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A hand on her shoulder—Bastian, gently moving her away from the outstretched knife in Milo’s stone hand. His fingers slid to the back of her neck, into her hair; his thumb brushed her cheek, then dropped, and he stepped away.
“Right,” he said, with a decisive nod. “Well. We can’t leave him here, and I assume you aren’t up to changing him back just yet?”
“If we can.” Gabe’s voice was quiet, hoarse. “If we can change him back.”
“Either way, we’ll have to move him.” A rickety cart slouched against the wall on the other end of the alley; Bastian went and tugged on one of the handles. The cart moved, though the squeaking was awful. “But to where, I have no idea.”
“I do,” Lore said. Her lips felt numb. “I know where we can take him.”
There was a moment of slight panic as Bastian and Gabe conferred on how to tip the stone man over into the cart—and whether the cart could even hold the weight, decrepit as it was; Milo wasn’t a small man even when he was flesh—but in the end, the Mortem-made statue was easier to move than it looked.
Gabe and Bastian heaved together on a count of three, and the man fell into the cart, the bottom of it cushioned with trash that Lore gathered from the alleyway. Bastian stood back, eyes wide. “That was much easier than I anticipated.”
“It’s not solid stone,” Gabe said. Then, with a shake of his head, “He isn’t, I mean.”
Not solid stone, just a living person knit into a shroud of death. Lore felt sick. Gabe didn’t look at her.
Gabe covered the stone figure with more trash, then he and Bastian manned the cart while Lore crept to the mouth of the alley, looking both ways. “Clear,” she murmured, “but we have to move fast.”
“Yes, I imagine this would be difficult to explain away.” Bastian hauled the front of the cart up behind her. Gabe stayed at the back, keeping it steady. She wondered if he’d chosen that position because it was farthest away from her.
Slowly, Lore moved out of the alley, Bastian and Gabe and their uncanny cargo following. She remembered the route, rounding the turns and taking the shortcuts without any conscious thought needed. For ten years, Val’s crew had worked out of the same warehouse, and she remembered how to get there even though part of her wished she could forget.
She hadn’t wanted to get them involved. Even today, when it’d become clear that answers might be found nearer to her poison-running past than her falsely noble present, Lore hadn’t wanted to go to Val and Mari, had wanted to keep them as far from all this as possible. Both to keep them safe, and because the idea of seeing them pried at a very precise wound in her heart, like pushing on a bruise.
But there was really no choice now.
Fog hung low over the street, thickening the closer they drew to the harbor. The full moon reflected on the black water, visible in the distance as a glimmering expanse not unlike the sky above it.
Looking at the moon made her think of the upcoming eclipse, the ball on her twenty-fourth birthday.
The warehouse was a long, dark block of a building, with virtually nothing to distinguish it from the other long, dark blocks of buildings around it, and intentionally left to look abandoned. The roof sagged in the middle. The gutters were full of dried gull shit. Water marks bloomed over the rough wooden paneling of the outer walls.
Most of the other buildings were actually empty, a haven for revenants looking for someplace to sleep off their latest fix, or for a quiet place to finally die after ossifying themselves into too-long lives. Val never kicked anyone out of the empty warehouses, but she’d send in people to look for bodies occasionally. Especially in the warmer months, when the little flesh they had left started to stink. They burned the corpses they found, didn’t bother trying to figure out next of kin to contact. If someone was crawling down to die in the empty warehouses by the harbor, they didn’t have anyone looking for them, and probably didn’t care much about reaching the Shining Realm. Not many people out here did.
“Where, exactly, are we going?” Bastian barely sounded out of breath. When she looked back at him, the muscles of his shoulders were tense against the blood-stiff fabric of his shirt. It only drew attention to his corded arms, the well-formed plane of his chest.
She looked away. “Poison runner den.” No sense dithering over it.
“Oh, excellent,” Bastian said. “I’ve never been to one.”
Behind him, Gabe was still silent.
The streets around the warehouse were empty, which was typical. Val made her crew stagger times they were seen near the headquarters so as not to draw attention. It must just be force of habit now. Val had her papers, she was officially sanctioned by Church and Crown. Turning Lore over to Anton had bought her a veil of legitimacy.
Streetlights were far behind them, now, and the only illumination was the round moon, the scattering of stars. It made the building loom like an executioner’s block.
Lore paused before the door, nerves writhing around her middle. But she had a mostly stone man to hide until she figured out how to change him back, and this was the only place she could think to do it.
So she knocked. A familiar pattern, ingrained in her since she was thirteen. Two sharp raps, then two more with a four-second pause between them, and a final drag of her knuckles.
It opened immediately. “Gods dead and dying, what took—” Mari’s rich alto voice faltered as her willowy form filled the door. Her eyes widened. “Lore?”
Her lip wobbled, despite herself. “Hi, Mari.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The bonds of family are sacred, but they are not always bound in blood.
