Page 21 of Harbinger

“Watch out.” The warning leaps from my tongue as the thief’s back arcs unnaturally.

Bishop steps away, a stony mask descending over his face. It’s a curious combination of disinterest and disgust that seem to cancel each other out in favor of … boredom.

Maybe if he were the one covered in scrapes and bruises with a torn gown, he’d be more invested. But even without my injured pride, this is new to me. Horror floods through me as the thief’s body contracts. Bones snap like the illustration in that forbidden book and transform with wet, grinding sounds that make my stomach heave. Dirty brown fur sprouts across his shrinking shape, and his nose elongates into a pointed snout, wiry whiskers shooting underneath. His clothes pool on the ground, and where the man begged on his knees a moment before, a rat now crouches.

For a heartbeat, I can’t move or breathe. I can hardly think.

“Nice choice,” Bishop says dryly like this is all perfectly fucking normal. “It fits.”

The rat darts over my feet. Tiny claws scrabble on the wet, loose stones as it races toward the back of the alley. It scampers up the side of the rain barrel, racing toward the drainage pipe. He’s going to get away. A cry escapes me as movement blurs in the corner of my vision.

The dagger flies so fast, I don’t see it before it sticks its target with a wet thwap, pinning the rat to the barrel’s wooden side. A thin squeal escapes the creature, sounding somehow horribly human, and then its tiny body goes limp.

I shake my head as if I can make my brain process all this faster. “He … he …”

Bishop crosses to the barrel and plucks the knife free. The rodent’s body falls to the stones, its blood dripping down the weathered wood. Grabbing the edge of his cloak, he wipes the blade clean on the fabric before returning it to some unseen spot underneath. Must be where he hides all his contraband books and deadly weapons.

“He broke the law.” His voice is firm, leaving no room for argument. “That kind of magic is punishable by death.” He turns the full weight of his icy stare on me like he’s daring me to question his authority.

I bite my lip to keep the wrong response from spilling out. I’m not sorry the thief is dead, especially not when he was going to kill me. But I have roughly a dozen questions about what I just saw. All of them pale in comparison to the ones I have for Bishop himself. Why here? What about all the unauthorized magic happening in that secluded square we were just in? Why didn’t he punish those people?

He might have an explanation for those, but then I would have to explain how I know about those places. And I can’t do that without outing myself, which means I’ll never uncover what I want to know most of all: Why was Bishop in that bookstore? Why did he take that book with him? Where is it now?

He extends his hand to help me up. There’s a splash of blood on his glove. But I take it anyway, carefully keeping my gaze on his face for signs that he knows where I’ve been and what I was up to. He scans me, eyes narrowing like he’s contemplating queries of his own. “You’re unusually quiet.”

I blink. “How would you know?”

“I saw enough last night.” He wrenches me off the ground with the same care he took removing the dagger from the dead rat. “You don’t strike me as the strong-and-silent type.”

And you don’t strike me as the type to read illicit books. I swallow the retort and grimace at my scraped palms. The bleeding has mostly stopped, but the raw wounds are peppered with sand and dirt. “It’s been a rough day.”

He takes my hands, frowning as he examines them. “At least you have something to look forward to tonight.”

A laugh escapes me, startling him from his inspection. Our eyes meet, his wide and surprised. Up close, his irises are rimmed with a silver that glints like starlight. I lose myself for a dangerous second.

“What’s funny?” he asks, and I crash back to reality.

“I thought you were joking.” I pull my hands free of his grasp.

But he’s still staring at me. “You’re not anticipating the Kindling?”

After last night and this afternoon? Not even a little bit. All I want is to go home to Damalis.

“Just nervous.” I’m starting to believe my own lie at this point.

“Is that why you tried to fight him?” he asks. “It would have been better to run.”

“He took my mother’s locket.” I keep my voice soft, so it doesn’t break in front of him.

“I hope it was worth it.”

“It would have been.” I swallow as a knot forms in my throat. Bending down, I scoop the locket off the ground. It’s crushed beyond repair, the cheap tin no match for being stomped on.

He cocks his head to the side, studying me from a different angle. But the chill is back in his voice when he speaks. “The king won’t appreciate theatrics.”

Heat blooms on my cheeks. “I’ll take that into consideration.”

“Don’t consider,” he says in a low voice, stepping so close that I smell a waft of leather mingling with something warm and smoky. “Behave.”