CHAPTER 1
I know the moment something is wrong.
Simon’s hand grips mine with a sudden intensity, but it’s not a squeeze for my attention or an expression of affection. It’s urgent with an edge of fear.
His movements haven’t indicated we need to flee, though, which means I shouldn’t react. We’re standing off to the side of an open area where several streets intersect, watching a group of children perform a traditional dance, their ribbons on the ends of sticks more or less in sync with the festival music and each other. Not one child is over eight years old, so they must have practiced several weeks for this amount of coordination.
Simon isn’t looking at me or the colorful celebration, however. His eyes are narrowed at something across the square.
Trying not to be obvious, I lean into his side, close enough to feel the hum of magick coming from the bloodstones in his pocket. Their focused energy makes my skin numb, so he usually carries them for me. “What is it?”
“That man.” Simon replies in a much lower voice, but we’re standing in the shadow of a three-story building so I can hear him clearly.
I follow his line of sight over the crowd. With the Solstice festival celebrating the longest and holiest day of the year, outsiders are common as sparrows, which works both to our advantage and disadvantage. We’d arrived on the island of Brinsulli several days ago, then traveled to the capital city of Londunium on foot. The journey to the coast of Gallia from Collis was much faster—traveling at night on horses we then sold to buy passage across the Narrow Sea. It’s not likely any word about Simon as a fugitive has reached Brinsulli, let alone Londunium, in those three weeks, especially as he’s believed to be dead, but there’s always a chance he’ll be recognized. His unusual eyes—light blue with a wedge of brown in the left—are impossible to hide.
“The one in the gray tunic and black cap,” Simon whispers.
I find the man. His blond hair hangs in greasy strings over his forehead, and his sallow skin glistens with a sheen of sweat. Something has him agitated, and he rubs his hands in a washing motion almost compulsively. I have to speak much louder for Simon to hear me, so I stand on my toes to put my mouth closer to his ear as I pretend to watch the dance again. “Has he been staring at you?”
“No. He keeps looking around the crowd. Stopped on you twice.”
That doesn’t make any sense. “How is that a problem?”
“Because he’s searching for a target. Someone easy and worth the effort.” Simon pauses. “Third look. He thinks you have potential, but you’re fine as long as you’re with me.”
“Are you sure?” No one would take Simon for a fighter—he’s as thin as a garden rake and stands in a way that takes up little space. I grimace as I peek at the man again before putting my chin on Simon’s shoulder. “No offense, but he could probably overpower you.”
He doesn’t argue with that. “Yes, but two against one is riskier, especially when we look like a couple who might fight to protect each other. He’ll go for an easier mark, especially with as many as he could find here.”
“So why are you worried?” I ask, tucking my travel bag firmly between us. “There’s probably a half dozen other thieves in the square with the same mindset.”
Simon finally allows himself to glance down at me. “Because he’s not just a pickpocket. He’s got violence on his mind, too. It’s in his eyes, in his movements.”
I don’t have to ask how he can read the man’s intentions. Simon spent six years recording the work of a man determined to understand the motivations of criminals—mostly the violently insane kind—as well as how they chose their victims. In Collis, he used that absorbed knowledge to find the murderer of several women. A murderer who happened to be his cousin.
“Perhaps his last robbery or two drew blood.” Simon turns his gaze back to the crowd as he continues. “Maybe unexpectedly. But he liked the thrill and sense of power it gave him.”
“And now he wants to feel that way again,” I finish. “Theft isn’t what drives him anymore.”
Simon nods once. “He’s wondering what it would be like to actually kill someone. With all the noise and commotion today, he could probably get away with it.”
I study the crowd, which has over a dozen women and older men who would be easy to force into an alley or empty building. One of them was going to become the man’s victim unless we did something. “Well, then.” I pull away and heft my travel bag onto my shoulder. “We should separate so he comes after me rather than someone else.”
“What?” Simon’s blue eyes widen. “Cat, no—that’s a terrible idea.”
I expected his objection, and I’m not angry, though I act like it. “You don’t think I can defend myself?”
He refuses to play along, shaking his head. “The two of us can’t take him down. You just pointed out he could probably overpower me, and he undoubtedly has a knife.”
