Page 79 of A Dance of Water (Moon Song #2)

THE PRINCESS OF…

GRAVES

M edius was quiet this time of year.

Snow fell in lazy drifts to the cobblestone streets. The sconces fixed to the stone walls in thin alleyways were rusted, the flames weak, casting the narrow passageways in deep shadows.

Perfect for the Knight.

Graves’s cloak billowed behind him, mingling with the shadows, as he lithely ran along rooftops. The dagger strapped to his thigh was a comforting weight.

Below, a flash of white stalked throughout the narrow streets. Tharen tipped his head, his dark hood falling back and revealing his many white braids. Through the haze of night, Graves saw the signal.

Their target was there.

Just behind the old, wooden door nestled between two nondescript buildings.

Graves came to a swift stop as he stood at the edge of the rooftop. The toes of his boots hovered over open air, and he let his head fall back, just for a moment, as he let the snow-tinged air soothe him. His breaths were hot inside his cowl.

He wanted nothing more than to fly free.

Distantly, the sound of bawdy bar tunes carried to his ears. He paused, one foot held over the air as he waited for the drunkards to pass. Looking down, he saw Tharen fit his large frame inside a small alcove .

Behind his cowl, Graves smiled. Served the mage right for being so impatient.

Silent as a shadow, the Knight stepped back, hidden by the curve of the roof’s edge. His amulet was warm against his chest, and he touched it with a gloved hand, feeling the shift overtake him. Raven feathers replaced cloak and shadow, yet his deep blue eyes stayed the same. Vigilant.

With a soft caw, the raven swept from the building and flew to an unlit sconce in the dark alley, taloned feet gripping the rusted metal.

He watched as a trio of drunks stumbled by, arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders as they sang tunes and laughed raucously.

They needed to leave. Or their target might be scared away by the noise.

The raven descended upon the trio. Their human stench assaulted him, and he pecked at their exposed skin with his beak.

"Ah, fuck!"

That only made the raven peck harder. Blood welled up and stained his feathers.

One human stumbled away and held a hand to his cheek, where pinpricks of blood beaded up on his skin. "Okay, birdie. We’ll go."

The raven cawed in warning, wings stretching out. The trio stumbled away, disappearing from the alley without a look back, as if afraid to evoke the raven’s ire.

Out of the shadows, Tharen stepped, giving the raven and the droplets of blood on the ground a once-over. "I knew you were good for something, birdie ," the mage mocked.

The raven cawed, and as quickly as he had appeared, shifted back into his other form. His hood was askew, and he righted it with a gloved hand, finding a few maroon stains on his glove. His lips turned down in displeasure, and he wiped his hand on the folds of his cloak.

"Don’t call me birdie," Graves intoned.

A singular feather drifted in a small puddle of melted snow on the cobblestones. His boots stomped over it as he walked forward, a hand poised on the wooden door .

The Knight pushed it open, finding the room dimly lit with scant candles. A bar lined one wall, and behind it, shelves of liquor bottles; the air held the cloyingly sweet scent of Rys.

Circular tables filled the space, chairs were pushed haphazardly, a few overturned.

Graves held up a hand, and Tharen came to his other side as they scoured the room for threats.

He gripped the handle of his dagger, feeling the tinge of magic behind him as Tharen readied himself.

There was no one here.

Graves lowered his hand. "Are we too late?"

"Godsdammit!" Tharen cursed.

Footsteps echoed in the quiet.

Graves tensed, feeling Tharen raise his hands at his side as magic sparked at his fingertips.

Graves held the dagger before him with calm, but the line of his shoulders and stance of his feet gave away his unease. Someone was here.

"Now." A feminine voice filled the room, but whoever it was did not emerge from the shadows. "No cursing in my establishment."

"Show yourself," Tharen demanded, as wind and shards of ice swirled between his palms. His eyes glowed a bright blue.

"What is your purpose for coming here?" said the voice.

Graves broke away from Tharen’s side, scouring the room. His boots crunched over littered peanut shells and broken glass.

"You answer first," Tharen spat.

"I don’t believe that’s fair. You followed me here from the markets… you showed up at my tavern. I’ll say, that has a female feeling a bit uncomfortable."

Graves scoffed. "You’re not as innocent as you proclaim. You know why we’ve come. Let’s skip this, Merath."

In the shadows, a soft fire glowed, bathing the owner in golden warmth. The female stepped away from her hiding spot, revealing long, black curls that brushed her waist, complemented by her deep skin tone. Her eyes were laced with a golden red.

The points of her ears stood out from her mass of curls, and the fire sparking at her fingertips spoke to her powers .

