Wicked (A Wicked Trilogy 1)

"Really? Wow. Okay. The other two?"

"You sure you want to hear this?"

I arched a brow.

"Miles was adopted.'

"No shit," I whispered. "I'm sorry, but Miles, a halfling? He has the personality of a decade old piece of wallpaper."

A small smile hovered at the edges of his lips. "I don't think his personality disqualifies him."

"Still. I can't imagine it being him. And he's the second in command. How could they allow one to ascend to that kind of position?"

"Simply because they didn't know." Reaching over, he curled one finger around mine, stopping me from tugging on the loose string of the hem. "Sometimes I think it would just make things easier if the entire Order knew that halflings existed, knew what could happen if the prince or princess got a hold of one, but then . . . that kind of knowledge could be destructive."

At first I wanted to argue that point because knowledge was power; it was also a source of safety. But as I watched him drag his finger along my knuckles, it occurred to me why he thought it would be destructive. "You're right," I whispered, stomach roiling. "If everyone knew, it would be a witch hunt. Innocent people would get caught up in it. As soon as someone did anything weird, and all of us are totally capable of some weird shit, they'd be suspected. Guilty until proven innocent."

"Exactly."

"Who else here are you looking into?" To me, Miles was absolutely out of the question. Perhaps my reasoning wasn't the most logical, but I couldn't fathom that, and I didn't know anyone else who was adopted only because that was an uber personal question to just randomly spring on people.

His brows furrowed as he tapped each of my knuckles. "The Elite is still pulling research on the rest who might . . . fit the description."

"In other words, you don't want to tell me who else it could be."

He lifted his gaze to mine. "It's nothing personal. I'm just not going to put thoughts in your head that might not need to be there."

"I don't know anyone else who's been adopted," I persisted.

Several seconds passed. "I don't like the idea of keeping you in the dark, but like I said, I'm not going to put shit in your head that might not need to be there."

Annoyed, I started to pull my hand away from him, but I held myself still as his finger followed a bone up my hand, to my wrist. Behind the irritation was apprehension. Obviously there was something he wasn't telling me, but there was a reason other than him not wanting to put shit in my head. Could it be that I was close to whomever he— and the Elite—suspected? Immediately, my thoughts went to Val, but I dismissed them. She hadn't been adopted, and both her parents were alive and still active within the Order.

"When you find the person . . . you're going to kill them, aren't you?" I asked.

Several seconds passed then he leaned back, his fingers trailing off my hand. Taking a drink of his beer, he nodded. "That's part of my job, Ivy."

A shudder danced across my shoulders. Although I killed fae every night I hunted, to me killing a human—half fae or not—wasn't the same thing. "I've never killed a human."

His gaze flicked to mine but he didn't respond, because deep down, I knew that he had. A lot of Order members had. Not because they wanted to. Sometimes it was a human who'd been fed on too long, like the woman in the Quarter the other day. Other times it was someone who knew about the fae and worked alongside them. Or it was an innocent person who got caught in the crossfire. I knew that sometimes it couldn't be helped.

"David says that makes me weak," I added quietly.

The emerald hue brightened as he said earnestly, "That does not make you weak, Ivy. Not at all. And be glad that you've never had that kind of blood on your hands, and I hope you never do. It may be our duty—my duty—but it's not something I look forward to. It's not . . ." He looked away, a muscle thrumming along his jaw. "It's not something I'm entirely okay with. Not even when they're halflings."

All too easily I recalled the solemn expression that had been carved into his features when the man died in the Quarter. I didn't know what to say to him because I didn't know what it was like to kill someone whose only crime was their mixed heritage, and I wasn't even sure if I was okay with that. How could I be? If what Ren said was true, most of them, if not all of them, had no idea what they were. On the other hand, I understood the risk they posed. Conflicted, I tried to sort out what I thought. The only thing I did know was that what Ren said was true—he wasn't okay with it. Instinct told me that.

I studied the hard set of his jaw, the straight and proud nose, the flat line of his lips that were usually curved in a teasing smile. "Can't you leave the Elite?"

He coughed out a dry laugh. "You could leave the Order, but you can't leave the Elite. They'd never trust us with the knowledge we hold. I was born into this." His gaze found mine once more, and the shadows I'd seen in his eyes before had only increased. "And I'll die in this."

My chest tightened with those words. I didn't like to hear him say that—didn't want to hear him say anything like that. I inhaled, but the air got stuck in my throat, lodged up against the bitter ball of panic.

I closed my eyes.

God, I was so dumb. I'd allowed Ren to get under my skin, just like I had let Val in, and I knew better. Was I some kind of sadist? Hell. Why couldn't I be the fun kind of sadist, enjoying bondage or some freaky stuff like that?

"You are handling this well—better than I thought."

When I pried my eyes open, he wasn't looking at me. He was staring at the bottle of beer he held, at the label he'd almost peeled off. "Maybe I'll freak out later. I don't know. This was a lot of info to swallow."

"It is," he agreed pensively, and I hated that tone—and I hated that I cared enough to feel that way. "We still have to figure out the gates," he added, finishing off his beer. Leaning forward, he dropped his feet on the floor and placed the bottle on the coffee table. "Do you think she was actually telling us where the gates were, in her own way?"

"I think so." Running my hand down my face, I sighed wearily. "Something about the last thing she said, about no spirits or people being able to rest there? It sounds familiar. I can talk to Jerome. He's lived here his whole life. He might know of a few places we could check out."

"Sounds good. Bring him cake." He flashed a quick grin. "Butter him up. But save me a slice."

A reluctant smile appeared. "I still don't know if you can have any of my cake."

"Babe, I'm gonna get a piece of it, all right?"

I laughed, shaking my head. "So cocky."

The grin stayed on his lips for a few more seconds before slowly fading, and then it was gone, like it had never been there. Curled up against the arm of the couch, I let everything he told me sink in. My thoughts whirled from one direction to the next. I couldn't help but obsess over how much David was aware of. Did he know that Miles was adopted, a potential halfling? Did he know anything about the halflings in general, and if he did, was he prepared? He had to be.

Ren tipped his head back against the couch. "I let my best friend die."

Startled, I blinked. "What?"

Exhaling harshly, he stared at the blank TV screen across from where we sat. "My best friend—his name was Noah Cobb. We grew up together, always around each other. Hell, we were like brothers. Getting into trouble, staying out of it. If you saw one of us, you saw the other shortly afterward."

A sick feeling descended upon me. "What happened to him?"

Ren's jaw flexed as he stared straight ahead. "He was a fluke. Raised in the Order, both his parents were alive, and they were happy, you know? Never would've even suspected anything. His father hadn't stepped out on his mother. It wasn't like that. From what we gathered later, Noah came into the picture around the same time his father met his wife. It was a one night stand, and they'd hidden what he was very well. After . . . after what happened, we learned that the fae his father slept with brought Noah to him. The fae know what a halfling can do, but they can't raise a ch

ild that has mortal blood. They don't have the compassion or the humanity it takes to not neglect a child, for it to even survive a week. Anyway, the woman his father married accepted Noah as one of her own. They had no idea what being a halfling meant."

An ache lit up my chest as I listened to him. Human compassion—his father's love and his wife's acceptance had saved the boy, but I knew where this was heading, and although I wanted to hope for a different outcome, I knew it wouldn't change how this story ended.