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Everything inside of me readies for battle even when I haven’t done proper exercise since the day I was shoved into the cell on the Tavrasian ship taking the crew of the Wild Ray to Fort Perenis. I don’t know if I can even remotely handle a blade with my bad hand—the hand that used to be my dominant one, but now is nothing but a supporting act in everything I do.
It doesn’t matter when the sounds draw closer and the shouting gets louder. A crash and a thud make me shrink away from the shuddering door, and I am positive, whatever happened out there, the next time something hits the wood, it will jump off its hinges or simply splinter in my face.
So, I step back, searching the room for one of the daggers Myron sometimes leaves sitting out during the night—to have a weapon at hand to defend himself in case someone breaches his room or to give me the option to slit his throat in his sleep, I don’t know. But does it matter when I won’t kill the one person who promised me freedom?
A flash of metal catches my attention as I squeeze between the bookshelf and the armchair Myron left pushed back from its usual spot after falling asleep reading there, and sure enough, I find a short dagger tucked between the cushion and the armrest as if Myron put it there when he made himself comfortable. I won’t go so far as to think he left it there for me to find.
With a motion so familiar I barely feel the months without combat exercise, I pull it free of its sheath and weigh it in my palm before I return to the door, studying the carved wood while my attention is split between the noise from outside and the feel of an actual weapon in my hand.
A scream splits the air, and even dampened by the material separating the hallway and the bedroom, it makes me jump. I can’t go out there if there is an attack—by the king-hating faction of Crows or otherwise. But I can’t stay here and wait for them to make it to the door either. If the sounds are anything to go by, my guards are probably already dead, and there is nowhere to hide in here. I’d be easy prey.
As I stare down the door that is both my protection and the barrier keeping me from an escape from whatever is raging out there, something inside me comes back to life. At first, it’s a flicker, nothing more than a spark, but I recognize the fire of Pirate Ayna I used to be, the one who swung across railings to hijack a merchant ship—or even the Tavrasian royal fleet. A sense of adventure surges through me, and my body remembers how to fight.
“I can do this,” I whisper to myself. I’ve fought on narrow banisters and in close quarters, have overpowered soldiers with nifty tricks when my own height and weight would have put me at a disadvantage. I’m quick and skilled, and even if my muscles have atrophied without the regular workouts and the malnourishment in prison, I have gained back weight and strength over the past weeks at the Crow palace.
My good hand tightens around the dagger as I listen hard and reach for the door.
It swings open with ease as if any magical locks were ripped off with that last blow—not that Myron ever locked me in. I’d tried several times when he left me alone in here, and never once has he done something as horrific as put me in another prison. But with our new agreement, I would never even dream of sneaking past the guards he put by my door.
Except, now the guards are knocked out left and right of the threshold, and the hallway is filled with a familiar smoke snaking down the length of the stairwell. Featured outlines clash with human shapes in leather armor adorned with pieces of metal, which catch the suspicious orange glow that definitely doesn’t originate from the torches spaced out along the walls.
I duck, suppressing a cough as smoke fills my lungs, and press against the wall so I’m half-hidden by one of the thick columns along the side of the hallway. One step after the other, I creep forward, careful not to make a sound. The Crows have superior senses, and I don’t want to be caught by them because I fail to be careful, but the attackers are no Crows, and I have no idea what their senses are like. I don’t want to find out for sure.
A few more steps and I’m in the alcove with an improved view on the shadows in the smoke, and I don’t like what I see. Blades are being driven into Crow necks as well as into those of the attackers. I haven’t made out individual faces, but I don’t need to in order to fall into outright panic. Whoever the attackers are, they are strong. Fast. And fucking scary. Each movement is deadly, precise, and each gurgling caw grates along my bones with a flavor of horror.
In return, the Crows bring down as many of the attackers, painting the hallway in eerie crimson in addition to the glaring orange the source of which I haven’t made out but need to. Whatever it is, it seems to correlate with the smoke, just as that day in the dining hall. No fire—at least, not yet. Even though my instincts scream at me to find a source of water and prepare for all eventualities, I remain where I am as I glance around for a safe path. If I want to escape with my life, now isn’t a good time to draw attention to myself by blindly scrambling through the smoke in search of a water source.
