Angelfire | The Whispering Wall #3

Forty Nine: Warning Signs

He felt like he was heading towards an execution. Jordan stood in the street outside Arlen's home for longer than was probably wise, steeling himself to enter. Arlen didn't know he was coming; it had been over a week since he'd been summoned, and he was so tired of jumping at shadows. He was certain he'd done something wrong now, so he had come anyway in the hopes of heading any danger off at the pass.

He was already regretting it.

There was light in the windows, so he didn't even have the excuse of no one being home to turn tail and go back to Yddris's, climb into bed and pretend nothing was amiss. He was supposed to see Grace tomorrow. He shouldn't be risking Arlen roping him into plans he didn't have time for; but if he hadn't come, he risked the assassin being even more furious with him than he might be already, and with the departure date coming up fast, it would be a bad move to leave things sour until the last minute. He needed Arlen's help to get through the damn thing when Marick's men would be breathing down his neck.

He took a sharp breath and crossed the street. He knocked, the sharp pattern of raps that Arlen had assigned to him, and heard low voices inside fall silent.

The door opened, and to Jordan's surprise it was Silas on the other side. They stared at each other, weighing up. There was far less hostility in the other boy's gaze than there usually was, but it still wasn't exactly friendly.

"He found out about your plan to take me with you." Silas's lips barely moved; Jordan had to lean in to hear him.

"Ah." Things made a whole lot more sense now. He nodded to Silas in silent thanks, then followed him up the stairs, torn between nerves for what he was about to face and pleasant surprise that he'd come so close to Silas without him trying to shove a knife in something.

Everyone was home. The atmosphere was tense, Jordan's magic spiking with alarm in response. He clenched his fists against the warning crackle in his palms, gritted his teeth as a tremor threatened in his spine, sending up a silent fervent thanks to Astra. Without her efforts, he likely would have collapsed in the street from nerves and been robbed blind long before he made it here.

Arlen sat at the table, a dagger swinging idly between his fingertips. Across from him sat the biggest woman Jordan had ever seen, broad and lean and glaring at him like she was sizing up a joint in a butcher's window. There was something familiar about the set of her jaw, the way she sat; her yellow eyes marked her as Varthian.

"This is my sister, Mila." Usk shrugged away from the wall. He looked about as cheerful as Arlen did, but managed to scrape together a smirk.

Jordan nodded, uncertain how to greet a woman who was staring at him like he was dinner. "Well met."

Mila tilted her head. Jordan hadn't thought it was possible for someone to be more intimidating than Usk, but his sister gave him a run for his money. It was all Jordan could do to stand his ground.

Finally, she sniffed and began picking at her fingernails. "You will not need my services, then."

Arlen's jaw feathered as he shot a dark glower at the woman, who ignored him completely. Then the assassin's gaze pinned Jordan, and he was ashamed to admit that he did take a step back. Arlen noticed. His lips twitched, eyebrow rising as he beckoned. "Wasn't expecting you tonight, Calder."

"I know." Jordan approached the table. It seemed pointless to elaborate.

"Mila is an expert in disguises." His tutor hadn't broken his gaze. Even the blind eye seemed to pin him to the spot. "She is the kind of contact you need if you're planning something reckless. Of course, you wouldn't have known where to find her." He cocked his head. "How exactly did you plan to sneak it past me, Calder?"