Amanda Bonilla - Shaedes of Gray - A Shaede Assassin Novel

“Tyler.” My voice had grown quieter, but I couldn’t do anything about the hard edge. “You’ve known me for a long time. I’m not made for that. Love isn’t in my vocabulary. I don’t even think I really know what it is. You’re not doing yourself any favors by trying to convince yourself otherwise.”

I broke free from his grasp and paused at Delilah’s bedside, putting my lips to the one tiny spot on her forehead not marred with cuts or bruises. “Don’t worry; I am going to kill the bastards that did this.” I shot one last murderous, albeit confused, glare at the back of Tyler’s head, and left.

“Let’s go,” I said to Raif, closing the door behind me and walking down the hall.

“Where?” he said, trying to keep up.

“Anywhere but here. Is there someone who can look after Xander while we’re gone?”

“I’ve got a detail posted outside his suite and I doubled the personnel around the perimeter of the house. He won’t be going anywhere tonight. The place is in total lockdown.”

“Good,” I said, and bounded down the stairs, straight for the front door.

“What the hell is it with men, anyway?” I asked Raif over the music and chatter as I settled onto a chair in my favorite corner of The Pit. “Do you guys have some kind of internal wiring problem, or what?”

“I take it you’re talking about my brother and his competition?” Raif laughed and then looked around. “Do you actually like this place?”

I quirked a brow. Competition? “There’s no contest. Besides, it’s just too strange. I feel like I have the starring role in some Arthurian poem or Greek tragedy or something.” If the situation was so obvious to Raif, everyone in Xander’s inner circle must’ve known about our little . . . situation . I wanted to gag. “Is it all about wanting what you can’t have? The thrill of the chase? Or what?”

“Darian.” Humor lingered in Raif’s voice. “Time means something different to us. You’re still young, but you’ll soon understand. Xander is more than four hundred years old. You can live many lives in the course of a lifetime that spans so long. What does he care who you chose to spend your nights with a century ago? He’s still a man, and you’re still a beautiful woman.”

Oh, so now this is my fault? I wasn’t getting the coolheaded logic I’d expected, but was instead getting the runaround from him too. “Okay, fine. All of this is because I’m just so goddamned irresistible. It must be my shining personality and lighthearted spirit. I feel so sorry for them both.”

Raif laughed good-naturedly, at once an awkward and icy sound. But now, in our camaraderie, I found his laughter comforting. He didn’t offer any further commentary, which was just fine by me. I was sick to death of the whole situation, and I didn’t care if I saw either one of their sorry asses ever again. I was in the mood for a fight, and Raif would help bring one to me.

“Enphigmalé,” I said, slapping my palm down on the table. “I want to know everything.”

Raif stood and took up his chair, spinning it around and scooting it close to me. He straddled it and rested his arms on the high back. An expectant gleam, the bloodthirsty sort, shone in his eyes, and I waited for him to speak.

“As the legend goes, when the British Isles were a wild, nameless place and the human race was in its infancy, the land belonged to the extraordinary. Change came, as it always must, and the human population exploded. We hid ourselves as best we could, but even then there were humans who could see us for what we were. Sometime in the years before Christ’s teachings, I believe, it’s said that a group was gathered and formed. A collective to . . . police the supernatural community, and keep the natural order, you might say. They called themselves the Enphigmalé, which, to tell you the truth, doesn’t mean much to me, but it could have meant something then.

“Anyway, the stories say they were a ruthless bunch of bastards, and even took it upon themselves to regulate us as they saw fit, if it seemed like our populations were increasing to an uncontrollable number.” He snorted in disgust. “They had a full arsenal of members: theologians, scholars, warriors, high-ranking politicians, and influential businessmen. A mixture of human and nonhuman members, from what I’ve been told. Their reach was far, and there wasn’t much they didn’t have at least a finger in.”

“The Lyhtan said, ‘The Enphigmalé will see to the end of your kind,’” I reminded him. “What do you think that meant? That they’re planning on exterminating us?”

Raif shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. Lyhtans aren’t exactly eloquent speakers, as you already know.”

“What about Azriel, then?” I tucked a leg up underneath me and leaned forward, resting my chin on my fingertips. “He has to have at least a finger in this. Could his ambition to seize Xander’s throne have to do with the Lyhtans and the Enphigmalé? And what about Delilah? How does she fit in to all of this? Shit is raining down on us. There’s no way it’s not all connected somehow. But . . . why beat the shit out her and then dump her in the middle of a supernatural political rally? Why not just kill her?”

Raif shook his head in that disappointed-father way that always drove me crazy. “Why kill her?” he asked. “She has value.”

“As what?”

He raised a brow.

“An Oracle,” I said, answering my own question.

“Perhaps.”

“So apparently they weren’t willing to make the sacrifice to buy Delilah’s services. From the looks of her, they decided to beat a vision out of her. Maybe they didn’t see anything at all,” I said, more to myself than to Raif. “Maybe the Lyhtan was just blowing smoke—or propagating something.”

“Could be,” Raif agreed.

“What else do you know about them?” His little story couldn’t possibly be all there was to the elusive group. There had to be more.

“Stories, for the most part,” he said. “Conjecture, guesses. Faerie tales passed down from one generation to the next. They’re a tight group and very secretive. Not much is known about them. Over the years the legends change; their role increases or diminishes. Who’s to say if there’s any truth to the tales at all?”

“What are the other versions of the stories?” I asked.

“I’ve heard some say the Enphigmalé aren’t human at all. That they’re something else entirely, and the stories of secret societies are nothing but a smoke screen meant to scare the supernatural community. Boogey-men. It was once rumored that they were the guardians of something. Something so ancient it predates history.”

“Like what?” I could barely contain my curiosity. It burned like a forest fire, to mingle with my rage and need for vengeance. “What could they possibly be protecting? And what are they? Do you think they’re like us?”

“No, not like us. But who knows? Maybe they’re something dark and evil—a creature that answers to a specific master. Maybe the group itself is named after the animal that served them.”

“I don’t exactly consider us bringers of the light,” I said ruefully. “Would you?”

“Since when is everything black and white, Darian?” Raif asked in a reproachful tone.

Since when . . . I was the self-proclaimed Queen of Gray. Black and white had no place in my world. Since when, indeed.

“You’re forgetting another important question,” Raif said.

I raised a brow in question. Am I?

“How do you fit in to all of this?”

I suppressed a shudder. Somehow, I was a part of this, though I had no idea why. Azriel wanted me . . . for something. But what? “Will you help me?” I asked, already knowing the answer.