So, I keep my dagger raised at my side while I inch toward the other end of the alcove, eyes on the hallway where the tumult slowly dies down.
Just as I reach the end of the carved columns marking the corner, readying myself to sprint to the next alcove, a hand lands on my shoulder, ripping me out of my vantage point so violently I would have stumbled had the fingers not held me in an iron grasp. The scream in my throat dies as a second hand falls over my face, cutting off my air supply, and I am back in the secret bathing room with the murderous lake where I was struggling for air when the water had other ideas. The familiarity of the panic is as surprising as it is stunning. It doesn’t matter how many times one fears suffocating; it never seems to get any better—or easier for that matter.
But what it does is get me thinking. Instead of blindly thrashing the way I did in the lake, I gather my wits and slam the dagger into my captor’s forearm with a swift movement. I don’t care if it’s a Crow or one of the others as long as I get free. The lack of claws, though, tells me it’s one of the others, and the suspicion is confirmed a moment later when I’m released and a human voice curses in tongues I’m not familiar with. I wheel around, bringing my dagger to the attacker’s throat while they are still bemoaning their injury. But the male has his blade under my chin the same instant, and for a short, heart-pounding moment, we both stare at each other. He has normal eyes—dark irises in a bed of striking white, not all-black like a Crow.
Time seems to stand still as he debates what to do with me, asIdebate whether to push the tip of the dagger into his flesh and make a run for it. He might be pondering the same question for all that is worth, for his lips curve into a pleasant grin—pleasant and equally deadly—and he moves back so fast I don’t have a chance at following through with my attack, his leather armor rugged and the metal pieces on his shoulder blood smeared. His short, black hair is streaked with blood as well, and I wonder how many Crows he’s killed on his way to the residential levels of the palace.
“What do you want?” I ask instead of trying to attack, but he shakes his head, lifting his curved blade to strike, and my heart stops as I manage to block the blow an inch from my neck.
I’m not proud to admit I’m outmatched. Even with my years of fighting soldiers and skilled sailors who know how to defend their ships. Whatever this fairy is—and I’m certain it is one with his pointed ears and hauntingly beautiful features—it is as bad as the Crows with their claws and magic. Only, this one will use a wicked blade to destroy me.
With a grin, I kick out, hitting the fairy’s knee, and watch him retreat a step with gritted teeth. He hisses a laugh that reminds me no less of the Crows than their bird voices.
I don’t wait for him to strike back. Instead, I spin around and run.
Twenty-Five
It’sa blind chase through smoke, my feet slithering across blood-slick tiles, hands grappling for walls and columns as I race past a corner. Half of me is grateful I didn’t slam right into it while the other half is urging me to go faster, faster, faster. At least the corner will knock me out rather than slit my throat and watch me bleed out slowly. I hope that’s the worst the fairy will do.
I’m about halfway down the hallway, the smoke drawing closer and closer around me, when the fairy steps into my path as if it has been waiting for me to show up. How it got there so fast, I don’t even want to know. My heart is in my throat, as is everything else—my hope, my soul, my life. About to spill onto the floor with one careless breath.
I hold it in, forcing calm into my veins.
There is none.
And as I ready myself to fend off a new blow, to turn and run, to do anything and everything other than die, the fairy raises his empty hand.
At first, I think it is to gesture for me to come closer, but a streak of fire surges from his fingers, lashing out at me. I’m shoved out of the path by a feathered creature. Blood fills my mouth as I bite my tongue at the impact on the hard stones, at the weight pressing me flush against the surface, and this time, the air leaves my lungs in a gust. I spit and gasp while heat sears past me. Closing my eyes fast, I count my heartbeats. Struggling against the body on top of me won’t do me any good right now when it protects me from the fiery assault, and I can barely grasp that whoever is covering me with their chest and limbs might as well go up in flames themselves.
A groan in my ear informs me the Crow is alive—and in pain—so I pray to the Guardians, to Eroth, even to that god, Shaelak, to whom the Crows keep referring, to make the fire stop.
