She sucked in a deep breath, sticking out her chest, and watched Oswald’s eyes swerve to her neckline. Just when he’d lost focus, she punched him in the jaw. He rubbed his cheek and raised his fists again. “Getting better, but your balance was off. Drop your hips.”
She lunged again, but with an impossibly fast movement, he caught her fist and his eyes locked on hers. He really was beautiful for a Tatter.
What had her plan been? A good outfit. Right. With her free hand, she slipped her fingers into his belt buckle, her knuckles skimming his stomach. As her heart raced, she pulled him close, inhaling his clean, soapy smell. He stared into her eyes, and his grip loosened on her fist, fingers tracing over her wrist. Their breath mingled, and she glanced at his soft lips.
Hooking her leg around his, she slowly ran her foot up to the back of his knee, listening to his breath quicken. She could almost feel his heart racing through his shirt. Then, before he knew what hit him, she shoved him in the chest. He toppled backward over her leg, landing in the dirt.
She set her foot over his neck, threatening to press down. “See? I don’t need to land a proper punch.”
Nostrils flaring, he grabbed her ankle and twisted. She flipped, hitting the ground hard. “Ow!” A sharp rock had skinned her elbows, and the fall had knocked the wind out of her.
Pushing herself up, she brushed the grit out of a cut on her forearm. It seemed her upper hand hadn’t lasted very long.
Oswald looked her over. “Are you going to use that move on your torturers?”
Her sense of victory had completely faded. “I’ll try to remember it when they’re sawing off my head in the square.”
He rose, brushing the dust of his hands. “You give up too easily. You shouldn’t be so careless with your own life. It’s a hell of a thing to give up.” He turned, striding back to town.
Celia watched him go. Despite the bright sun, she shivered.
33
Fiona
And then there were four.
Four recruits lined up on a ledge of the grotto in Fiddler’s Green. As a thick fog rolled in from the sea, they waited for Berold’s funeral to begin. The sun hadn’t yet risen, and Fiona could see almost nothing through the mist.
She had donned a dark-blue dress for the occasion. After a quick breakfast, Valac had ferried the remaining recruits to the grotto. To Fiona’s right, Ostap ran a hand over his short hair, seemingly soothing himself with the repetitive gesture. Dwarfed by the Russian, Ives stood rod straight, hands folded in front of him. His expression was blank. Pale-pink light tinged the mists as the sun rose, and Fiona heard the gentle splashing of oars in the water.
She glanced at Rohan. He wore a gray suit and tiny, white seashells braided into his dark hair.
He leaned closer. “Did you hear anything last night? After you went to bed?”
Lir had told her to pretend she hadn’t seen anything. But he hadn’t told her she needed to lie about what she’d heard. “I heard moaning, and footsteps on the deck. I heard Lir’s breathing, so I know it wasn’t him.”
Rohan glared at the two other recruits, and said nothing else.
The sound of oars in the water grew louder, and slowly, the five Guardians drifted through the fog in a turquoise rowboat. It seemed to shine in the mists like a beacon. It would have been a lovely scene if it hadn’t been for the lank, gray corpse slumped inside.
Fiona held her breath, watching as the somber Guardians stepped from the gleaming boat, lining up along the grotto’s opposite ledge.
Whoever had murdered Berold stood in attendance, pretending to mourn his death. Was anyone actually mourning, though? No one here could have actually liked him. Maybe he had a family somewhere who’d miss him. As much as she’d hated him, the thought gave her a pang of sadness. Maybe even jealousy.
Marlowe pulled his tricorn hat from his head, and he and Valac began to sing a dirge in low and melodious voices. As they sang, the mists thickened around the funeral boat so that Fiona could no longer see it.
The air smelled faintly of decay, and Fiona felt the aura crackle over her skin. A guttural croak echoed off the rock walls, and she shivered. She felt half tempted to reach through the fog for Rohan’s hand. She didn’t want to see the visions again, the faceless corpses in her mind. She didn’t want to face Dagon. Not ever.
She stiffened as the waters emitted a gurgling sound and a few splashes. When the mists began to thin, she loosed a long breath. The boat was gone.