‘Killian?’ said Gray.

‘Shut up.’ Killian stood abruptly, rubbing the dust between his fingertips.

He barged into the bathroom again. He flung open the wardrobe doors. Checked behind the curtains. Wrenched down the vent in the ceiling.

Gray tracked him, his mouth dry. ‘What is it?’

‘I told you to sit.’

Reluctantly, Gray sat down at the table.

Killian’s bloodstained fingers locked the bathroom door. He slid the bolt across every window. He slotted the vent back into the ceiling, turning the screws so hard to secure it that tiny pieces of plaster scattered for the floor.

Wordlessly, Killian paced to the door and back again. Righted the dresser and the door half hanging off its hinges. Muttered a strong swear word.

‘I need to look in on Longwark,’ said Killian. ‘The kids. The prisoners. You stay here.’

Gray’s stomach dropped.

Gray spoke over his sore throat. Pointed at Frostvine on the bed, and tried not to think how good that bed looked, so soft, so inviting. ‘She’s vulnerable. She can’t protect herself.’

‘There’s no one here,’ said Killian sharply.

‘I mean,’ said Gray, ‘I need a dagger - or an axe.’

‘No.’ Killian let out a long, controlled breath.

‘Go,’ said Gray. ‘But, give me a weapon.’

‘Never going to happen, kid.’

Killian paced back over to the door and stilled. His hands gripped the edges of the dresser. ‘How long have they been coming, kid?’

Gray frowned. ‘Huh?’

‘The griffins. How long have they been coming?’

It took a moment for Gray to orient his mind.

’They don’t come often,’ said Gray. ‘Recently, just the morning of - of the murder. A small one. A tree griffin. Then the mountain griffin that afternoon.’

‘A tree griffin wasn’t in any of the Captain’s reports,’ said Killian.

‘I,’ said Gray, ‘didn’t report it.’

The silence felt like an accusation.

Gray strained to keep the defensiveness out of his hoarse voice. ‘I didn’t realise it was important.’

‘Looks like it’s very important,’ said Killian. ‘Yes?’

Gray frowned, mentally stumbling behind in the wake of the line of Killian’s questioning.

Someone had been breaking into the tombs.

Since before the soldiers arrived in Krydon.

And they were skilful enough at it that they’d not alerted any of the tomb guardians.

But it had alerted griffins.

Numbness swept through Gray.

Killian raised his eyebrows. ‘What aren’t you telling me, kid?’

Gray shook his head.

‘Hm?’

Gray hesitated, and Killian waited. Gray shifted underneath his gaze.

‘Look,’ said Killian, ‘I’m - very tired, you’ve reached magic fatigue - I know you’re close to collapsing, let’s not make this more difficult than it needs to be. You have information to tell me?’

Gray chewed the inside of his lip. ‘I …’

‘It’s about Longwark,’ said Killian. ‘Yes?’

Gray stilled, and then fisted his clammy hands to hide his reaction. It always came back to Longwark, and somehow Killian could read it, read him so easily.

‘The jar?’

‘It’s nothing,’ said Gray.

‘The Othoans?’

‘No,’ Gray muttered.

Killian was still in a strained kind of way, except for his fingers tapping against his thigh.

‘Kid,’ said Killian, ‘I don’t particularly want to fuck up your face, I need you presentable for the king, but I know you’re withholding information and I will do what it takes-’

‘OK,’ said Gray, anger lurching inside him, wild recklessness building through the thick fatigue, and desperately wanting to tell Killian to get screwed, but he couldn’t, he had to stay calm and keep playing the game until he could take every last soldier away from Krydon. ‘You’re not going to-’

‘You will be honest with me, kid. You know I have ways of loosening your tongue, and none of them are pleasant for you.’

‘It’s nothing. Nothing,’ said Gray, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, shoving the hairslide still clamped in his sweaty fist in there. His fingertips brushed the cold metal of the prison keys - the damn keys he’d stolen and he’d forgotten he was carrying around with him the whole morning like a fool - and he bowed his head to hide his face.

