The Griever's Mark (The Griever's Mark series Book 1) by Katherine Hurley Page A

gives him a predator’s grace. And his dark eyes, narrowed at me with hidden study, tell me why they call him the Wolf.
    He paces into the room with that animal grace and nods at the painting. “You like it?”
    I want to say, “Yes,” because it’s an eerie, powerful image, but Amara the whore would not think like that. I want to ask about the Drifter in the background, but Amara would never notice it. So Amara mutters, “I don’t like the fighting.”
    He halts, disappointment washing the curiosity from his face. “I hear you have information regarding Count Martel.”
    He is formal now, a king, and I feel an unexpected loss as the chance to speak casually with him slips away.
    I grasp at my story. “I work at the Trader’s Choice, a brothel—”
    “I know it,” he cuts me off irritably.
    That surprises me. There must be fifty brothels in the city. Why would he know of a little place like that?
    “Tonight,” I go on, “Count Martel came in. He may be gone by now, but he was there when I left to come here. I thought you’d want to know.”
    “How did you recognize him?”
    “His scar.”
    Dark eyebrows come down. “Many are scarred.”
    “My father fought in the wars. He told stories. He says the king”—I let my eyes dart to Heborian—“you—cut him, but he escaped.”
    “Who is your father?”
    “He’s dead, my lord, but his name was Jean Adarre. You wouldn’t have had cause to know him.”
    Heborian studies me. “That’s a Keldan name. You’re Runish.”
    I shift uncomfortably. I didn’t expect him to ask so many questions. “My mother,” I mumble, feeling exposed by the information, by this thread of truth.
    His eyes narrow, and he starts to walk a circle around me, as Madame Adessa did. I can’t help but tense. I don’t like to be the center of attention; I’ve learned it’s a dangerous place. When he comes again to the front, a crease wedges between his brows, and his mouth is drawn low in a frown. There’s something in his eyes I don’t like and for a second I think it’s recognition. But I know he’s never seen me. He can’t know I work for Belos.
    He’s about to say something when a man, dressed in the black and silver of the house guards, bursts into the room.
    “My lord! Prince Rood! Gone!”
    Heborian wheels on the guard. “What?”
    “You told us to tell you at once if he—”
    “I know what I told you. I also know that I ordered discretion.” Heborian grounds out the last word.
    The guard’s eyes dart to me, and he swallows hard.
    Heborian says nothing more, but his face warns of punishment. He glances back at me, eyes narrow with suspicion, then stalks from the room.
    Heborian’s footsteps beat down the hall, and I am seemingly forgotten. My mind races. Prince Rood missing. Is it just coincidence? The prince could be out doing whatever it is fifteen-year-old boys do, even royal ones. He is, I’ve heard, a little wild. But. I came here tonight because I was expecting Martel to move quickly. Could this be his move? But how could he have gotten Rood out of this castle? Impossible. The prince must have left. But why? More importantly, could Martel have intercepted him? But how would Martel have known where the prince was going?
    The questions roll through my mind, disconnected. But then I remember something Imelda said when she took me to her room, something that has been in my mind like an itch all evening: Even a king may be brought low by a whore.
    Heborian knew of the Trader’s Choice, and he was irritated by it. Perhaps Prince Rood has been there, against his wishes.
    I jog for the door, glad to have been forgotten. I have to get to the Trader’s Choice. I have to find Imelda.
     

 
    Chapter 7
     
    THERON AND I navigate the Drift—blessedly free of the Hounding—to the Trader’s Choice, where I recognize Imelda’s lighted form by her quiet beauty. But energy shivers through her. She’s nervous.
    I step from the Drift into her room, where a broken