trigger. He tried to shrug away the suspicion he felt, but he couldn’t. “You’re
here to save me from myself? She’s the only reason we’ve survived here-the Band,
the real Stepsons-while you and the Riddler have been upcountry playing your
palace games. I’m not asking you where you’ve been. Don’t ask me how I’ve spent
my time. Unless, that is, you’re ready to be reasonable.”
“I can’t. I haven’t time. Riddler wants us to roust Roxane, get the Globe of
Power and destroy it by sunup. Maybe your soul-sucking friend’ll have a few
ideas as to how to help us, if she likes you so well. If she does, maybe I’ll
let her live until you can explain. Otherwise…” Crit lit the smoke he’d rolled
and the spark illumined a carefully arranged face that Straton knew wasn’t one
to argue with. “Otherwise, I’m going to bum her ass to a crisp and then do what
I can to beat some sense back into you… partner. Before it’s too late. So, you
want to call her out? Or just come with me and we’ll die like we’re supposed to,
shoulder to shoulder, fighting the Nisibisi witch.”
Strat didn’t have to call Ischade; she was beside him, somehow, though he hadn’t
heard the door open or seen light spill out and he didn’t think Crit had,
either.
She was so tiny in her cowl and long black cloak. He wanted to put an arm around
her shoulder, dared not, then dared. “She’s on our side, Crit. You’ve got to-“
“The hell I do,” Crit said, and shifted his gaze to her. “I bet I don’t have to
explain one whit to you, honey. I just hope you’re not too hungry to wait