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As she raced across the church grounds toward the river gate, long grass dragged at her wet skirts. A low branch whiplashed her cheek. She dodged a headstone, her breathing overloud in her ears. Surely she’d be heard.
She reached the river gate. Tried it. Locked.
“Shit.”
How had he escaped? She backtracked, but by now it was pointless. He was long gone.
“Hello, pet. Lost yer way, have ya?”
Figures melted out of the shadows. Street thugs by the coarse, half wild look about them. Unpredictable. Overconfident. “It’s not wise fer a pretty young thing to wander alone.”
She counted five or six of them, cutting off her escape. No weapons in sight, but doubtless they were hoping sheer terror would be enough to quell any fight in her. An easy mark.
She smiled. Their mistake.
“I’m safe enough,” she answered, drawing herself up. Weighing her options.
The heaviest of the group gave her a gap-toothed leer. “You’ve a sharp tongue.”
“You should feel my blade.” She flung her cloak away, revealing her dagger.
It was a game of who bluffs best. She had a weapon, but didn’t want to use it unless forced to. Dead bodies meant questions she didn’t have time to answer. A fireworks display of mage energy was equally chancy. Meant a whole different set of questions she couldn’t answer. But perhaps a more subtle show of power would be enough. Now that her target had escaped, she didn’t have to worry about giving herself away.
“I don’t want to tangle with you.” She pitched her voice to the correct key. Allowed the persuasive magic of the leveryas to infuse her words. Suggestion would become compulsion, would become an irresistible command. “Let me pass and go on about my business.”
The men hesitated. Some fought the spell, their eyes darting, their limbs twitching. Others—more pliable—simply gave up. Stepped out of her way.
She slid past, keeping up a steady stream of quiet talk, nothing to rouse them out of their stupor. Just enough to hold them within the leveryas’ grip. “I’m no threat to you. I’ll disappear. You won’t remember I was even among you.”
She’d not gone more than ten paces when one of them—stronger than the others—broke free. He straightened in lethal challenge. “What tricks are you playin’, bitch?” he growled, reaching for his weapon.
A shout drowned out her response. Someone ran toward them. “Get the hell away from her!” The dark figure materialized into Cam. He flung himself among the crowd, his sword drawn. Ready for any of them to make an impetuous move. “Go, Morgan. While you can.”
Her concentration broken, the spell dissolved. “What the blazes are you doing?” she hissed.
“Thank you is the usual response,” he snapped.
The villains stirred and regrouped. Wary but instantly on guard. Weapons appeared. Restraint vanished. One of them advanced, fisting a crude knife.
Cam, surprisingly agile despite the alcohol, parried with a twist of his blade that disarmed the attacker.
The others had hung back as if waiting to see how the feint would be met. But no longer. She had to adm
it, numbers were on their side. Six on two made odds pretty good. But then, they were assuming she was a typical female and Cam—indistinguishable out of uniform—more bravado than skill.
As the gang closed around them, training took over, and thought became instinct. It would be so easy. Just a slight draw on her gifts and she and Cam could be free and clear. No looking back. But no. Battle magic was out. Nothing to bring attention to themselves. Nothing to delay their ultimate goal. She hated it, but so it must be.
She ducked a dagger strike. Swung with a fist, connecting with her attacker’s jaw. He howled, spitting blood and a broken tooth. Spinning on her heel, she slid her dagger through another’s shoulder. Screaming and clutching his wound, he splashed back up the alley. Lost himself in the downpour.
Cam shouted for her, but she couldn’t speak. Breath clogged her throat. Her lungs burned. He was in trouble, cornered against a wall. He fought well, but there were too many.
Rage screamed through her veins. She dove amid them, her dagger a silver arc of steel that wounded when a bit more strength would kill. They wouldn’t appreciate the mercy, but it might keep her from the questions a pack of corpses would require.
Cam was down, a hand to his chest.
Oh gods. He was down.
Blood and rain soaked his shirt. His eyes stared through her, shock and pain whitening his face. He looked at the growing scarlet bib spreading across his front as if confused.
