Page 13

He donned all black—leather pants, matching jerkin over his shirt, and those boots—accented in mahogany and gold. The clothes fit snugly over his lean hips and the broad span of his chest. A dark cloak split around his shoulders. The billowing mantel revealed two scabbards, one encasing a sword, while his right hand clasped the other.

So this counterfeit bird of prey brandished twice the steel. A twin pair of arming swords, from what I could tell, with straight double-edges, single-handed hilts, and the leaf pommels of Mista. He had my attention.

He got a good look at me, too. He leapt backward just as I lurched to my feet.

“Puppet,” he hissed.

“Fowl,” I piped.

His eyes glittered like a blue spring. “What?”

“I don’t know,” I defended. “You started it.”

A glinting tip of steel halted at my acorn heart. I tripped over myself as he stalked me across the cemetery, gliding forward on silent feet.

I’d been expecting surprise, but this man looked more than dumbfounded. He looked haunted by my woodskin.

Wait. What did he just call me?

“I’m not a puppet,” I gritted out.

“What are you?” he demanded.

“I’m a girl, you pric—”

My back hit a birch at the same time he caged me there, his movements like a gust of wind, the sword poised at my chest. Setting a palm beside my head on the trunk, he leaned in, filling me with the scents of clouds and mist.

I had to be careful, lest this man have a close connection to the Royals, or the night watch, or any influences that would keep me from breaking into the castle. Every second became one second less for me to snatch what I needed from the vault.

Overhead, Punk squawked like an egg-laying hen.

At some point, my hat had tumbled off.

The man searched my features. “A profane, unsettling presence surrounds you. Why do you disturb this grave?”

“I—”

“If you lie, I shall run you through.”

“For thelast time, I’m not lying.”

“A witch, then. What do you seek?”

“For a start, having my hat back would be great.”

He nudged the blade. “Tell me what you want, witch.”

I snarled, “What I want is for you to stop calling me that!”

Not a good tactic for getting out of this. I could have smacked myself.

He stood too close, a lethal draft of warmth. And he gripped that sword too tightly, pointing it too near.

A noble, but still a stranger. A guarded one who might really use his weapon.

I didn’t give him the chance. I slammed the hardwood of my knee into his stomach, knocking the breath from him, and scurried out of reach so fast that I toppled on my ass, my skirt hiked up my legs.

He recovered. At the twitch of his sword, I yelped.