Page 41 of Guardian of Exile

“They’re my friends. They were worried you’d try to kill me on sight. I’d call them paranoid, but oh wait, you did just try to kill me. Twice. Out of curiosity, if you had managed to kill me in the middle of Central Park, what was your plan on how to deal with my body?”

“If you weren’t…whatever the fuck you are, your heart would have stopped. I don’t know what it’s like where you’re from, but around here, no one puts much effort into investigating deaths that have an obvious cause.”

“Montana.”

He blinked, obviously thrown off. “Excuse me?”

“You said you didn’t know what it’s like where I’m from. I grew up in Montana. Shitty little pocket of Earth Between, but it’s there. So yeah, good point, the cops aren’t going to give a shit about a random heart attack.”

“You expect me to believe you’re from Montana?” His gaze landed pointedly on her sword. “When this does nothing to you?” He hit her with another pulse of Shamanic magic with a killing intent.

“Still fucking rude, and I wasn’t born there, but yeah, that’s where I grew up. In the middle of fucking nowhere. Literally.”

His eyes narrowed, and she could tell he didn’t believe for a minute that she was from Earth. “Yeah? What’s a Snickers?”

“Candy bar, subpar in all ways to a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. Fun fact, I once sold a bunch of protein bars to Earth Between’s Warlock when I needed money. She turned around and sold them to alien tourists as a ‘rare Earth delicacy’ for twenty-five bucks a pop.”

He stared at her. “Who are you and what do you want?”

“Nyx Fortuna. And like I said, I need you to fix something.”

“You aren’t sick.”

“No. I don’t need you to heal me. I need you to fix something another Shaman did a long time ago.”

“Then find another Shaman. There must be several more accessible than me.”

“I can’t. You’re the only one who can do what I need.”

“And why would that be?” His voice was low and dangerous, and she knew he’d already guessed what her answer would be.

“Because you’re the only Shaman who has survived separation from the Congregation.”

His expression went flat. “I’m not killing anyone for you. And I don’t know why you’d need me to. You reek of death. What are you?”

“A person,” she said caustically. “And I don’t want you to kill anyone. I want you to help someone. A lot of someones, actually.”

“I have a hard time believing someone who feels like death simply wants me to help people.”

“Stop trying to kill me, and I’ll stop feeling like this.” The offer was impulsive and far from a smart decision, but she had to gain his trust somehow, and she didn’t know how else to do it.

The expression in his eyes, and the slight laxness of his grip on her wrist, said he was considering it. More, she thought, out of curiosity than anything else. He couldn’t have met many—possibly any—people with a significant amount of magic since coming here. She’d been counting on that—on his seeing her as a bridge to the world he’d been taken from.

“Okay,” he said.

She hesitated. The kind of death an A-Morridahn could swallow without issue was the kind that came directly from A-Queltr, from another Salyrian. If she ascended from A-Queltr and he tried to kill her again, he would succeed. Her fear must have shown on her face, because a sardonic smile spread across his.

“What’s the matter? Don’t trust me?”

“Not even a little.” She centered herself on the ledge in A-Queltr. Before she stepped off it, she added, “My best friend is terrifying and she has a Hound with your scent at her disposal. Kill me, and they will track you down and return the favor.” If he didn’t kill her and Evra ever found out about this, she’d throttle Nyx to within an inch of her life for being so reckless.

But life was about taking risks, wasn’t it? She stepped off the ledge and started walking. The ascent from A-Queltr had never felt more like stripping herself bare. Tristen’s power washed over her with each step, no longer hostile, but still raw and wild somehow, like it—or he—was never at peace. It tasted her with each pass, and she wondered if he had any idea how invasive and intimate it felt. Like he was seeing her down to her bones.

That was what Shamanic magic did—she knew that—but her own past experiences with it had never felt like this. There was something about the Congregation in Tobi that had kept his magic from ever feeling so…personal. As if what he learned about her swept through him and into the Congregation without leaving much behind. Tristen didn’t have that. Everything his magic took from her went into him, with no outlet. She understood, suddenly, why Maruca had been willing to die rather than let a Shaman touch her. She was a woman who kept herself behind impenetrable walls, and she would die within them before she let someone breach them.

Nyx took the last step out of A-Queltr. The door closed behind her. She masked the feeling of vulnerability by asking, “Do I feel all better now?”

He frowned, either missing or ignoring her sarcasm. “No. It’s off the surface, but you have death in your core.” He sounded repulsed.