Page 12 of Turncloak

After several minutes of fondling, the emerald-cloaked woman tugged them both toward an empty private chamber. Saffron’s chest skipped and stuttered as they collapsed onto an enormous oval bed, limbs tangled, mouths wide, the Whitewing supine beneath both women with a look of vague ecstasy on his vulpine face. His otherwise pale cloak had strange raised shoulder pads embroidered with black wings.

Better to make it quick.

Saffron drew her wand and aimed it at the Whitewing’s temple.

There was a brief moment of internal freefall, an ephemeral hesitation, a pinprick of horror opening into a dark canyon behind her ribs.

But she had already done this, had she not? Had already taken a life in the name of the greater good—the croupier Neatras, on the night she was branded—and that had been far worse, because her victim was innocent.

This Whitewing, or at least his ilk, had tried to kill Saffron and Levan on Dubias Row, had slaughtered dozens of innocent servants in the scarlet mansion, had been part of the order of mages who’d sent Alucia into the scarlet ranks and broken Levan’s heart three years ago. The whites represented all that was rotten in this city, and this death, albeit wrought in cold blood, would not be any great loss.

And besides, anything she did between now and winding back twenty years would disappear through the cracks of time eventually.

“Sen ammorten,” Saffron incanted, feeling very far away from her own body.

The killing spell forked into the Whitewing, and he fell still.

The pleasurehouse was so loud and choked with smoke that it took the Brewer a moment to realize what had happened. Before she could scream, Saffron was already in front of her, one hand pressed over the woman’s gaping mouth, the other holding a wand tip beneath her chin.

“Make no sound, or you will meet the same fate. Understood?”

Dark brown eyes wide with terror, the Brewer nodded. Saffron pulled down the neckline of her own navy tunic and revealed the ugly, charred seethe of the crimson brand.

“This is a turf war that need not concern you. You will leave this pleasurehouse and speak of this to no one, or you will feel the full weight of the scarlet fist upon you.”

Tears slicked down the Brewer’s face as she pulled the emerald cloak tight around her body, shielding as much flesh as possible.

Saffron crossed to the dead Whitewing, removing the pale cloak and tossing it over her shoulder. She lifted the cadaver’s arm, aimed her wand at the bone of his narrow wrist, and muttered, “Sen perruntas.”

The white hand fell free like a dead spider, and the Brewer stifled a sob. Saffron tucked the severed hand into her inner cloak pocket like a curious little souvenir, then strode toward the door of the chamber, ready to weave her way back through the mazelike hallways she’d so carefully memorized.

“Silence, hmm?” she said to the Brewer, smiling in a way that was likely terrifying.

The Brewer stared vacantly after her. Some internal shutters had fallen behind her eyes, and Saffron sensed she was no longer truly in the room.

Saff left Golden Hour without pursuit, the white cloak folded over her forearm.

Outside, night had drawn its navy curtain over the capital, and the temperature had cooled dramatically. Stomach heaving without her consent, Saffron began the long walk to the apothecary quarter, where an abandoned shop on Beakpeck Place housed a secret entrance into the Bloodmoon compound.

She was returning, of her own free will, to the mage who wanted her dead.

But first, she had a confession to write.

7

• • • •

Stone by Stone

Ears ringing profoundly, Saffron walked through the Bloodmoon mansion, wand drawn, expecting to be jumped at any given moment. The compound, however, was far quieter than usual, the scarlet numbers diminished, and with the survivors placed on glorified house arrest, there was little reason for anyone to come or go through the atrium.

In the center of the black marble floor, the carved white wings were still starkly engraved. She had no idea what magic they’d used to make the sigil so impossible to remove, only that it must be torturing Levan.

Levan. Levan.

The name beat through her like a pulse as she arrived at his bedchambers, but when she knocked on his door, there was no answer. Patting her cloak to make sure the severed hand hadn’t fallen out, Saffron made her way to the other place he was likely to have sequestered himself in the ruinous aftermath of her betrayal.

The library’s interior still took her breath away. It was three stories tall, with tens of thousands of books lining its walls and alcoves, mezzanine floors and wooden bridges, sliding ladders and antique writing desks, a vast stained glass mural casting blue and green and bloodred light over black marble tiles.