Page 229 of Harbinger

The fact that I’m in no hurry to do so hasn’t escaped his notice. I’m about as close to truly manifesting my magic as he is to finding the revello.

I nod, but before I can close the door behind me, he calls out, “Bishop is home. He’s in a bit of a mood.”

That’s both the first and last thing I want to hear.

“What did he say?” I ask.

“Nothing.” Hadrian shrugs. “He just poked his head in and glowered.”

Uh-oh.

“I’ll check on him,” I promise, but Hadrian is already bent over Breccan’s shoulder, tapping something in the book in front of him.

I take the stairs two at a time. Hero is waiting at the door to the western wing with his ears pinned back. He greets me with a low, throaty rumble I’ve never heard from him before. The kind of sound a much larger animal would make.

“What’s gotten into you?” I murmur, but he’s already trotting ahead toward the bedroom.

By the time I walk inside it, Hero is planted in front of the balcony doors, growling at his own reflection in the glass.

“Hero. Stop.”

But he doesn’t. Instead, he swings his head toward me, then back to the glass. His rumble climbs a notch as he stares through it.

Bishop is on the balcony, his back to the house. The sky beyond him bleeds from rose into deep violet, the sun a thin red line over the churning sea.

“Easy.” I lay a hand on Hero’s head. “It’s just Bishop.”

The pup lets out another unhappy growl. I pick him up and deposit him on the bed.

Somebody needs a nap.

We probably both do.

Stepping onto the balcony, I unfasten the baldric across my chest and prop my sword against the wall by the door.

But Bishop doesn’t turn to face me. He just stares at the sky above us, like he’s watching the twilight descend. His hair hangs loose at his shoulders, a new sword sheathed on his back below his red cloak. He stopped wearing it after Damalis, and part of me had hoped …

“Bishop?”

He still doesn’t turn.

Something in my belly tightens. The feeling I used to get as a child when the closet door wouldn’t stay closed and I knew better than to be afraid.

“Hadrian said you were in a mood.” I keep my voice light. Or try to. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” His voice is low, almost amused, and for some reason it makes the hair on my arms stand on end.

“Did something happen with that lead in Wintour?” I ask, growing uneasy. “Did you find Laurel?”

He shakes his head. “I found exactly what I was looking for.”

The strangeness of the answer unsettles me. Hadrian said he was in a mood. But this doesn’t feel like a mood.

This feels like the quiet before the clouds dump rain on my head.

He turns slowly toward me. His face remains in shadow, the dying light at his back catching only the edge of his jaw and the curve of his mouth.

He holds out a hand. “Come here.”