I remember the pretty story he told me about this poor broken woman, painting himself out to be her hero. Such ugly, rotten lies.
I lift the rattling shell containing my anger, letting it squirm a slashed path up my throat. My jaw hardens, teeth chattering with the power of my untethered rage, this deep ache pushing down into my canines, like they’re trying to pop out of my gums.
Crouching, I remove the knife from her grip, gently catch her trembling hands, and press my forehead against hers—waiting for the tide of her emotions to drop. When the convulsions finally break, I pull back and capture her weary gaze. “I’ve got this,” I whisper, forcing a soft smile when all my edges feel sharp.
Piercing.
“I’m going to make it better, Hattie. I promise.”
A strangled sound whittles out of her, and she cups my cheek, nodding. I help her from the hole, her knobbly limbs unraveling with a gush of stone shards that have me blinking at the mess, wondering if I forgot to dispose of the last lot.
Must have. There’s …too much.
Hattie hands me the lantern and shuffles down the hallway without looking back—her feet bare, hair a loose, wild trail of silver dragging along the floor in her wake.
She disappears into the darkness.
The tapestry bulges the slightest amount, and I ease it back, frowning as I brush more shards into the hallway. Tucking into the hollow, I set the lantern down and run my hand across the deep dents of Hattie’s progress, finding a hole I can almost fit my fist through.
For a moment, all I can do is stare, coasting my fingers around the honed edges, drawing on the musty scent pouring in from behind, tinted with the distant, familiar smell of death.
Ofblood.
I shake my head in disbelief …
She broke through to the other side.
The streets are bathed in gray, the air still thick with smoke from the burning that wafts through the alleys, blotting the rays of the rising sun.
Robed worshipers shift through the streets in silent flocks. Even the Gray Guards are still out in tromping droves, dressed in their signature chain mail and iron breastplates stamped with an upside-down v, longbows in hand, quivers sheathed down their spines.
I duck into a side alley to dodge another barreling charge, two of the guards speaking of a fire at the temple yesterday morning. About theirstoresbeing lost in the blaze.
I can only guess what that means.
A smirk stretches across my face …
Karma, you fierce thing.
Their footfalls fade, and I push on, my hood pulled far enough forward to hide my face from anyone who might be peeking through windows to see what all the commotion is about. Not everyone would be able to recognize me without my sword strapped to my back or my sigil pinned to my cloak, but I can’t be too careful.
The Inn’s sign creaks in the breeze, stirring up wisps of smoke that had settled over the cobbles as I pull the heavy door open. The bell tolls my early-morning welcome, and I ease my hood back onto my shoulders, surprised to find Graves already up, looking at me from behind the bar.
Quill poised over a piece of parchment, he raises a brow.
I give him a firm nod.
All set. Now, it’s just a waiting game.
Graves gives me a tired smile, then waves me on before disappearing through the back door, fanning the scent of freshly baked bread into the room. I weave between tables topped with upturned chairs and make for the stairs, climbing to the second floor.
Standing before my room, I’m just about to dig my key into the lock when I realize the door is already cracked open. The rich, woodsy scent of nightshade catches me off guard, slamming into the back of my throat, almost knocking me off my feet.
Baze.
I swallow the cloying lump in my throat, battling the tremble of my upper lip threatening to curl back.
He should know better …
