm, almost body-temperature, which meant it wasn't stable. "And that recording's fifteen years old. I don't take orders from ghosts."

"Then take one from me." His good hand caught my jaw, turned my face toward his. His eye was still gold, but the pupil had gone narrow and vertical, like a lizard's. "I lied to you. About the job. About the name I wouldn't say. Your father didn't vanish hunting a relic. He vanished hunting me."

I jerked back, but he didn't let go.

"Seraphine hired him," Calder said. "Told him I'd stolen something from the old ward network.