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Something else shimmered around his hands, though. Maybe it was just a trick of dim light and a terrified mind, but to Lore, the air around Bastian’s moving fists looked like it swam with gold, trails of soft sun-glow following the path of his skin.
Another dagger glinted silver as the scarred man pulled it from his belt, breaking her concentration on all that odd gold. Bastian didn’t seem to notice it, and she opened her mouth to warn him, but a slam of stars exploded in her temple before she could. The scarred man had knocked the hilt into her head.
Lore hit her knees, bones aching against the bite of cobblestone.
Then—something cold and sharp on her neck, and a boot between her shoulder blades, holding her down.
Time slowed. Her ears rang, making everything crystal clear and muffled at once. Lore had been in plenty of situations where the loss of life or limb was a possible outcome, but she’d never been held at knifepoint, never been in a place where the possibility of help was next to none. The sharp edge of the knife almost vibrated with Mortem, her fingers tingling in time.
But she still couldn’t grasp it.
Lore’s eyes met Bastian’s. She didn’t know what kind of look she gave him, whether it was pleading or defiant. He’d asked why she was here, what his father wanted; those were the answers that mattered, and he had them. The questions about her, about her magic—those were mere curiosity, and curiosity wasn’t reason enough to save her, not when there was a perfectly plausible excuse for her death holding a dagger to her neck.
Bastian could let her die and leave her here. He could kill her without even touching her.
“More expensive than just your losses, now,” the scarred man rasped, digging his knee further into Lore’s back. “You’ll pay double for making a fuss. Think how much belladonna I can buy with that, eh?”
Lore watched the calculations spin behind Bastian’s eyes. Watched him weigh and measure.
Then the prince reached into his pocket.
The movement took his concentration away from the fight, and the smaller man landed a punch to his stomach. At the moment Bastian bowed forward, hunched over his middle, he thrust out his hand, the thick gold of a signet ring gleaming in the dark.
“If you please,” Bastian said, somehow managing to barely sound winded. “Unhand my friend.”
The smaller man looked at the ring. Paled. “Milo. Let the lady up.”
But the scarred one—Milo—paid no heed. “Don’t care who he is. He owes, and my stash is nearly done for.” The dagger bit in, just enough to sting, and Lore pulled in a ragged breath.
Bastian straightened, stalked across the alley. His hand fisted in Milo’s hair and wrenched the man’s neck backward, pointing his blade at the vulnerable artery. They made a deranged chain of threats, Bastian’s knife at Milo’s throat, Milo’s at Lore’s.
“I’m the Sun Prince of Auverraine, Apollius’s chosen heir,” Bastian hissed. “And you will unhand the lady.”
A pause. Then Milo’s bulk was gone; Bastian shoved his shoulder, forcing him to his knees beside his smaller friend.
Lore dragged in a deep breath and pushed herself up to sit; her legs were too shaky to stand just yet. A tiny cut scored across her neck, a thin filament of pain.
“I really didn’t want to have to use that,” Bastian muttered, shoving the ring back into his pocket. He didn’t look at Lore.
There was no gold around his hands now. A trick of the light, then, her fear affecting her vision. Probably.
“Our apologies, Your Majesty.” The smaller man looked terrified. Milo bowed his head too far to see his expression, but Lore could bet it was glowering. “We didn’t know, we had no idea—”
“And I would very much like to keep it that way.” Bastian sighed. “I was planning to go back and pay my dues, after an… interlude.”
He cocked his head at Lore. She was still too rattled to do anything but stare at him. He’d saved her. He’d had the opportunity to dispose of her, a tidy solution to his problem, and he’d saved her instead.
What in all the myriad hells was she supposed to do with that?
The prince turned to the bruisers. “I probably won’t be returning, unfortunately, but I would greatly appreciate if you would keep this quiet.” Bastian gave them a smile; the sharp one, the predator one. “And if I hear the news get around, I’ll know who to blame, won’t I?”
They nodded. And when Bastian jerked his chin, dismissing them, they nearly tripped over each other trying to get away.
At the mouth of the alley, Milo looked back, shadows obscuring his face. Then he was gone.
“You let that one off easy, all things considered.” Lore’s voice was hoarse. She rubbed at her neck.
“Call it magnanimity.” The light of the gas lamps beyond the alley limned Bastian in red and orange as he turned to face Lore. He held out a hand. “There’s still a question you haven’t answered.”
