“I do.”His inner voice slides through my head like the silk he so easily ripped into scraps. His eyes are bright as he comes up over me, one hand planting on the marble step beside my head, the other hovering just above my face, tracing the outline of my lips with one finger.“Though I am eager to see what you look like out of it.”
I crane my neck as his mouth comes toward mine, ready for the kiss, ready for more. So much more. His lips have scarcely pressed down when a keening toll blares overhead, stilling us both instantly.
The beacons.
For one frozen moment, neither of us moves.
“Something’s wrong,” Soren mutters, scooping me up andsetting me on my feet at the top of the steps. “Something’s happened.”
Together, we run back into the city.
We smell thesmoke before we see the blaze.
Slamming to a halt at the edge of the canal, I cannot believe my eyes. The floating market is on fire, each barge engulfed entirely in flames. Civilians are running for cover. Vendors scream as their livelihoods are reduced to ashes. Some toss bucketfuls of water, but their efforts have little impact. The inferno is raging out of control.
Soren looses a low oath as he takes in the scene. His maegic surges, a potent current, as he draws up vast quantities of water from the canals and douses the barges. The fire splutters out with a crackle and a hiss.
I exhale in relief.
The panicked screams subside as those gathered along the edges of the market watch the rise of steam that drifts into the cloudless night. It is a bleak sight—most of the colorful barges blackened with soot, their proud banners naught but cinders. Only hours ago, I was here with Farley, Jac, Mabon, and Cadogan, sampling delicacies, spending coin, calling merrily to passing boats…
“How did this happen?” Soren asks one of the vendors, eyes roaming the wreckage. “This is no natural fi—”
His question stops short as a guttural bellow pierces the night—a cry of victory, and of vengeance. My eyes seek out the source of the sound and go wide when they find it. Standing atop the bridge that spans a nearby canal are two men with flaming torches held aloft. They are bare chested, their skin streaked with something dark.
Dirt?
Paint?
I cannot tell from this distance.
They stare at us for several frozen seconds, their eyes locked on Soren.
“For Shadowfall!” one of them screeches, tossing his torch into the canal. With a hiss, it extinguishes instantly. His companion follows suit. Then, before the tendrils of my wind or Soren’s water can ensnare them, the two men pull daggers from their belts, lift them to their necks, and draw the blades across with harsh finality.
Blood spurts as they fall, dead, to the bridge.
A collective gasp ripples around the market.
“What the hell was that?” My eyes fly to Soren.“For Shadowfall?”
He looks utterly grave. His gaze moves to mine for a brief moment. He says just one word—but that one is enough to freeze my heart in the cold grip of fear.
“Efnysien.”
I have questions, but there is no time to ask them. We run to the bodies as fast as our feet can carry us. For once, it is Soren who struggles to keep pace with me. My heels have wings tonight.
He kicks at one of the corpses, confirming it is truly dead as I drop into a crouch to examine the other. They are mortal, judging by their rounded ears. Every inch of their skin is streaked with dark, dried fluid. Not dirt or mud…
“Is that paint?”
“Blood,” Soren mutters.
My nose wrinkles as I bend closer, inhaling the sharp, metallic scent. It wafts off the corpses like strong cologne. Definitely blood.
A lot of it.
It does not take long to check the bodies; they are not wearing much of anything, barefoot and bare chested. Nothing of value in the pockets of their thin breeches, no sigils stitched into the fabric.