Page 43 of Silvercloak

How would they get there, to that moment she had foreseen?

There was no denying he was attractive. He had the chiseled face and physique of the carved statues that stood outside Saints halls. If she met him as a handsome stranger in a tavern, she’d undoubtedly sink several flamebrandies and suggest they get a room. But he wasn’t a handsome stranger in a tavern. He was a murderer, a torturer. Dark and cruel to his bones.

She’d just have to focus on the part that came after the kiss: sinking a killing spell deep into his stomach.

Propping herself farther up on the bed, Saffron tentatively plucked an apricot pastry from the tray. She brought it to her mouth, and a violent shudder of cold tore through her. An image had taken root in her mind: a rolling eye on a bloodstained tile, the grout seeped with scarlet.

“What did you do with the croupier’s daughter?” She couldn’t even bring herself to say his name.

Levan shrugged. “Took her back to the gamehouse.”

“How long will she stay there?” The sailor’s knot tightened around her belly. She was shaking from head to foot, and she hated that she was. “And where’s the rest of her?”

His face remained impassive, gaze still averted. “Just focus on finding Nalezen Zares.”

Saffron tore the pastry in half. The fallowwolf eyed it longingly, even though the beasts famously only consumed other animals’ hearts. She lifted the pastry to her mouth, but nausea lurched up her gullet, and she laid it back down with a grimace.

Levan sighed. “Is there a problem?”

Saffron’s jaw clenched. She didn’t want to share her turmoil with this monster, and yet some part of her wanted him to know that she was stillgood. Or, at the very least, better than he was. She wanted her moral objections to be known at every juncture.

“Not all of us can take a life and still stomach our dinner.”

The reply came whip-fast. “Better get used to it. We own you now.”

The kingpin’s words haunted her.It doesn’t matter if your motivations are not what you claim. We’ll be able to control you regardless, fit you with a tight collar and a tighter leash, walk you down the streets of Atherin like a dog …

Saffron shakily poured the coffee into a black clay mug, wrinkling her nose at the bitter scent. “I don’t suppose you have any hot chocolate?”

Levan’s brow furrowed. “Are you twelve years old?”

“Yes,” said Saffron, deadpan. “I wonder what puberty will feel like. Apparently I’ll grow hair on my—”

“Fine.” Levan, less than amused, pointed his wand at the mug of coffee. “Ans calacocar.”

Saffron stared in amazement as the dark coffee faded to a milky brown, thickening and frothing of its own accord. “You can transmute?”

Turning one object into another entirely different object was one of the most challenging types of magic in existence, because the objects must have the exact same energy and mass. If the old object contained more energy than the new, there would be a rather dramatic explosion, and if the new required more energy than the old, the mage’s own lifeblood would be drained to make up for the shortfall. Lesser mages died trying, but Levan only shrugged, no trace of pride on his face at the casually devastating magic he’d exhibited.

Saffron took a sip of the transmuted cocoa, discovering with mild annoyance that it was delicious. Mercifully, her stomach did not rejectit. She swallowed down several mouthfuls, and some of the feeling returned to her extremities. With the replenishing of her well came a rush of pleasure, a kind of heat flooding to her core, and she sighed into it. The pain of the branding had given the power more potency, and now it coursed gorgeously through her, simmering, fizzing, begging to be spent.

And yet she had to keep it close for now. Saints knew when she might need to call upon it.

“Why did you kill that Brewer in the alley?” she asked, as though they were equals, colleagues, and she were merely curious. “Seemed like he genuinely didn’t know anything. And I think you knew that too. You said he’d taken an antidote to the truth elixir, but why wouldn’t you just take him prisoner until the antidote had worn off? The only reason to kill him would be if he was genuinely no use to you.”

“Very perceptive,” Levan grunted, stroking Rasso’s head absently. “Yes, I soon realized that Segal brought me the wrong mage.” He had a flat manner of speaking, free from inflection or sentiment.

“So why didn’t you let him go?”

“He was evidence.”

“Not very strong evidence. It would’ve been his word against yours.”

“And the Silvercloaks would believe he magically amputated and reattached his own hand?” He shrugged, as though the situation irked him but didn’t particularly pain him. Merely a set of unfortunate circumstances. “All magic leaves a trace, and the Silvercloaks are getting better at following said trace. You of all people should know that.”

Saff reached for a strawberry, and the hot stroke of pain across her chest was so harsh and sudden that it bleached her vision white, so visceral that the salve couldn’t touch it. The magic in her well brightened, sharpened.

Sucking in her breath, she dug her nails into the bedspread, trying not to cry out.