Page 18 of Harbinger

Death. They face death.

My tongue turns to sandpaper, sticking to the roof of my mouth. If I’m caught here, with this book in my hands, no amount of noble blood will save me. Suddenly, what I did last night feels like nothing, and tonight’s ritual is the least of my worries. I’ll be lucky if I make it to sunset.

I press deeper into my hiding spot, not daring to breathe. My leg muscles scream in protest as they strain to maintain the awkward position. Sweat beads across my forehead. I can’t risk moving. If he finds me …

I can only see his lower body as he strides forward and grabs a book from a stack under the single, grimy window in the room. Then he picks up another one, turns, and sits down at the ancient table, shoving the piled volumes out of the way and opening the first book.

He’s not here for me. He’s here to … read?

Either the sadistic prick knows I’m here and he’s toying with me, or he’s looking at a book full of forbidden knowledge.

I could reveal myself. Step out now and claim ignorance. Admit that I’m lost and ask for his help. But the book in my hands damns me. Even holding it is probably a crime. And I didn’t make the best impression on him last night.

It’s getting harder to stay upright, crouched on my heels like this. At any moment, I’m going to topple like those haphazard books that have fallen all over the floor.

Maybe he would be merciful. That’s a laughable thought. No matter what the vesper said last night.

No one attains his rank through mercy.

My legs start to give out, and I brace myself harder against the wall. It doesn’t matter why he’s here. It matters who he is. If he’s reading something he’s not supposed to, he’ll kill me for discovering his secret. If he’s doing something for the crown, he’ll kill me for holding this book. For me, all roads end in him breaking my neck on the spot or hauling me in front of an inquest, which will most likely end in a public execution.

Either way, my family will be ruined. If they aren’t executed alongside me. Steadfast Broderic. Proud Isidore. Reckless Andry. Loyal Kieren. They’ll all die because of me.

The bishop rises again and walks straight toward the bookcase I’m behind. I try to close my eyes like he won’t be able to see me if I can’t see him, but they refuse to obey.

He reaches for a book directly above my hiding spot, so close that his sleeve brushes against the wood mere inches from me. The shelves block the top half of his face, leaving only his full, sculpted lips and cleft chin visible.

He lifts his hand to his mouth and yanks his glove off with his teeth, letting it dangle between them. Even in the dim light, I can see that he wears the gloves for more than warmth.

A silvery scar runs the length of his hand. The markings are too precise, too intentional to be from a wound. The lines look more like a brand, or maybe—my stomach does a small flip—like they were carved purposefully into his flesh. It’s nochtimetric, but it’s not the mark of his birthright. Not the symbol of the horned wolf of his order. It’s not any pattern I recognize. Maybe it’s a strength spell, the kind meant only for Order Marius? The other orders don’t carve magic into their skin, but it might be different for the military.

A drop of sweat runs into my eye. It burns. I bite down on my lip to keep quiet. Each second feels like an hour.

The bishop runs his scarred hand along the shelf, fingers ghosting over spine after spine until they finally stop. The dark leather binding seems to drink the light as he draws it free so decisively that I only glimpse two foiled letters as he flips it over.

S and C.

The book falls open in his hands, and he flips through several pages. He traces a passage with his index finger, his lips moving silently as he reads before closing it with a thump that echoes in my heart.

And then he slides it under his red cloak.

He pulls his glove back on, covering that unsettling scar. Something eases in my chest until he pauses, and his head tilts slightly, revealing a glimpse of a strong, slightly aquiline nose. His nostrils flare like a predator scenting the air, and I forget to breathe.

But then he turns and strides away, shoving aside the curtain and tromping down the stairs at a heavy clip. The shop bell tinkles distantly, but I remain frozen.

I count thirty heartbeats, then sixty, then a hundred. Pins and needles shoot through my numb legs, but I don’t move. My breathing goes ragged from the exertion, but still I wait.

My body gives out before my willpower, and I topple forward, the book thudding open on the oak floor. I don’t bother picking it up.

I pretty much fall down the steps, my legs too numb to cooperate. I’m forced to catch myself on the wall twice to keep from tumbling headfirst down the staircase.

Bracing myself for a trap, I peer from behind the second curtain and find the shop empty. The shopkeeper doesn’t appear, and something about her absence unnerves me further. I flee through the front door, not caring if anyone sees me leave. Just hoping that he’s gone.

I bolt along the alley, no longer scared of the narrow passage and its shadows. I stop where it bends and press my body against the rough brick. Drawing a breath so deep it burns my lungs, I peer around the corner, looking for any sign of that red cloak.

But the bishop is gone.

Forcing myself forward, I count my steps, my heart rate ratcheting up with each one. The sky overhead has dulled to a shade of gray that suggests a storm is coming. Probably a fucking omen. A chill floods my veins as I reach the alley’s mouth and the first snowflakes hit.