Holy Clochaint.

Gray needed Killian to back off. He needed a moment to throw away the keys.

And he absolutely could not afford a confrontation that resulted in Killian shaking the keys loose or feeling them in some way.

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Slowly, he looked up, to see if there was anything in Killian’s bearing to show he’d realised what Gray had just felt in his pocket.

‘It’s clearly not nothing,’ said Killian.

Gray shifted his weight in the chair, his chest tight.

‘The way I see it,’ said Killian, his jaw clenched, ‘we have the same goal here, kid.’

‘Do we,’ said Gray faintly.

‘You want to remove the threat to this town?’ said Killian.

Gray carefully controlled his reaction. He pushed down the urge to tell Killian he and his men were the biggest threat to this town, and were actively ignoring the threat that had killed Alistair and Rowan.

‘Hm?’ said Killian.

Gray forced his jaw open. ‘Yes.’

‘So, you have something to tell me?’

Silence pounded the room. It filled the air, building second by second

Shit. Gray rubbed his forehead, feeling heavy. ‘Alistair … he thought …’

Killian waited, his lips tight.

‘Alistair,’ said Gray, ‘thought Longwark was trying to break into the tombs.’

Killian regarded him wordlessly.

‘Alistair saw Longwark threatening a tomb guardian,’ said Gray. Each word was a weight being pulled from him. Gray had been shielding Longwark, keeping information from Killian, because he didn’t want to help this man. He -

‘When?’ said Killian.

’The night before - before ...’

‘Before what?’

‘Before Ali - the night I found him. In Chester’s Close.’ Gray drew in a shallow breath, his shoulders hunching inwards. ‘Alistair thought Longwark was trying to get into the tombs, by intimidating a guardian.’ Gray pressed his filthy hands to his face. Shame was ripping through him. ‘I - I dismissed it. I dismissed him. Ali.’

‘Ali tell you anything else?’ said Killian.

Ice shards were flooding Gray’s blood. Gray stared at him, words swimming around his sluggish mind. Had Alistair gotten caught up in some stupid, self-destructive prank or scheme involving the tombs, or he’d confronted Longwark, or Longwark knew Alistair knew-

No.

The rats, Gray reminded himself.

It had to be some creature or curse that had slunk out of the forest, and it had gotten Alistair and it had gotten Rowan, and it wasn’t the first time because there was that damn creepy lullaby about Gallow’s Alley. If only Gray could remember the exact lyrics, maybe it would give him some idea about what and why. Longwark wouldn’t have killed-

‘Kid?’

Gray shook his head. ‘I was distracted. We had to get to school. We had exams.’

Killian watched him, his shoulders controlled. ‘Give me details. I need something to work with.’

Gray’s voice was hoarse and low. Broken. ‘What details?’

‘Think, kid.’

‘I don’t-’ Gray stilled as a memory surfaced, swallowing painfully. ‘Longwark’s pants - in detention, before - before everything - they were torn at the hems. He had a mottled lavender weed stuck on his shoe. It was fresh. They - they grow in the graveyard, where most of the tombs are.’

‘Stealing from the Othoans,’ said Killian softly. ‘And stealing from the tombs. He’s quite the thief, hm?’

Gray chewed the inside of his lip. ‘Maybe.’

‘It doesn’t surprise me. Sorcerers love collecting …’ Killian hesitated ‘… things. The rarer and more powerful the better.’

‘I don’t have proof,’ said Gray. ‘Nothing real. You need proof.’

‘You’re a lawyer now?’ said Killian.

Gray clenched his jaw shut, glaring blindly out the window, his hands hot in his lap. He couldn’t get into an argument with Killian, he needed Killian to get the heck out of the room, to leave him alone for a minute.

‘We,’ said Killian softly, ‘can’t enter the tombs without griffins seeking retribution, or coming at us?’

’Right,’ mumbled Gray.

‘But, you’re here,’ said Killian, his voice growing steadily softer as though he was talking to himself. Gray struggled to hear him. ‘And you can communicate with the griffins. In a fashion. Perhaps negotiate with them. Yes?’

