A shotgun hung on the wall by the door, half rusted from disuse (on the occasion trouble brewed downstairs, Barron’s hulking form was usually enough to quash it). Now he took hold of the gun by the barrel and pulled it down from its mount. He drew open the door, cringing as it groaned, and set off up the stairs to Lila’s room.
Stealth, he knew, was useless. Barron had never been a small man, and the steps creaked loudly under his boots as he climbed. When he reached the short green door at the top of the stairs, he hesitated and pressed his ear to the wood. He heard nothing, and for a brief moment, he doubted himself. Thought he’d slept too lightly after Lila’s departure and simply dreamt the threat out of concern. His grip, which had been knuckles white on the shotgun, began to loosen, and he let out a breath and thought of going back to bed. But then he heard the metallic sound of coins tumbling, and the doubt gutted like a candle. He threw open the door, shotgun raised.
Lila and Kell were both gone, but the room was not empty: a man stood beside the open window, weighing Lila’s silver pocket watch in the palm of his hand. The lantern on the table burned with an odd pale light that made the man look strangely colorless, from his charcoal hair to his pale skin to his faded grey clothes. When his gaze drifted up casually from the timepiece and settled on Barron—he seemed entirely unfazed by the gun—the tavern owner saw that one of his eyes was green. The other was pitch black.
Lila had described the man to him and given him a name.
Holland.
Barron did not hesitate. He pulled the trigger, and the shotgun blasted through the room with a deafening sound that left his ears ringing. But when the plume of smoke cleared, the colorless intruder stood exactly where he’d been before the blast, unharmed. Barron stared in disbelief. The air in front of Holland glittered faintly, and it took Barron a moment to grasp that it was full of shot pellets. The tiny metal beads hung suspended in front of Holland’s chest. And then they fell, clattering to the floor like hail.
Before Barron could squeeze off the second shot, Holland’s fingers twitched, and the weapon went flying out of Barron’s hands and across the narrow room, crashing against the wall. He lunged for it, or at least he meant to, but his body refused, remaining firmly rooted to the spot, not out by fear, but something stronger. Magic. He willed his limbs to move, but the impossible force willed them still.
“Where are they?” asked Holland. His voice was low and cold and hollow.
A bead of sweat rolled down Barron’s cheek as he fought the magic, but it was no use. “Gone,” he said, his voice a low rumble.
Holland frowned, disappointed. He drew a curved knife from his belt. “I noticed that.” He crossed the room with even, echoing steps, and brought the blade up slowly to Barron’s throat. It was very cold, and very sharp. “Where have they gone?”
Up close, Kell smelled of lilies and grass. Holland smelled of ash and blood and metal.
Barron met the magician’s eyes. They were so like Kell’s. And so different. Looking into them, he saw anger and hatred and pain, things that never spread, never touched the rest of his face. “Well?” he pressed.
“No idea,” growled Barron. It was the truth. He could only hope they were far away.
Holland’s mouth turned down. “Wrong answer.”
He drew the blade across, and Barron felt a searing heat at his throat, and then nothing.
NINE
FESTIVAL & FIRE
I
Red London welcomed Kell home as if nothing were wrong. It had not rained here, and the sky was streaked with wisps of cloud and crimson light, as if a reflection of the Isle. Carriages rolled in rumbling fashion over street stones on their well-worn paths, and the air was filled with the sweet steam of spice and tea and, farther off, the sounds of building celebration.
Had it really been only a matter of hours since Kell had fled, wounded and confused, away from this world and into another? The simple, assuring calm, the rightness of this place, set him off-balance and made him doubt, if only for a moment, that anything could be amiss. But he knew the peace was superficial—somewhere in the palace that bridged the river, his presence had surely been missed; somewhere in the city, two men lay dead, and more with empty eyes were likely looking for him and his prize—but here, on what had been Whitbury and was now Ves Anash, the light of the river spilling in from one side and the morning sun from the other, Red London seemed oblivious to the danger it was in, the danger he was dragging through it.
A small black stone capable of creating anything and razing everything. He shuddered at the thought and tightened his grip on Lila’s hand, only to realize it was not there.
He spun, hoping to find her standing next to him, hoping they’d been pulled apart only a step or two in the course of their passage. But he was alone. The echo of Antari magic glowed faintly on the wall, marking the way he’d come with Lila.
But Lila was gone.