“Then get help.” I use only my eyes to point to another corner of the square where two red-haired men sit on horseback, watching over the festivities. One of the first things we’d done on arriving in Brinsulli was identify those charged with law enforcement, so we knew who to avoid. “There’s two of those reeves over there. The ones with the gold braid on their shoulders.”
Simon hardly spares them a glance. “Why would they listen to me? I’m a stranger.”
“Yes, but protecting people is their job. Pretend you’re worried about my safety. Be persuasive.”
“I wouldn’t have to pretend.” He catches my elbow as I start to walk away, the first signs of anger on his pale face. “I can’t let you do this.”
“Can’t let me?” I tear my arm from his hold. “You aren’t actually my husband, Simon. You have no right to tell me what to do.”
“Stop it, Cat,” he snaps. “I know this is for show. We’ll figure out another way to stop him.” Simon reaches for me again.
I dodge his grasp. “There’s no time. He’s watching us now, isn’t he?”
Simon’s eyes flash over my shoulder, and he clenches his jaw so hard a vein bulges from his neck. “Yes. He’s already coming closer.”
“Then hurry. I’ll head toward the river.”
His expression almost breaks my resolve. “Please don’t do this,” he whispers.
I take a step backward. “Keep talking. I’ll listen for you.”
And I whirl around and disappear into the crowd.
* * *
My silver voidstone bracelet is in my bag, and I dig inside as I storm away, staying in.ade of awnings and buildings as much as possible so the sun can’t wash away the magick constantly provided by the moonstone around my neck. As soon as my fingers touch the smooth, black stone, I push all my senses but hearing into its bottomless depths. Smell isn’t that much of a loss, especially surrounded by sweaty bodies and waste-filled alleys, but reducing touch makes me stumble when my foot hits the street with less force than I anticipate. Enhanced sight will probably come in handy, but I need to focus on what I can hear more, so I only reduce it by about half. I can still see better than everyone around me, but now none of those voided senses can come back until I see the moon, which won’t rise for several hours.
I strain to listen for footsteps behind me, but there are many, and I stop for a second to reclose my bag and hoist it back onto my shoulder. The pause allows me to pick out the gait that halts and resumes when I do. His breathing is then easy to connect to the steps. Beneath is a rapid, excited heartbeat. I have him.
The streets ahead are lined with shops and stalls, but the crowds are already thinning out. Beyond, the city docks on the tidal river are nearly empty of workers and sailors. It is a holiday, after all. I’ve overestimated how long it will be before I’m isolated enough to be at risk, so I slow my pace and pause at a fruit stand. When I turn, I’m careful to keep my expression annoyed, like the argument with Simon is still on my mind rather than the look in his eyes. He was terrified. I try to tell myself that’s better, because then his urgency in getting help will be genuine.
In the corner of my vision, the blond man also stops, pretending to admire a display of colorful scarves embroidered with golden suns. He’s shorter than me by at least an inch but stockier than I’d realized. My fingers unconsciously itch for my belt, where not long ago I carried a hammer—ostensibly for work at the construction site, but really to smash hands that had a tendency to reach into my skirt as I went by. The master architect always sided with me, even when I actually broke fingers. I don’t have a way to defend myself now.
“See anything you like?” The merchant behind the counter startles me out of my thoughts.
I decide another minute is worth parting with a few coins. “How much for the apples?” I ask. It’s too early in the season for most varieties, but he has a few green ones.
The man names a price, and I’m so nervous I can’t make the conversion to know if it’s a fair sum or I’m being robbed. It’s probably too much; my Gallian-style clothes practically shout that I’m a foreigner. Rather than haggle, I rummage into my bag, making a show of reaching to the very bottom to fish out the smaller of my purses. No sense in attracting the attention of any other thieves who might be watching by showing how much I really carry. Then I deliberately offer slightly less than the seller said, thinking to drag the interaction out. “Is this enough?”
Either I miscounted what I hold or he expected me to talk him down, because he accepts the coins and sweeps his other hand over the fruit. “Take your pick.”
I make a show of selecting a plump one with a more golden hue, then rub it on my sleeve until the skin shines before biting into it. The intense flavor brings tears to my eyes as I chew and then swallow. “Tart,” I manage to say around pinched lips.