Ignis fae.

"Why are you here?" she said in a sultry tone.

The hem of her dark skirts brushed along the floor as she stepped closer.

She took Graves in, before her eyes fell upon Tharen, pausing at his arched ears, then cataloging his warrior stance, the shine of his light blue eyes, and the Aer and Aqua magic in his palms. "You’re the Prima. "

Tharen grinned wolfishly. "Yes. You’re not afraid of me." Not a question. "And I know why." He took a large step forward. She didn’t move. "I wouldn’t imagine you fear me, knowing as your lover is my predecessor."

Merath’s eyes narrowed. "I don’t know what you’re talking about." Then, she did something stupid, she turned her back on them in dismissal.

Graves lunged.

He closed the short distance in a breath, slipping past the scattered glass with practiced ease. His chest brushed against her back, and he wrapped his arm around her neck, holding the blade of his dagger to her skin. "Would you like to try this again?"

Merath did not struggle against him, but her eyes were filled with hate. "I don’t listen to males."

"What if I said this wasn’t for us?" said Tharen. "But for an innocent."

Tharen had informed Graves of Merath’s… strong-willed countenance. As the lover of a Prima, she must be. He knew that she would not give up information easily, but for the right reasons…

Against Merath’s nape, Graves whispered, "Your lover, Emarelia, where is she?"

"Why should I tell you that?" Her hands hung loosely by her side; she didn’t even try to defend herself.

The swirls of icy air in Tharen’s hands grew, cloudy tendrils reaching out for her. "Why shouldn’t you? After all, we all want to defeat the Tenebrae. It was an Umbra that killed your sister. Am I right?"

Merath stilled. Embers crackled at her fingertips. "What does the Tenebrae have to do with this?"

"Release her." Tharen jerked his head, ordering Graves to step back .

He did so silently.

Merath straightened her skirts with a huff, as if the whole thing was an annoyance.

As she turned to look at them, the low flames in the room made her dark skin awash with golden undertones.

Her curls hung to her waist, tickling her elbows, as she crossed her arms over her chest. She cast a glance at an overturned hourglass on the bartop.

She took it and flipped it with deft hands. White sand began steadily streaming.

"You have until this empties." Her lips twitched. "But be warned, it isn’t the most reliable. Sometimes it tells the time as an hour past, and other times only half as much. Finicky thing."

Beneath his cowl, Graves smirked.

"Now, what does Emarelia have to do with this?" She stared them both down unflinchingly.

With guarded eyes, Tharen looked to Graves. "We believe that Emarelia placed a very powerful glamor on someone… important."

"And…" Merath waved a hand. "As the prior Prima, Emarelia did much that I was not privy to. If you mean to use me to hurt her or gain information, you are mistaken. She never shared those types of things with me. Even if she did, I would never tell you. Torture me, kill me, I don’t care. I’ll never give her up.

" Her words were filled with protectiveness.

The sand in the hourglass dwindled.

"The one we ask after, she is"—Graves cut a look to Tharen, seeing resignation in his eyes—"a Vincire." Graves knew that would mean much to someone as pious as a fae.

Merath’s eyes grew wide. "A Vincire. I haven’t heard that word in centuries. Yours?"

Graves held her gaze.

"His?" Merath tipped her head toward Tharen.

"It doesn’t matter," Tharen gritted out. "She had a glamor, a very powerful one. The only being powerful enough to enact such a glamor would be a Prima. It sure as fuck wasn’t me. Reasonably, I presumed it was my predecessor."

Merath inspected her nails. "Do you know when?"

Tharen’s lip curled. "About two decades ago."

Graves saw the exact moment Merath realized .

She had been lying. She did know.

"You know who we’re talking about," Graves stated.

Merath braced a hand on the bartop behind her. "Has he taken her?"

"Who?" Tharen snarled.

"The Tenebrae," Merath replied.

Graves shook his head.

"Then she’s been found," she said.

"Found, stolen. Same difference," Tharen said. "What matters is why Emarelia put a glamor on her."

Merath raised a brow. "I never said she did."

Graves’s gaze flickered from her boots to her eyes, sharp and unrelenting. "You didn’t have to. It’s written all over your face."

Fire danced along her palms.

Intimidation wasn’t working.

"Name your price," Graves said without inflection.

Merath purred, much like a cat, as she watched them. "Enough coin to fix up this old joint." She kicked at a toppled chair with the tip of her boot. "It’s not as it used to be. Upkeeping a tavern is hard for a female. Especially keeping the drunks out."

Tharen scoffed.

"Something funny?" she prodded.

"I doubt you have much trouble handling things on your own."