Page 54 of Seas the Reckoning

“Answer her, Seymour. And I’ll go easy on you.”

He nods, relief clear on his face. The woman on the floor is sitting up now, eyes blinking. He leaps forward, grabbing the fabric of my dress, like a desperate person looking for a life raft.

“The eldest son of the Soloman family wears a pin with that crest on his lapel. Gaudy, if you ask me. Self-important little upstart, but his family is powerful.”

“And the curses?” It takes everything in me not to wrench my dress out of his sweaty hands.

“That ability has nothing to do with me. My family are all gifted with elemental keys. I can pull the earth, but⁠—”

“But he’s not very useful with it unless he’s outside. Isn’t that right, Seymour? His talents include a head for numbers, cooking books, and raising his hand to women who have done nothing to deserve it.”

He glares at her over my shoulder.

“There’s only one family I know of with a historic key for curses. But no one has the ability at present. They’re close-lipped on it, as a matter of fact.”

“Seymour,” the Ender warns, flicking her wrist Flames shoot down the blade of the sword, and Seymour yelps. My eyes widen, but I manage to keep any gasp of surprise from escaping.

Councilman Taylor’s accountant gulps, forcing his gaze from the sword and back to me.

“Right. Yes. I shouldn’t be telling you this. I only know of it because our families have worked together for generations, and my grandfather was aware of Councilman Taylor’s father’s key for cu⁠—”

My vision blurs, worse than if I’d used my song.

“—shame he didn’t inherit it.”

Councilman Taylor. He’s not just an unwitting bystander or an accomplice, then. His family’s key is the key to my curse.

Starla’s family.

“Seymour! What’s happening!” The woman with the bruised cheek is awake enough now to speak, clutching her injured face and crying.

“Quiet, woman!” he shouts, seeming to entirely forget that he has a flaming sword pointed at him.

Elven weaponry, perhaps? Elves have magically imbued weapons. Jackal is a watcher, and that’s a position with hyena shifters. Maybe an Ender is something the elves have?

The woman on the floor cowers, and Seymour finally lets go of me.

“What happened?” the woman repeats.

Seymour raises an arm at her. If this is his snap reaction even when his life is threatened and there are witnesses, I can’t imagine what he’s done behind closed doors.

In a moment, the flames flickering across the Ender’s sword flare brighter, the warmth of them licking at my skin, and the light revealing the sheen on Seymour’s perspiring brow.

Pickles would no doubt love the weapon.

“Are you done with him?” the Ender asks me, keeping her eyes on Seymour, whose hand has dropped to his side as the other woman scoots back against the wall.

I wrinkle my nose at the accountant.

“I’m done. You said you’d go easy on him?”

“I’ll be quick. I won’t leave a mess. But no one will ever have to worry about a proposal from the man ever again,” she says.

Her eyes are gleaming. It’s a steady shine, and she reminds me of a shifter.

But shifters don’t carry weapons.

Certainly not ones on fire.