Iris studied Enva’s face. She wondered what it would be like to hold a lie for so long. To be sworn to a husband who yearned for bloodshed. To be immeasurably powerful but trapped in a city. To find only anguish in magic that had once been incandescent with joy.
“He’s in Oath,” Iris said. “At the Kitt estate.”
“I know.” Enva glanced away. “I found him in a dream. It was then I knew he would stop at nothing until he held my severed head in his hands.”
“Iris.”
It was Forest’s voice, distant but laced with urgency. Iris could feel his hand on her knee, shaking her.
The dream began to waver, threatening to break. Iris gritted her teeth, striving to keep it intact for a moment longer, even as the floor began to vanish in patches beneath her.
“Why did you come to me as my mother?” she dared to ask. “Why not show me who you were to begin with?”
Enva smiled. It was a sad crescent of a moon, and her hair began to whip around her as if she were being drawn into a storm.
“You mortals are slow to trust. And I needed you to trust me, Iris.”
The dream collapsed without warning.
Iris startled awake, light-headed and cold with sweat. Forest was shaking her knee again, and she straightened, feeling a crick pull in her neck. “What is it?”
“Do you hear that?” His voice was so low she almost couldn’t catch the words.
They both listened, unmoving, their breaths shallow. There, she heard it that time. It sounded like someone was picking the lock on the front door.
“Get up quietly,” said Forest. “Hide in the kitchen. If things turn bad, I want you to run. Go straight to Attie’s, all right?”
Iris couldn’t speak, her eyes flaring in fear.
“Go,” Forest urged, drawing her with him as he stood.
She did as he wanted, rushing into the shadows of the kitchen and crouching behind the row of cabinets. She didn’t have a vantage point of the living room from here, and that made her anxious. She couldn’t see Forest, and she didn’t understand why this was happening. Why would someone break into their flat in the dead of night?
The door creaked open.
For a moment, there was nothing but utter silence, so keen that Iris was afraid to draw breath. Then came the footsteps. The air suddenly smelled like mist, dank stone, and worn leather. The lamplight flickered.
Iris bit the palm of her hand, smothering a surge of terror.
The stranger came to a stop.
A beat later, there was a loud crash and a grunt. It sounded like a table had cracked, bodies rolling into furniture and bumping the wall so hard it made the lone picture frame rattle. The amber light flickered again as the lamp was overturned. The flat was overcome with darkness, and Iris panted, her muscles burning as she continued to crouch.
Someone cried out in pain. It went through Iris like a shock of electricity, and she knew it was Forest. She knew it like she had been struck herself.
He wanted her to run and leave him behind. But she gritted her teeth and rose, remembering the sword she had left on the sideboard.
She knew this flat intimately. She could walk it in utter darkness, and she moved without a sound. But as she entered the common room, a thread of light from the streetlamp bled inside. Iris saw the broken table, the teapot shattered across the floor. Forest’s medicine bottles were cracked, revealing a trail of pills. She could see two shadows wrestling each other up against the couch, the one on top punching the other relentlessly.
Forest cried out again, caught below the intruder.
“Where is she?” the unfamiliar voice asked. “Where is your sister?”
He wanted her, and Iris reached for the sword.
The jacket fell away as she unsheathed the blade. She was shaking as she eased forward. She wondered if her bones would come out of their sockets as she lifted the sword, belatedly remembering what Enva had told her about it.
It cuts through bone and flesh like a knife does butter, if only its wielder offers the blade and the hilt a taste of their blood first. A sacrifice, to weaken yourself and wound your own hand before striking.
Iris hesitated before she reached for the sword’s edge. She winced as the steel stung her palm, her blood beginning to flow and drip, hot and swift. It hurt to hold the hilt with both hands; the metal became slick, and she had never felt more awkward wielding something in her life.
But she stepped forward again, a piece of the broken pot crunching beneath her foot.
The intruder stopped striking her brother and turned to look at her, a sliver of light cutting across his face.
Iris recognized him. It was one of Dacre’s men. Val. The one who had been transporting Roman’s articles to the Gazette. The one who commanded eithrals and rode on their backs.
“Put the sword down, Iris,” he said as he stood and faced her. He held out his gloved hand. There were metal spikes on the backs of the knuckles. “Come with me, and I’ll let your brother live.”
Forest groaned on the floor. It distracted Iris, and she glanced at her brother. His face was bloodied; his nose looked broken.
Val darted forward, taking advantage of her split attention.
He intended to knock the sword away from her, no doubt believing it would be an easy feat. But Iris lowered her hands so that the pommel was braced against her waist, the point of the sword angled up. Val walked directly into it, the steel sinking into his chest.
He let out a strangled gasp, staring at Iris in shock. She saw the recognition flash though him, a moment too late. Which blade she held.
As he fell, the sword continued to slice upward, catching on two silver necklaces that hung beneath his clothes. A flute and an iron key. The chains broke beneath the steel’s enchantment, clinking to the floor like chimes as the blade continued to cut until it had divided his heart, his sternum, the branch of his ribs.
I just killed him.
Iris whimpered, but she didn’t let go of the hilt. She watched as Val collapsed on the floor, blood pooling beneath him. She stared at the key and the small flute, islands in a growing red lake. Her skin prickled as her gorge rose, a bitter taste haunting her mouth.
I just killed a man.
“Iris.”
She dropped the blade and stepped over Val to reach her brother.
“Are you hurt?” he rasped.
“No,” Iris said, even as her palm burned. “But you are.” Focusing on him gave her a distraction. She reached for the blanket on the couch and gently wiped his face.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Forest said. “But who was that? What did he want with you?”
“He’s one of Dacre’s men,” she replied, helping Forest to his feet.
The two of them stared down at Val, uncertain what to do. Should they leave him here? Bury him somewhere? Burn him?
Iris bent to take the flute and the key, amidst Forest’s protests.
“Don’t, Iris!”
She didn’t answer, her fingers closing over the key. She reached for the sword next, and before Forest could demand any further answers from her, she spoke first.
“We can’t stay here tonight. We need to leave.”
I killed someone, Iris thought, clenching her eyes shut.
And she shivered when she acknowledged that he wouldn’t be the last.
* * *