Wild ― Piper McLean

―xix. the song of the false eight

"I'm just ready to get this thing over with," Lawrence said with a pout. "I miss the forges."

"When we get back, I'm applying for a furlough," she told him. She smiled softly at the thought of her plans. "I'm going to try to talk Clay into letting me go back to Venice to see my dad."

"Across the Mare Nostrum?" Lawrence asked, immediately wary. "Is that safe?"

"I don't know," Verona admitted. "But—I mean, I was fine out there growing up. And I just want to see my dad. It's been six years."

Lawrence wrapped his arm around her, letting her lean against him. "I get it," he said. "I might apply for leave, too—see my Mom and Steve. That'd be nice."

Verona smiled. "We'll be heroes when we get back," she reminded him. "We can totally pull the 'saved the world' card to get our way."

"Oh, hell yeah," Lawrence said.

Just then, Jordan stormed into the tent.

"Jordan!" Verona exclaimed, before she saw the look on her best friend's face.

Jordan had always been a stern, stoic type. It took a lot to get her to crack a smile, especially on quests. But the fury on her face now was something Verona had only seen once before, when one of the legionnaires under her watch ran from a fight and left a probatio to fend for herself, nearly resulting in the girl's death.

Jordan slammed a black, leather-bound journal down on the desk Michael had set up, right on top of a battle plan he, Logan, Isaiah, and Auggie had been working on. In the dim light from the lanterns all around, Verona thought she saw tears in the daughter of Jupiter's eyes.

"You wrote it," she said, her voice like the thunder her father commanded. "Didn't you?"

Stacy stood up, frowning softly. "What's going on?"

Michael didn't look at his girlfriend, didn't even acknowledge her. He kept his eyes on Jordan, his long-term opponent and short-term ally.

He said nothing, but Jordan didn't seem to be looking for an answer.

Verona stood, looking between the two with furrowed brows. "What is it, Jordan?"

Jordan didn't look away from Michael as she answered: "He's doomed us all."

"Heyward," Michael said, his voice a warning in and of itself. "Let's talk about this later."

"No, we're talking about it right fucking now," she said, which was enough to make the occupants in the tent freeze. Jordan Heyward never cursed—not when she lost the election, not when she got hurt in battle, not even after spending years around Lawrence and Verona's potty mouths. Her grandmother had hated vulgar language, and Jordan had loved her grandmother. It took a lot for her to curse.

"Jordan," Lawrence said, tone worried. "What's wrong? What did Michael do?"

"The list," Jordan said. She grabbed the journal, holding it out of reach as Michael tried to take it. She opened it to the middle, splaying the covers to expose a section of ripped paper, unlined and off-white—just like the paper their names had been written on. "It came from here. Michael wrote it—not his father."

"What?" Auggie looked at Michael. "But—you said it was from Janus."

"He lied," Jordan said.

"That doesn't make any sense," Isaiah protested, looking from the paper to the journal. "Michael wouldn't do that." He looked at his praetor, his sponsor, the boy he'd looked up to since he was a probatio. "Tell her."