Page 4 of Thief of Night (The Charlatan Duology #2)

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Charlie Hall was a puzzle and not one Red liked.

When he was young, Remy had asked him where he went when he was a shadow.

Red had tried to explain the nowhere place, the not-here and not-there.

How he could see the real world from it, but blurred and distorted and silvery.

Time moved differently there too, as though he was watching a movie that played normally for a few minutes, then fast-forwarded, and played again, and so on and so on.

Watching Charlie clean her wound from the nowhere place, time seemed to slow instead of speed. She was facing away from him in the front seat of the van, using the rearview mirror to see her bare shoulder. Parked in front of her own house, but not going inside.

The shortness of her black hair framed the strong bones of her face, but it also emphasized the exhausted hollowness under her eyes. Not even the bright pattern of scarabs tattooed along her collarbone could distract from them once you noticed.

And he found himself noticing everything.

When she drew up her shirt, biting her lip as she poured peroxide over her skin, Red could barely look away. Most of the liquid missed the wound, soaking the seat of the van. The little that hit fizzed like soda as she winced.

He didn’t understand her.

Why not tell him to do it for her? He wouldn’t have been unkind about it.

He had been slow in the mill building, but he hadn’t realized that the thing had just fed.

He’d thought it would be weak, the task easy.

He hadn’t known Charlie was in danger until she called out, and even then, he hadn’t realized how much danger.

He was haunted by the moment he arrived and saw her bruised and bleeding, Blight towering over her.

Red wished time would speed up, the way it used to, taking that memory with it.

Instead, he was forced to watch as she haphazardly glued her wound shut.

Forced to note the shine of her eyes, the way her wet lashes dragged over her cheeks when she blinked, and how she swallowed a sob.

The movement of her throat as she drank her Gatorade slowly, as though the electrolytes could cure blood loss.

Why had she put herself in that position in the first place, back at the mill building?

She had talked the Cabals into tethering him to her by agreeing to be their Hierophant, but why ?

What did she gain? He’d been valuable to Salt as a killer, but he didn’t think she wanted him for that.

Despite being a self-described con artist and thief, she seemed squeamish about murder.

But perhaps that was why she needed him?

Or perhaps she thought he could be valuable in other ways.

He could steal too, he supposed. He knew the layout of various gloamist estates with large libraries full of rarities.

She told him that she’d tricked her way into being Hierophant because she loved him. Because she wanted to save him.

That was ridiculous. People were afraid of Red, not worried about him.

He made them uncomfortable. Even Remy, who cared more about him than anyone else, had been afraid and uncomfortable around him.

And fine, she hadn’t known what he was for some of their relationship.

But she’d known when she tethered herself to him.

I am not going to make you do anything you don’t want to do.

Everyone said that. Salt had certainly said it to Remy in the beginning, when he’d first come to live at the manor. Remy had even said it to Red, though by then he’d made Red do plenty. All saying it meant was that the person wouldn’t make you do something awful right away.

So it didn’t matter that Charlie gazed at him with convincing warmth in her big brown eyes or treated him as though she really thought he was a person.

He didn’t believe she’d been willing to put her own life on the line to save his.

He didn’t believe any of it. She was a con artist and this was a con.