Without its pins, the door gave way behind her, and Lila tumbled backward, rolling into a crouch inside a shabby hall and heaving the door back up before pressing her blood-slicked fingers to the wood.
“As Steno,” she said, thinking that was the word Kell had taught her for seal, but she was wrong. The whole door shattered like a pane of glass, wooden splinters raining down, and before she could summon them back up, she was hauled into the street. Something hit her in the stomach—a fist, a knee, a boot—and the air left her lungs in a violent breath.
She summoned the wind—it tore through the alley and whipped around her, forcing the men back as she took a running step, pushed off the wall, and leaped for the edge of the roof.
She almost made it, but one of them caught her boot and jerked her back. She fell, hitting the street with brutal force. Something cracked inside her chest.
And then they fell on her.
*
Holland was proving horrible company.
Kell had tried to keep the conversation alive, but it was like stoking coals after a bucket of water had been poured on them, nothing but fragile wisps of smoke. He’d finally given up, resigned himself to the uncomfortable quiet, when the other Antari met his gaze across the table.
“At the market tomorrow,” he said. “What will you offer?”
Kell raised a brow. His own mind had just been drifting over the question.
“I was thinking,” he said, “of offering you.”
It was said in jest, but Holland only stared at him, and Kell sighed, relenting. He’d never been very good at sarcasm.
“It depends,” he answered honestly, “on whether Maris cares for cost or worth.” He patted down his pockets, and came up with a handful of coins, Lila’s kerchief, his royal pin. The look on Holland’s face mirrored the worry in Kell’s gut—none of these things were good enough.
“You could offer the coat,” said Holland.
But the thought made Kell’s chest hurt. It was his, one of the only things in his life not bestowed by the crown, or bartered for, not given because of his position, but won. Won in a simple game of cards.
He put the trinkets away, and instead dug the cord out from under his shirt. On the end hung the three coins, one for each world. He unknotted the cord and slid the last coin out onto his palm.
His Grey London token.
George III’s profile was on the front, his face rubbed away from use.
Kell had given the king a new lin with every visit, but he still had the same shilling George had given him on his very first trip. Before the age and the madness wore him away, before his son buried him in Windsor.
It cost almost nothing, but it was worth a great deal to him.
“I hate to interrupt whatever reverie you’re having,” said Holland, nodding at the window, “but your friend has returned.”
Kell turned in his seat, expecting Lila, but instead he found Alucard strolling past. He had a vial in his hand, and was holding it up to the light of a lantern. The contents glittered faintly like white sand, or finely broken glass.
The captain looked their way and flashed an impatient summons that a little too closely resembled a rude gesture.
Kell sighed, shoving to his feet.
The two Antari left the tavern, Alucard a block ahead, his stride brisk as he headed for the docks. Kell frowned, scanning the streets.
“Where’s Lila?” called Kell.
Alucard turned, brows raised. “Bard? I left her with you.”
Dread coiled through him. “And she followed you out.”
Alucard started shaking his head, but Kell was heading for the door, Holland and the captain close on his heels.
“Split up,” said Alucard as they spilled out onto the street. He took off down the first street, but when Holland started down another, Kell caught his sleeve.
“Wait.” His mind spun, torn between duty and panic, reason and fear.
Letting the White London Antari out of his chains was one thing.
Letting him out of Kell’s sight was another.
Holland looked down at the place where the younger Antari gripped him. “Do you want to find her or not?”
Rhy’s voice echoed in Kell’s head, those warnings about the world beyond the city, the value of a black-eyed prince. An Antari. He’d told Kell what the Veskans thought of him, and the Faroans, but he hadn’t said enough about their own people, and Kell, fool that he was, hadn’t thought about the risk of ransom. Or worse, knowing Lila.
Kell snarled, but let go. “Don’t make me regret this,” he said, taking off at a run.
VIII
Lila sagged against the wall, gasping for breath. She was out of knives, and blood was running into her eye from a blow to the temple, and it hurt to breathe, but she was still on her feet.
It would take more than that, she thought, shoving off the wall and stepping over the bodies of the six men now lying dead in the street.
There was a hollow feeling in her veins, like she’d used up everything she had. The ground swayed beneath her and she braced herself against the alley wall, leaving a smear of red as she went. One foot in front of the other, every breath a jagged tear, her pulse heavy in her ears, and then something that wasn’t her pulse.
Footsteps.
Someone was coming.
Lila dragged her head up, wracking her tired mind for a spell as the steps echoed against the alley walls.
She heard a voice calling her name, somewhere far behind her, and turned just in time to watch someone drive a knife between her ribs.
“This is for Kasnov,” snarled the seventh Thief, forcing the weapon in to the hilt. It tore through her chest and out her back and for a moment—only a moment—she felt nothing but the warmth of the blood. But then her body caught up, and the pain swallowed everything.
Not the brisk bright pain of grazed skin but something deep. Severing.
The knife came free, and her legs folded beneath her.
She tried to breathe, choked as blood rose in her throat. Soaked her shirt.
Get up, she thought as her body slumped to the ground.
This isn’t how I die, she thought, this isn’t—
She retched blood into the street.
Something was wrong.
It hurt.
No.
Kell.
Get up.
She tried to rise, slipped in something slick and warm.
No.
Not like this.
She closed her eyes, tried desperately to summon magic.
There wasn’t any left.
All she had was Kell’s face. And Alucard’s. Barron’s watch. A ship. The open sea. A chance at freedom.
I’m not done.
Her vision slipped.
Not like this.
Her chest rattled.
Get up.
She was on her back now, the Thief circling like a vulture. Above him, the sky was turning colors like a bruise.
Like the sea before a … what?
He was getting closer, crouching down, burying a knee in her wounded chest and she couldn’t breathe and this wasn’t how it happened, and— A blur of motion, quick as a knife, at the edge of her sight, and the man was gone. The beginnings of a shout cut off, the distant sound of a weight hitting something solid, but Lila couldn’t raise her head to see, couldn’t …
The world narrowed, the light slipping from the sky, then blotted out altogether by the shadow kneeling over her, pressing a hand to her ribs.
“Hold on,” said a low voice as the world darkened. Then: “Over here! Now!”
Another voice.
“Stay with me.”
She was so cold.
“Stay …”
It was the last thing she heard.
IX
Holland knelt over Lila’s body.
She was deathly pale, but he had been quick enough; the spell had taken hold in time. Kell was at Lila’s other side, distraught, face pale under crimson curls, checking her wounds as if he doubted Holland’s work.
If he’d gotten there first, he could have healed her himself.
Holland hadn’t thought it wise to wait.
And now there were more pressing problems.
He’d caught the slow-moving shadows flitting over the wall at the end of the alley. He rose to his feet.
“Stay with me,” Kell was murmuring to Lila’s bloody form, as if that would do any good. “Stay with—”
“How many blades do you have?” Holland cut in.
Kell’s eyes never left Lila, but his fingers went to the sheath on his arm. “One.”