Slate Gray

Chapter 18.2: Perrin Slate

The High-Level's answering smile drips with the purity of triumph, winding upwards like a mustache twirling in on itself. "Music to my ears," he effuses. "Julian? The box, if you please."

And Dad breaks his silence to utter a strangled, "No."

But as the lackey slinks off, Ace lifts a finger. "Not so fast. I'd also like a whatchamacallit... a 'show of good faith', before we proceed."

"Ahh." Naberius's grin waxes perceptively smug. "You want me to let someone go."

My sister blushes prettily. "Can you blame me? Just like a preference for order is in your nature, saving people is in mine."

"Saving everyone but me, apparently," I jab.

She brushes it off, but there's a twinkle of regret in the glance she flashes my way. Good. I hope she feels terrible.

"And if I decline?" the demon counters.

Her lips flatten into a bullheaded stripe. "Then I rescind my deal and I suppose you go back to slicing and dicing."

I pepper in a surly, "Is there a third option?"

But Naberius considers this, examining my sister as if longing to leap inside her brain to catalogue which wheels are turning. And if those wheels are greased with sincerity or treachery.

"You only need me and Perrin, right?" she presses, sensing an opening. "So, technically, you can let my dad and Terry walk free and still come out on top."

The demon chuckles and his host's knees crack as he stands to once more close in on our intern. "That's his name? Terry?" Grabbing his chin, he looks down his nose at him, attempting to find something worthwhile in the beaten, bloody face. "What a heinous thing to call a person," he muses.

Movement catches my attention as, with the predator's back turned, Ace sneaks something from the breast pocket of her overalls.

"You bled all over my French Toast," she sulks when she sees me watching, tearing some napkins from the dispenser and bunching them up around something white and rectangular. Swiping them across the table's blood-soaked surface, she looks for all the world like she's simply cleaning a spill.

But I know better... What's she up to?

Palming the mysteriously bloody rectangle, she catches both Dad's and my gaze and casually signs, with an ease that could be mistaken for a nervous twitch, the word, "Danger."

Obviously, we're in danger, dipshit, I think. But then heady relief blitzes through me and I can't decide if I wanna hug her or throttle her.

She wants us to follow her lead. Which means it's all an act!

Oh, thank God. Little turd really had me on the ropes.

I should've known she'd never actually throw Michael's death in my face like this. Or go all in with my soul as collateral without something up her sleeve. She's too smart. And she loves me too much. I'm the idiot who chose to believe otherwise.

That said, I'm definitely picking a fight about this later. Some of those blows were criminally low and recovery is gonna take time. But for now, more than happy to pass the flickering torch, I tap my boot against her sneaker as Dad imperceptibly nods.

Go get him, sis.

"Free them or no deal," she repeats, adopting that calculating persona once more. And here I thought she was a terrible actress.

The High-Level snorts and flings Terry's face away, disinterested. "Fine," he allows, pivoting back to us. "But you can't have your pie and eat it too, sweetheart. Only one is free to walk."