Descendant

clearly nothing the least bit real about the situation she found herself in at that very moment.

So what does it matter if you talk to this guy or not?

Mason stepped out from around the pillar that hid her from the bound man’s view, and the snake hovering above his head hissed and withdrew with whiplash speed into a dark seam in the rock behind its shelf, disappearing from sight.

With the snake gone, utter stillness descended on the cavern. A fine, shimmering haze of powdery dust hung like a veil in the air, and an acrid tang drifted, foglike, stinging Mason’s eyes and burning the sensitive skin of her nostrils.

The man chained to the rock was richly dressed—at least, he had been, once—but his gold-and-green tunic, edged with a wide band of elaborate, knot-work embroidery, was torn and stained with ages of filth. His breeches were tattered, his feet bare and coated with blood, dried and fresh, from having fought against his cruel restraints. His dark-blond hair had grown long, and his beard was unkempt. And yet, somehow, he still looked princely.

Mason edged toward him, between the rock pillars and across a narrow stone bridge that spanned the dark pool. Slowly, wearily, the man rolled his head in Mason’s direction, just enough so that she could see one of his eyes. Sky-blue and bright in the ashen gloom, it almost seemed to glow, as if lit from within. He stared at her, unblinking, and his gaze, beneath a sheen of excruciating pain, held warmth and wisdom and—Mason got the distinct impression—a wicked sense of humor.

“Who are you?” she asked, a tremor in her voice.

“Me?” the man answered. “Oh . . . no one of consequence . . .”

“Wow,” Mason said, swallowing her fear. “You must have done something pretty shitty to merit this kind of punishment, in that case.”

She waited for a moment, expecting to see anger or denial or bitterness fill the stranger’s expression at what she’d said. But he just continued to smile through the pain and shifted his shoulder in an approximation of a shrug. The one blue eye she could see remained fixed placidly upon her.

“Looks can be terribly deceiving,” he said.

The muscles of his cheek and jaw spasmed in pain.

“Right. So . . . what did you do then?” she asked.

“Something pretty shitty.” He chuckled. “Obviously. At least . . . there are those who clearly seem to think so.”

“But you just said looks are deceiving.”

“I said they can be—” His mirth collapsed into a racking coughing fit, the breath rattling in his lungs, and Mason winced in sympathy. He must have been terribly parched, lying there like that, chained in that smoky, dusty cavern for who knew how long.

When the hacking subsided and he turned his head farther to look at her, Mason had to swallow hard to keep the bile from rising in her throat. Half of the man’s handsome face had been seared to a raw, blackened mess by the snake’s corrosive drool. His hair and beard were singed, and she thought she could see the pale gleam of his cheekbone through the ruined flesh.

He shrugged again, seeing her reaction. “I’m sure it probably looks far worse than it feels. Looks, remember?”

“Deceiving,” Mason said through clenched teeth. “Yeah. Right . . .”

She swallowed hard again and forced her gaze not to shift, like it had every time she’d looked at Cal. This, after all, was much, much worse. Mason might have unintentionally shamed Cal by the way she’d reacted to him after the attack on the school gym, when his handsome face had been slashed open by the claws of a draugr, but she wouldn’t shame this man—whoever he was—by doing the same thing. She’d learned her lesson, and there would be no looking away this time. No matter how horrifying it was.

But then he did her the favor of shifting again anyway, so Mason could no longer see the terrible wound. She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them again, she saw that the rich blue orb of his undamaged eye was fastened on the iron medallion around her neck.

“What’s your name, child?” he asked again, in that same gentle tone.

“Mason. Mason Starling,” she said, even though he still hadn’t told her who he was.

“Starling . . .” He smiled as if in recollection of a pleasant memory. “Pretty birdie.”

Mason snorted. “Most people think starlings are pests,” she said. “They’re considered an invasive species in some parts of the world.”

“Ha!” The man laughed again. “I’ve had the very same accusations leveled at me. I prefer to think of such creatures as . . . adventurous. Survivors. Conquerors.”

“Is that what you are?” Mason asked, intrigued in spite of herself. She put a hand out, gingerly touching the rusted shackle that circled around the man’s wrist. The skin beneath it was raw and scored with the iron’s bite. He must have torn the skin every time the serpent dripped its poison. She wondered how often that happened. It reminded her of the scars that Fennrys carried. “Is that why you’re here?”

“Because I was invasive? Or because I survived? Both, I suppose.” He sighed, and it was a sound that carried bone-deep, age-old weariness in it. “Why are you here, Mason?”

She felt a frown creasing her forehead. “I keep telling people, I don’t even know where ‘here’ is.”

“Oh. I see.” The blue eye filled with understanding. Sympathy. “They really don’t like to play fair.”

“Who?”

“The Powers That Be.” The shoulder lifted again in a shrug. “All of which is to say that isn’t saying much of anything definite. The board shifts and the players come and go. All of which means, I don’t know why you’re here either, Mason. Not exactly. But I do know you should probably be careful while you are.”

“Careful of what?”

“Everything,” he said wearily. “And everyone.”

“Even you?”

“Especially me. For I am the God of Lies.”

III

“You’re a liar and a thief.”

Heather Palmerston had never heard a voice so cold sound so angry.

“Get up.”

She shrank back into the farthest corner of the leather banquette seat in the opulent confines of the train car. She’d been huddled there, numb, her head hidden in the crook of her arm ever since she’d seen Calum slam into the Hell Gate Bridge and plummet over the side.

“I said . . . get up.”

The command, issued in tones laden with heavy rage, wasn’t directed at her, and Heather had never been so glad to not be the center of attention in her entire life. Instead, the words were aimed at Rory Starling, who lay crumpled on the expensive Persian rug, his body folded protectively around his right arm, which was bloodied and bent at an awkward angle . . . in at least two places. Heather could see a jagged end of bone showing through his skin, and the sight made her stomach clench. Rory’s face was ashen where it wasn’t mottled with red splotches or bruising. He was wild-eyed, and there was a web of pinkish foam at the corners of his open, gasping mouth. He struggled to force himself up into a sitting position, in response to the man who’d spoken.

Heather knew, even without having seen his face when he’d entered the train car, that it was Rory’s father—Gunnar Starling—one of the most powerful men in New York City. Maybe even the world. With his lion’s mane of silver hair and the cloaklike overcoat hanging from his broad muscled shoulders, he was unmistakable.

Outside the windows, everything was dark. Much darker than it would be if they were still outside. They were in a tunnel. Somewhere beneath Queens, she figured, from the direction they’d been traveling. She still