Page 18

Chapter 18

Rahk

Somehow, I missed the Ivy Mask. I traced him into the Revar Court and back, only to discover a crude but clever trap left for me. I was too preoccupied by investigating the mud and scuff marks left in the bark of the oak to see the rope trigger until I’d already stepped on it.

I was certain I’d catch him tonight.

At least I have confirmation now that the Ivy Mask lives in the human world. In this very city. How he has managed to disguise his scent is beyond me.

But I will get to the bottom of it. I will find him.

While it is still dark, I return to the Wood. From the sky, its edge glitters brightly. The Wood is receding faster, already leaving several paces of restored land. I find the scent trail of Faerieland and follow it through the fields to a rise, and beyond toward the city. There are not many footprints, but the ones that I come across on the outskirts of town seem to indicate one of the slaves was only using one foot and supported by another. Interesting. Wounded? Maimed? Something else?

The trail goes to the coach like the last one, but it takes an unusual detour first—at the cathedral. There are so many scents here that I barely maintain my grip on the escaped slaves’ scents. If they met with anyone here, it is impossible to discern who. Perhaps they came to honor their saints before they left the city.

I arrive on foot at the stop for the coach. A sheltered bench sits a few feet away from the road. A man wrapped in a patchwork coat sleeps there. I draw on my glamours and shift away my long ears, soften my face, and take a few inches off my height. I haven’t tried maintaining a glamour this demanding in a while, and never within the human world. It proves startlingly difficult, but I manage it.

I kneel next to the man and shake him awake.

“Eh? What’s the matter?” he grunts between missing teeth. “I don’t sell the coach tickets.”

“Has anyone come here in the last few hours?” I ask.

“How would I know?” he grumbles, pulling his coat tighter around his throat.

“Answer my question.” My glamours struggle against my hold, and I clench my fist to keep them in place.

“Ugh!” The man rolls over on the bench. “There were some boys and their papa it seemed. The papa looked like he got his leg bit off or somethin’. They must have left an hour or two ago. Now will you let me sleep?”

I step away, falling into the shadows between buildings as my glamour breaks. I exhale hard and press a hand to my chest. This human world is going to be the death of me.

But I am not done exercising my magic tonight.

The man returns to sleep, his back to the road. I use my foot to draw a rune in the dirt. It is the sister spell of the one I left at the edge of the Wood. I draw the last line of the rune, and it comes to life with a flare of blue that only I can see.

There.

I return to the darkened shadows of the city. They become my shroud as I take the way I came. When I am far enough away from the more populated parts of town, I release the glamour on my wings—sagging in the bliss of it—and fly the rest of the way to my estate.

The sun is still an hour or two from rising when I arrive. Smoke already billows from several of the chimneys, and the rooster lets out strangled crows.

I think of Nat and her pale face last night at the sight of my wound. The poor thing wouldn’t last a day in Faerieland if she couldn’t tolerate that small bit of blood. Even Pavi can stand much more than that, and Pavi is much younger—relatively speaking—than Nat.

I slip inside the open window to my study and let out a great sigh as I settle into my chair. What a busy night! And it will be a busy day, for there is a certain heiress I’ve decided to pay a visit to.

My vision clouds slightly. I lean my head into my palm, finally admitting to myself that I am tired. Maybe I will let myself have an hour of rest or so . . .

Kat

I drag myself out of bed, blinking my blurry eyes and dressing in the dark. I never appreciated how early servants wake each morning! Had I realized, I never would have taken a single wink of sleep for—

A shadow passes across my window. The prince?

I go still.

It was so fast, like a cloak tossed over the setting crescent moon. I’m fully awake the instant I rush to the window and peer out of it.

I’m just in time to see five hooded figures pass out of view.

Not the prince .

Alertness rushes through my blood. I pull away from the window. Are they fae come to hunt down their stolen slaves? Did I leave a trail after all? My hand covers my mouth.

I rush from my room into the prince’s. It is dark, swaths of curtains covering the windows, the thick blankets on the bed untouched save where the prince sat while I bound his injury. He is not here. My heart in my throat, I hurry to the window. My fingers shake slightly as I grab the curtain and pull it aside.

A pair of eyes stare back at me.

My blood screams.

I shove the curtain into place as if it will save me from the knife I saw glinting in that man’s hand and throw myself in the opposite direction. I crash into the table where we play Fool’s Circle, pain flaring in my leg.

Righting myself, I bolt out the door into the darkened hallways. My breath comes fast. That wasn’t a fae—that was a man. They’re all human men. Which means . . .

