Harrow’s gaze cut to Gideon, whose eyes narrowed on the sight.
Their horses fidgeted beneath them as they approached, smelling the stench of death before they did. Swinging down from the saddle, Gideon left his horse several yards away, and dispersed the gawking crowd as he strode through it.
Harrow followed him in.
The alley marked the space between two beer parlors and was lit dimly by only the streetlamps and a lantern on the ground. The latter seemed to belong to the elderly man standing over a blanket concealing two large shapes.
The smell of blood was thick in the air, making Gideon nauseous. Pulling the collar of his shirt over his nose, he approached.
“I was taking out the trash when I found them,” said the man, his shoulders hunched like a crow. “It seemed wrong to let them lie here like this. So I …” He motioned to the blanket.
“Mind if I take a look?”
The man nodded for him to go ahead.
Gideon bent down and peeled back the blanket. Despite seeing dozens of scenes like this one in the past few months, he wasn’t prepared for what lay beneath.
The face of one of his officers stared up at him, but the hollow eyes and bloodless skin were anything but familiar. James Tasker’s mouth twisted in what appeared to be the state he’d died in: one of sheer terror.
Gideon forced himself to pull the blanket down further, his gaze descending to the Blood Guard’s neck, which was hacked open like a second gaping mouth. White bone shone in the mess of torn skin, tendons, and congealed blood. James’s spine appeared to be the only thing keeping his head attached to his body.
Bile rose in the back of Gideon’s throat. He looked away, pulling the blanket back over the soldier’s face.
“The second one is the same,” said the elderly man, standing over Gideon. “Throat slashed open.” He shook his silver head. “Poor souls.”
“Indeed,” said Gideon.
He had no love for the Tasker brothers, whose cruelty he hadn’t been able to keep in check. He’d asked for them to be discharged several times, but he didn’t want them dead.
Sighting Harrow further down the alley, a borrowed lantern in her hand, Gideon stood up.
“Fetch the undertaker,” he told the man, who nodded as Gideon stepped past him.
Gideon walked deeper into the alley, coming to join Harrow, who lifted her lantern into the air and nodded to the brick wall before them.
“Looks like she left you a message, Comrade.”
Gideon glanced up. Blood glistened across the yellow brick. The Taskers’ blood, he assumed. It took a moment before he realized the blood formed words, and those words formed a warning.
You’re next, Gideon.
“What are you going to do?” asked Harrow.
“Report this to the Commander,” he said, trying to ignore the icy dread spreading through his chest.
“And then what?”
“He’ll want to reinstate a curfew. And resume the raids.”
After the New Dawn, Gideon hadn’t thought twice about infringing on the rights and freedoms of the New Republic’s citizens. He did what had to be done to protect them, and if that meant entering and searching their homes without warning, if it meant locking them in their quarters after dark, if it meant hauling them into interrogation rooms if they so much as questioned whether the purgings went too far, so be it.
But that kind of power was easily abused. Gideon had seen soldiers take things way too far, and those kinds of measures now made him uneasy.
“And if the raids and curfews aren’t enough?” asked Harrow.
They might not be. Curfews and raids had weeded out witches and their sympathizers early on, but they hadn’t stopped the Crimson Moth. Gideon was dealing with a witch adept at hiding in plain sight.
“The only way to truly end this is to catch her.”
Gideon thought of their earlier conversation about Rune, and what he had sworn to do. The idea that Rune was the Crimson Moth, a witch playing him like a fiddle—that she was capable of this kind of carnage—turned his stomach.
But he couldn’t turn away simply because it made him uncomfortable. Nor could he let his feelings for Rune weaken his search for the truth. Gideon needed to keep his head about him more than ever.
She had seemed different under the moonlight the other night. Not at all the irritating girl who’d accosted him in the opera box. Gideon had been so enamored by the pensive, sensitive Rune that the discordance hadn’t raised his suspicions.
Who was the real Rune Winters?
Gideon wondered if his initial theory was correct: that she was pretending to be something she wasn’t to hide a darker truth about herself.
If so, he needed to find out what that dark truth was.
THIRTY-SEVEN
RUNE
THE GLIMMER OF A hundred candle flames blurred at the edges of Rune’s vision while she tried to focus on the young woman before her.
“It sounds awful, being raised by a witch.”
“Horrible,” said Rune, whose face hurt from fake-smiling. “The worst.” But if this pain was her penance for the lies that she’d spewed—was still spewing—she’d bear it.
Her speech had been a triumph, judging by the throng of patriots gathered round and waiting to speak with her. Rune had felt sick during all six courses of the meal and barely touched her food. Her stomach grumbled loudly now as admirers swarmed. They were drawn like insects to Rune’s devotion to the New Republic, her embodiment of its virtues, and, of course, her disgust for all witchkind.
Rune scanned the sea of faces, searching for Gideon, but didn’t see him.
He’s not coming, she thought, trying to squash the disappointed feeling burning behind her breastbone.
Am I really so forgettable?
With dinner over, all that was left was the music, mingling, and dessert. The staff cleared tables out of the center of the room and were now assembling some kind of stage, getting ready for the evening’s entertainment.
From across the courtyard, Rune caught sight of Verity. Her friend wore a cream, off-the-shoulder gown with gold beading. One of her hands held a matching gold clutch while the other beckoned to Rune, finger crooked. As if she had some secret to relay.
“Excuse me,” said Rune to the girls before her. “I’ll be right back.”
Rune cut through the fawning patriots and strode past the staff setting up a stage. As she wove through the maze of long tables set with crisp white tablecloths, the chilly evening air made her shiver.
Traditionally, the Luminaries Dinner occurred in the palace’s grand ballroom. But this year, the organizers had moved it to the courtyard. The spring nights were still cool, though, making Rune wonder about the choice.
The moment she arrived at her friend’s side, Verity linked their arms and led Rune toward an empty corner of the courtyard. When there was enough space between them and the other guests, Verity lowered her voice to a whisper. “Witches are kept in the seventh circle of the prison—past Fortitude Gate.”
Fortitude was the seventh Ancient.
And the furthest gate from the entrance, Rune thought, recalling the prison map.
Keeping her face carefully blank, in case they were being watched, she asked: “How did you learn this?”
Her friend’s mouth quirked to the side. “I used some of your tricks on a prison guard who was getting off his shift.” Verity’s eyes sparkled with mischief, making Rune wonder what tricks she’d used, exactly. “He also said that everyone who works in the prison carries an access coin corresponding to the section they work in. The coins are like keys, getting you where you’re authorized to be, but no further.”
Interesting.
“So in order to rescue Seraphine,” murmured Rune, thinking aloud, “I’ll need to find a guard authorized to go beyond the seventh gate.” And steal his access coin.
“A guard,” said Verity. “Or a witch hunter.”
Rune shot her a curious look. “A witch hunter?”