He was backing her toward a corner. She ducked, trying to dart around him, but he grabbed her throat and shoved her hard against the wall. Her back flared with pain as her wounds reopened. Her vision went bright white.
She felt his free hand pawing at her bodice. Felt the fabric tear and the dress loosen around her chest.
“I always get what I’m owed,” he said.
The pungent smell of him was everywhere. His touch made her want to curl up into a ball. She felt sick, knowing what he was about to do.
Stop him.
But how? He was bigger, stronger. She had no way to cast a spell.
He’s a soldier. He’ll be armed.
She glanced at his hip. Sure enough, there was a pistol holstered there.
As more fabric ripped and Soren lost himself to his lust and rage, Rune reached for the gun.
She turned off the safety and cocked it.
Gideon’s voice flooded through her, calming her, helping her focus:If someone tries to hurt you, and there’s no other way to stop them, don’t think twice. Just shoot. Got it?
Lifting the gun to Soren’s head, Rune fired.
FIFTY-FIVERUNE
THE KING OF UMBRIA’Sson fell dead at her feet.
Rune stared at him, her entire body quaking with shock.
Good girl,she could almost hear Gideon say.
She was about to turn and walk away, when the sight of Soren’s blood stopped her.
Crouching, she pressed two fingers to the blood dripping from his temple, then used it to draw the symbols forGhost Walkeron her forearm. Normally, she’d worry about corruption. But she hadn’t killed Soren to cast an Arcana spell; she’d killed him in self-defense, and her magic knew the difference.
It flared inside her. The feel of it, like a current coursing through her, comforted Rune. Her breath came easier, even if her hands still shook.
By the time soldiers came running in their direction, Rune was passing beneath the prison’s entrance, undetected beneath the cloak of her spell. Overhead, images of the seven Ancients were impressed into the steel archway.
Up ahead walked Harrow, her hands in manacles, accompanied by two witches.
An iron gate blocked their entry into the prison’s first section. Its thick black bars were forged to look like doves in flight, all soaring to the top of the entryway where the engraved wordsMercy Gateloomed above. At their approach, the gate clinked slowly open.
Noticing a casting knife sheathed at each witch’s hip, Rune stepped as close as she dared and carefully slid one out. The witchtilted her head, as if sensing Rune’s presence—or perhaps scenting her magic—but the gate swung open, and she immediately turned her attention within, stepping through it with Harrow and the other witch.
Rune’s grip tightened on the stolen knife as she slipped in behind them, invisible beneath her spell.
The sour smell hit her first.Sweat.And mold. Decades of it, probably. The dampness clung to the cold air.
Normally, interrogations happened at Blood Guard headquarters. But Cressida had blown those up months ago. Now, prisoners brought in to be interrogated were held here, inside the prison’s first section.
Two wide bays spanned out from this corridor, curving like wings, out of sight. A prison guard led them down the nearest bay, where doors lined each wall.
Rune followed, her footsteps silent on the stone.
At the end of the cell bay, the guard unlocked a door and held it open. The witches shoved Harrow inside, where she would stay until the interrogator finished her other examinations.
Before the guard shut the door, Rune slipped into the cell. The door locked behind her, plunging her into darkness. It enclosed Rune like a tomb, heavy and suffocating, making her think of Nan awaiting her death in a cell like this one. Imprisoned in total darkness.