“Lord Rahk!” I yell, breathless, not thinking straight. “Lord Rahk!”

I careen down another hallway until I get to the door of his study.

It’s locked.

“Lord Rahk!” I bellow, slamming the side of my fist into the door. It doesn’t open. I curse and whirl around. The door to the parlor is open. Inside, faint moonlight gleams off the marble bust of Botsov. I say a prayer as I run to grab it. It’s so heavy I nearly drop it. “Lord Rahk!” I scream again as I bash the heavy bust headfirst into the lock. The door buckles, but doesn’t break. I give my next hit everything I have. The door flies open.

The prince lifts his head blearily from his desk, his eyes widening at the sight of me standing there, in the dimness, clutching a marble bust.

And behind him, in the window, are three silhouettes. One eases the pane open silently.

Assassins.

They’ve not come for me—they’ve come for the prince.

“Behind you!” I scream and hurl Botsov toward the window. Rahk dodges out of the way. It sails through the glass, shattering on impact. The assassins split to avoid getting hit.

Rahk curses, already on his feet as one assassin leaps through the broken window. He bounds over the desk and ducks behind it as he reaches beneath it to grab one of his long swords. The assassin corners him between the bookshelves I recently reordered as two more pour through the window. But Rahk is so fast I cannot even see what he does before the first assassin lies dead on the ground. The other two fly at him, their swords gleaming in the darkness. He counters and ducks beneath their strikes to dance away from the corner.

The fourth assassin creeps just outside the window. He lifts a crossbow, aiming at Rahk just as he cuts down the second assassin.

“Rahk! The window!” I cry, just as the assassin looses his arrow.

In a flash, Rahk seems to bend backward, almost folding in half. The arrow lodges in a book’s spine. Rahk throws his palm upright and searing light fills the room. He growls in pain. Did one of them land a blow?

But no, the assassin with the crossbow has collapsed, the window blackened.

I need to get out of here or I will become collateral damage. I whirl. My nose rams into a hard, black-wreathed chest. I drag my gaze up to the black mask and hood, with only a slit for a pair of gleaming eyes.

The next second, he has me pinned, my back to his chest, holding me by the throat and pressing a knife to my temple.

“Rahk,” I squeak as I grab the assassin’s wrist, trying to pry his grip free.

“Drop your weapons,” growls the assassin holding me. “Or this one dies.”

Rahk’s black eyes fall on me just as he yanks his sword out of the chest of the third assassin, leaving only one other standing—besides the one that holds me.

“You think he cares if I live or die?” I snap. “How about we go find better hostage material?”

His fingers tighten around my throat. I choke. His knife stings against my temple. Warmth dribbles down the side of my face.

Rahk’s sword clatters to the ground.

My eyes bug. “What are you doing? Don’t you know that they always kill the hostage anyway?”

“Why are you here?” Rahk demands, keeping his eye on both assassins, tensing as the other one circles behind him. “Did the queen send you?”

The second assassin lunges. Rahk sidesteps the knife coming for his back and holds up both hands.

“You know you cannot kill me,” Rahk says as he dances around the assassin. “I don’t need weapons to kill you both. So let the boy go, and I’ll spare your lives.”

The one holding me squeezes my throat so hard black spots erupt across my vision. I try to say, “Rahk,” but it only comes out in a wheeze.

The prince’s tone changes. Darkens. “Let the boy go. Now. You hurt him, you die.”

Hooves come clopping down the hallway. “My lord! What is happening? You, sir! It is too early for calling! Please come again at a—”

The assassin yanks me aside and pivots toward the approaching Edvear, still keeping Rahk in view. The hooves on flooring go silent and I manage a weak smile at Edvear’s open-mouthed shock, illuminated by the single candle he holds. My vision swims.

“Much too early for calling,” I croak.

Edvear’s face turns a furious shade of purple. His voice drops. “That is one of my staff. You let him go at once.”

Just then, a body goes flying past me and slams into plaster. Rahk is right in front of me, his hands closing around my assassin’s wrists. I end up smashed between them as they both let out strained grunts. Rahk yanks the hand with the knife away, twisting his thumb at a hard angle until the assassin releases a cry and the blade clatters to the ground. Then he pries the other hand off my throat and anchors his weight, whirling the assassin off me and face first into a bookshelf.

Edvear catches me with an arm beneath my shoulder blades. With his other hand, he pulls a kitchen knife out of his belt and stabs it into the back of the assassin stuck in the plaster. It shocks me so much I stumble.

“Just making sure he’s dead,” Edvear says, yanking his knife free and wiping it clean. “He is. Come, let’s get a bandage for that cut.”