He chuckles like he was waiting for my reaction. “Sweeter ones won’t be ready for a month.”
“Of course.” I thank him and move on, noting that my shadow also continues. I nibble at the apple’s almost transparent flesh as I walk. The flavor isn’t actually that bad, just strong and unexpected. It was harder to void taste when it wasn’t in active use.
The streets are progressively less populated, but it’s still a rather public area. I need to act like I have a destination, so I stop a passerby to ask the way to the nearest inn. His drunken answer is hardly coherent, but I go in the direction he points since it’s south, toward the river, as I said I’d go.
“Cat, where are you?” Simon’s voice calls from somewhere behind me. No one else around would be able to distinguish it from crowd noise at this distance, but I can. “We’re coming.”
We’re coming. He’s found someone. There’s no way I can answer him, but knowing he’s on his way bolsters my courage.
Now to set a trap.
I stay on the right side of the street and in the shade, glancing down alleys as I pass to get a feel for what they’re like here. Not much different from Collis—often narrow enough for me to touch both walls with my arms outstretched. Buildings on either side are rough stone at the base and patchy plaster above with occasional wooden beams. Excellent for climbing up, though it will be more difficult in my long skirt. He won’t expect me to try, though.
The man’s footsteps are closer, and the brackish smell of the Tamse River is stronger. There will be more people around when I reach the docks, so he won’t wait much longer. I strain to hear Simon. The apple is still distractingly tart, but he’s saying my name just loud enough.
“Catrin, Catrin, Catrin…”
Then another voice, very close to him. “I see a girl with dark hair ahead. Is it braided, going well down her back?”
“Yes.” Simon’s answer to whoever is with him is louder, and relieved. “Dark brown skirt and tan jacket.”
“That’s her, then. There’s a man right behind her—”
I’m so focused on listening that I step into the sunlight and miss the heavy footfalls right behind me, sudden and rushed. A meaty hand over my mouth smothers my scream, and I’m yanked backward into an alley between two houses.
Before I can put up much of a struggle, I’m slammed against a wall so hard the back of my head whiplashes into the stone. I swear I can feel my brain hit the inside of my skull and the world spins even as I’m held upright by a hand at my throat.
With one hand gripping my neck, however, my attacker has to back away and reach for his belt with the other. I flail and kick, managing to connect one boot-clad foot with his knee and my forearm knocks the knife out of his hand before he has a good grip on it. He swears and drops me to retrieve his weapon. I fall to my knees, clutching my neck and coughing.
It’s darker in here than I would’ve expected at this time of day, but that’s actually to my advantage. My magick was fully restored the instant I was out of the sun, and I can hear again.
“Wait, I’ve lost her.”
“Cat!” Simon shouts in panic. “Where did you go?”
I lurch to my feet, reaching for the wall—my escape—and my fingers find holds as one foot braces against a stone to lift myself higher until I’m violently yanked back down by my braid. I try to scream as I hit the packed dirt, but nothing comes out, and I croak helplessly as my attacker drags me deeper into the gloom by my thick hair, his retrieved knife at my throat. He pulls me around a corner, out of view from the street, where no one can see us.
Sun and skies, this was a mistake.
CHAPTER 2
At first I hope my attacker will look through my bag or search me for jewelry before anything else, but Simon was right. Violence is what he wants now.
He props me up against the wall and presses his dirty hand against my mouth as he kneels over me. Some strength is returning to my limbs, but with his blade pressing my windpipe I don’t resist.
The way he smiles is terrifying. Tears in my eyes are half from pain, half from fear. Why can’t I hear Simon anymore?
Light on the man’s shoulder tells me why. The sun is shining into this angle of the alley, on my lower legs, which are exposed by the skirt that has lifted to my knees. Even that small amount on my skin is enough to overpower the magick provided by the moonstone on my neck.
“You’re prettier than I thought,” he whispers. “Spirited, too. Were you going to climb all the way to the roof?”
He’s taunting me, not realizing I could have made it out of his reach if I’d had a few more seconds. The knife slides sideways to lift the necklace off my skin. “Is this real silver?”
Copyright © 2023 by Erin Beaty