‘There wasn’t a lot of give and take in that exchange.’

‘You could learn. If you had the right teacher.’

‘I’m not helping you go into any tombs,’ said Gray, his jaw clenched. ‘You can’t go in them.’

‘You misunderstand me,’ said Killian. ‘You’re not helping me do shit. You’re going to the king as soon as possible. He wants you kneeling in the grand stadium, which …’

Killian made a choked kind of sound.

For a wild second, Gray thought maybe he was crying.

But, then, he realised Killian was withholding laughter. He held his head in his scarred hands.

And then he was pacing, fast, faster, his head in his hands, and Gray could practically see the wheels turning as he was figuring something out, and he was damn half smiling, like someone had just said something wild, something borderline taboo, that danced on the edge of black humour.

‘Krupin and Wilde’s agents loot tombs,’ Killian eventually said, his voice strained with pushed-down amusement, ‘It was so strange, Wilde’s assassin protecting his marked enemy. He was here for the tombs. You’re a tool. He needed you to help him get what he wanted.’

It took Gray a moment to understand who Killian was talking about.

Wilde’s assassin.

Branbright.

‘Tool seems about right,’ said Gray.

Killian glanced at Gray, a strange expression on his face. ‘Branbright thought you were Clochaint sent, didn’t he? A Griffin kid, falling right into his lap, right where the tombs are guarded by griffins. It’s all too neat.’

Gray opened his mouth. Closed it.

‘You were planted here,’ said Killian. ‘Yes?’

‘I don’t know what you’re … Branbright didn’t …’

Killian waited, staring darkly through his hair. Silence built.

Eventually, Killian leant forward, the hard line of his lips curled ever so slightly in contempt. ‘I’m talking about Longwark. He’s from here. He knows about the tombs. He damn well brought you here from the Griffin home in Hobbtown after the duel, and that’s why. Isn’t it?’

Gray’s heart hammered.

‘Hm, kid?’

‘I,’ said Gray, ‘don’t know. I don't think Longwark knew about the griffins - he was angry when ...’

'When?'

'... when the first griffin came.'

Killian paced. ‘Was Longwark competing with Branbright, jostling for favour?’

‘Favour with who?’ said Gray.

There was a loaded silence.

Slowly, Killian leant forward, his gaze dark. ‘The big boss.’

His words were loaded with decades worth of heat.

‘No,’ said Gray.

‘Is Longwark working for Wilde?’ said Killian, very precisely, very clearly, as though Gray hadn’t understood him the first time, like Gray didn’t know who the big boss was, as though Gray’s answer couldn’t really be no. ‘And Krupin?’

‘I - Longwark’s not working with Wilde.’ He couldn’t. He just couldn’t. ‘He’s not working with anyone.’

‘Not you?’ said Killian.

Gray felt an offended flush of red in his cheeks. ‘Absolutely not.’

Killian dusted his fingers off, and the tiniest trail of glittering dust drifted to the floor.

Gray watched it fall.

‘Longwark’s playing a very long game,’ said Killian softly. ‘Isn’t he?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Gray.

‘He brought you here, and he was waiting for your first ryece,’ said Killian. He raised his eyebrows, pinning Gray with his gaze. ‘But, then, along came Branbright. Gods, he must’ve been so mad. How mad was he, kid?’

‘You can keep asking me these questions,’ said Gray, straining to keep his cool. ‘And I can keep telling you I don’t know. Longwark doesn’t share his plans with me. He barely talks to me.’

Killian shot him an appraising glance.

‘Branbright and Longwark weren’t just competing to collect you, were they?’ said Killian. ‘Hm, kid?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Gray coolly.

‘They were competing over tombs, too. Yes?’

Gray stilled.

Killian clocked it, and for some damn reason it pleased him. A slow smile spread over his face.

‘There’s something really good down there,’ said Killian, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘Something worth killing for. And if they’re risking angering those griffins, they think it’s worth dying for, too.’