A strangled cry cuts off abruptly from the study as Edvear leads me away. My legs sway and buckle with every other step. How come I am fearless in the Fae Courts, but so unsteadied by a few humans? My throat is scratchy, and I suck in deep breaths to make up for the ones I lost.

“Nat.”

Edvear pauses. I turn around to find Rahk standing in the doorway of his study, his tall frame flanked by corpses and busted walls. His expression, lit by the faint sunlight coming through his broken window, is strange. I cannot decipher it.

“How did you know about the mercenaries?” he asks.

My gaze travels to the body Edvear stabbed. Five men lie dead now who were alive only minutes ago. I swallow. It hurts. “I saw them out my window. They went to your bedroom first. I realized they had come for you. Did the queen send them?”

“Yes,” he replies, planting his hands on his hips and shifting his weight. He studies the one dead assassin sticking out of the plastered wall. Blood smears down his back from Edvear’s strike. He lifts his gaze back to me. Something flashes deep in his dark pupils. “Thank you. For warning me.”

It only now occurs to me that if I’d let him die, my Ivy Mask problem would have been solved. Great thinking, Kat.

Still, in my heart of hearts, I know I could not have stood by and let it happen. “But . . . but I almost didn’t even get there in time.”

He smiles slightly, ruefully. “I am glad that you did.” He scratches the back of his neck. “That marble bust—who was that of?”

“A composer named Botsov, my lord.”

He nods, and his smile turns a little more genuine. “That was quick thinking.”

He has offered praise before, but there is something about the way he says this that strikes me differently. Deeper . It’s as if it is spoken by the real Rahk, the one beneath the hardened expressions. The one I have only caught tiny glimpses of.

“The lad is bleeding, my lord,” Edvear says, firming his grip on my shoulder.

Something drips off my chin. I reach up, touch the side of my face—the side that is turned away from Rahk—and am surprised to see how much blood is on my hand. “Oh.” I look back at the prince. He has taken a step toward me, but stops.

“Please, help him with whatever he needs,” Rahk says to Edvear. He shifts his weight again, glancing at the damage around him, almost looking . . . lost . “I will deal with this. And Nat—I don’t know if you meant what you said, but I was never going to let them kill you. You know that, right?”

My lips part slightly. I let myself be dragged away to avoid giving a reply.

Edvear takes me to the kitchen. Charity has her back to us, stoking the fire. She is the only one in the room; Becky still sleeps. My temple aches, my throat scratchy and sore. I sit down on one of the bar stools. My head turns heavy.

“Please do not be alarmed, Mrs. Finch,” says Edvear. “Nat has had a little accident and needs some hot tea with honey while I bandage him.”

Charity latches the oven and turns toward us. She inhales sharply, just as Edvear says again, “Everything is fine, Mrs. Finch. It is a little scratch.”

“Well, the blood from that little scratch is falling on my counter! Nat, what happened? Here, sweetheart.” She hands me a clean towel to hold to my temple.

I don’t want to talk. My throat seems to close. I point to Edvear as he fishes through a cabinet for bandages.

“Edvear? What happened?” Charity briskly places a kettle on the stove and prepares a cup and saucer.

His ears twitch as he takes a wet cloth and wipes at the wound. I wince. He gentles his touch as he works. “It was nothing you need to worry about, Mrs. Finch. A few assassins came to kill Lord Rahk and for a minute or two used Nat as a hostage, but he quite easily—”

The kettle clangs against the grate. “Assassins?” cries Charity. “Kill Lord Rahk? Nat as a hostage? Nothing for me to worry about? Are you out of your mind?”

Edvear’s skin turns bright red. His ears droop slightly as he turns away from her. “I forget this isn’t normal for you humans. Please pardon me. Lord Rahk has taken care of these threats. Everything is safe now. You and Becky are safe. Lord Rahk and I both take the wellbeing of our staff very seriously. I do not want you to be afraid.”

Charity pauses, peering at me strangely. “Nat? You don’t look well.”

She turns blurry on the edges. I swallow hard. Why does it feel so hard to breathe?

Hurried, heavy footsteps come from beyond the kitchen. The door bursts open.

“Lord Rahk!” says Edvear. “What is the matter?”

The next thing I know, the legs of my stool have been grabbed and rotated, and Rahk kneels before me. He swims in and out of focus as he takes my jaw in one hand and tilts my head so he can inspect the cut. He spits a vehement, unfamiliar curse.

“My lord—”

Rahk growls as he suddenly scoops me up into his arms. The ceiling blurs above me. “That blade was poisoned.”