Page 12 of Ashen Wings

“Leave the package just there. Cael is finishing up another deal, he’ll be out in a moment,” the man says, nodding to the closed door on our left.

The barn is colder than before, but I shove off the creeping dread and lean against a support beam. The man returns to his ledgers, humming a tune as he flips through pages of inked parchment.

Maybe minutes, maybe hours, pass and finally the office door swings open. Another courier with chestnut curls and tawny skin appears from within. The mossy green cloak sashed to his shoulders suggests he’s from Storm. His emerald eyes flash when they lock on me. Shit.

The courier approaches, his massive hands lingering in the shadows of his cloak. He’s armed and he knows I know. My eyes dip to my boots, but not without catching on the speckle of crimson blood staining his trousers. My dagger is unsheathed and gripped tightly before my next breath.

“Cael,” he calls over his shoulder, his voice smoother than velvet. Another voice from the office grunts a response, but it’s muffled, shrouded, like he stands behind a waterfall.

“I thought we agreed. No other appointments today…” The courier grits his teeth and turns on his heels. A ripple of green curls around the door frame as the stranger disappears back into the office, leaving the entrance open behind him.

“Who is that?” I ask the first man behind the desk. He’s no longer invested in his ledgers, I realize, but straight-backed and standing.

“That’s none of your concern,” he snaps, and the shrill of panic in his tone flares my pulse. “Come back tomorrow. Cael cannot see you tonight.”

“What? No, my client is on a strict deadline,” I reply.

“Trust me, girl, you don’t want to be here tonight.”

His words hit me harder than they should, but I’m determined to stand my ground. There’s no delay. No walking away. I’ve come all this way, gotten this close to my freedom, I’m not leaving. He sees the resolve flash in my eyes and shakes his head.

“Listen.” He steps toward me, speaking in mere whispers. “That is Isra Kaari. Do you know who he works for?”

The name, incited to send me cowering, is of no meaning. “No? Someone in Storm?”

He audibly laughs in my face, as if I’ve lived in a cave all my life. Maybe he’s right, though. Smoke imprisons news from the other factions worse than their captives of war. How should I know who this stranger is?

“Isra Kaari reports directly to Jace Ashborne. The Shadow King himself.”

My stomach clenches. Holy fuck.

“So unless you want to get caught up in the shit storm that’s about to go down when Ashborne arrives, I’d get the fuck out of here,” he whispers.

“A-alright,” I reply. There is no world where I would willingly meet the King of Shadow himself. The boom of my heart begs me to turn and run. Flee as fast as I can and return only when the sun is high in the sky and the midnight shadows can’t reach me. Where Jace fucking Ashborne can’t reach me.

The dagger in my palm burns.

A heavy thud of mass hitting the stone floor echoes through the barn. It’s wet and warm and I’m certain it’s a body. I recognize the fleshy weight of it. Cael’s office is silent. No hushed conversation or breath of life.

Isra Kaari returns, his sword glistening red in the candlelight. I don’t leave time for conversation before taking off toward the exit.

My body accelerates with terror and the sheer animalistic instinct for survival. I’ve been in the business long enough to know those entangled in Jace Ashborne’s affairs only wind up cold and rotting in the ground.

“Courier…” Isra’s voice, smoother than honey, thrums through my head. I freeze at the beat of massive fucking wings descending from the midnight skies just outside. Crimsonclaws this far over the border? Is the whole operation compromised?

Oh yeah, this is bad. Really bad.

The decision to pursue this mission mocks me with vicious words of arrogance and idiocy.

“Courier!” Isra repeats, his tone like a lethal whip across my back. I don’t dare turn. The mere feet left between the exit and me feel like miles. His boots thud over stone. A heartbeat later, strong arms wrap around my waist, tightening when I writhe against their grip. I slash my blade across his forearms, drawing trickles of blood, but he doesn’t flinch at the sting.

Then, there’s breath against my ear, warm and gentle like the calm before the storm. “He’ll kill you if you run.”

Isra’s palm curls against my wrist, squeezing the pressure point with bone breaking strength. My hand opens against my will and the dagger scatters to the floor.

“This is for your own safety,” he says.

I don’t let him finish. The crown of my head slams against his nose with a splintering crack, and Isra’s grip loosens for a beat. I jut my boot toward his shin and the blow lands.