Ashes of Honor: An October Daye Novel

I swallowed, feeling the points of Samson’s claws prickling against my skin. “Uh…”

“Got something to say, slattern? Wishing you hadn’t interfered with the Court of Cats?” Samson leaned close, his breath hot against my cheek as he murmured, “I’ve seen the way you heal. I may have to dig all the way to your spine before you stop breathing. It should be one of the more interesting deaths I’ve granted in years.”

“Samson…” There was a warning in Tybalt’s voice that would have made my blood run cold if it had been directed at me. “Release her.”

“Surrender,” Samson countered. “Give me your word as both cat and King that you will put your throat into my son’s hands, and then, perhaps, I’ll let your little bitch walk free.”

The smell of cedar smoke and limes drifted through the air. I stiffened. Samson, oddly, didn’t. Maybe he didn’t know the smell of Etienne’s magic, or maybe he just thought there was nothing anyone could do to interfere with his plans—not at this stage, not when he had me in his hands. Whatever the reason, he didn’t slacken his grip until he went stiff, claws digging into my skin. I yelped, feeling blood start to run down my neck toward my collarbone. Then Samson’s hand fell, and I ducked away from him before he could get any more bright ideas.

Samson wasn’t getting any ideas about anything. He was just standing there. I turned to look back at him and saw him staring down at his own side in amazement. Etienne was right behind him, his hand grasping the hilt of my knife. The dark stain spreading through Samson’s shirt told me the rest of the story.

Tybalt’s hand closed on my shoulder, stopping me from stumbling any further backward. I leaned into it, clamping my own hands over the punctures in my throat. Etienne pulled the knife out and stabbed Samson again, and again.

And Samson raised his head, pupils narrowing to hairline slits. “This isn’t over,” he spat, and pulled away from Etienne, moving shakily, but still moving. He grabbed something from his pocket, throwing it into the shadows, and dove after it. The smell of apples and snowdrops rose, overlaying the more distant smell of Chelsea’s magic, and he was gone.

“Oh, goody,” I said faintly. “This is the best day.”

“Sir Daye, you’re wounded.” Etienne vanished, reappearing next to me in another wafting gust of smoke and limes. “Let me see.”

“It’s nothing. Really. It’s already starting to heal.” I didn’t actually know that, but recent experience told me the odds were on my side. I kept my hands where they were, feeling them turning sticky with blood. “Did you get my knife?”

“I did.” Etienne held it out to me, hilt first. “I am afraid you may need to clean it.”

I took a hand away from my neck and reached for the knife, relaxing as the weight of it settled into my hands. Then the weight of Etienne’s words hit me. Clean it. I needed to clean it.

The knife was covered in Samson’s blood, a thick coating of the stuff that looked almost black in the moonlight. Samson was working with Riordan. Samson knew enough to know where we’d be, and to be the one who had my knife. The thought was enough to turn my stomach. That didn’t mean I could just ignore it.

“What—what are you people?”

The panicked note in Officer Thornton’s voice was enough to make me set all other thoughts aside as I raised my head and looked at him. He was backed up against the wall next to the window, staring at us with wide, terrified eyes. The blood had drained from his face, leaving him as pale as the moonlight washing over him.

“This isn’t a cult,” he said. “This isn’t hallucinogenic drugs. You’re not human.” Then he turned and ran, heading for the end of the hall.

I groaned. “Etienne—”