I decided not to remember that I knew someone who used to talk about sports that way once.
Atrius’s eyes slipped to me. Then to the hallways, where the voices grew closer. To me again.
We couldn’t speak. But I knew what he was saying.
My fingers tightened around his wrist. I shook my head.
No. Wait.
A slight narrowing of his eyes.
Another shake of my head, harder this time.
No.
The boys wandered closer. They were high, or drunk, or both. One of them kept laughing at his own jokes.
This close, I could feel all Atrius’s strength, the warmth of his body enveloping me. It was distracting—especially because I kept thinking about what that body was capable of doing to those boys around the corner. His muscles still trembled, straining against my hold, but he didn’t pull away.
His chin dipped. The tips of our noses touched through the veil, and despite the fabric, I still felt the urge to twitch back at the touch. Not that there was anywhere to go.
He mouthed, Why?
No sound. But I saw the word on his lips. Weaver, I felt it on my own.
I just shook my head again.
What I hoped he’d understand: If you go out there and kill those boys now, then it starts the battle early. You’d better be ready to fight through the rest of them with me.
We’d have to do that later, of course—and I didn’t know what to make of my oddly strong certainty that however many there were, he and I alone could take them. But I hoped to put it off as long as I could.
In the hallway, the voices stalled. The boys had moved on to discussing who they were betting on for the next horse race.
Atrius stared at me, brows low over his silver-and-gold eyes. Then his fingertip rose and flicked the edge of the veil, making the silken fabric ripple.
And he mouthed, I hate this thing.
Beneath the silk, my lips thinned. Then, despite myself, curled into a smile.
I could’ve sworn that maybe the twitch of Atrius’s lips was almost a smile, too.
“What time is it?” one of the boys asked.
A pause, then the other muttered, “Shit. We’re late.”
The footsteps, quicker this time, moved back down the hall. Away from us.
I cocked my head in a way that I hoped said to Atrius, See? I was right.
He narrowed his eyes in a way that said, This time.
I finally released his wrist. My grip had been so tight that my knuckles were sore. He glanced down at his arm as the voices finally disappeared around the far corner, raising his brows at the red marks.
I shrugged and motioned down the hall—a wide open passage for us now, bringing us that much closer to Tarkan. We moved unobstructed through one hall, and then another. At last, I peered around the next corner to find a set of majestic double doors, two guards standing before them.
I quickly ducked back behind the corner and nodded to Atrius.
He leaned close, so close I could hear him while he was barely speaking.
“How many?” he murmured, lips brushing my ear.
I couldn’t count. Not exactly. “Many.”
His lips curled. “Too many?”
Ah. This was our game now.
Despite myself, I found myself returning the smirk. I shook my head.
“No,” I whispered.
This, once again, was the answer Atrius was looking for.
He raised his hood, covering his horns and his hair, casting a harsh shadow over his face. I took his arm, donned once again my best teetering stumble, and the two of us emerged around the corner.
We stopped before the double doors and the guards. I inclined my head. Atrius kept his tipped down, hiding his face beneath the hood.
“I am here at his behest,” I said.
There was no need to use names or titles. There was only one “him.”
Hidden beneath my scarves, my hand crept to my dagger.
The guards glanced at each other. Then at each of us—skeptical when they looked at me, and even more so at Atrius.
“We had no word of anyone coming today,” the guard said. “Let alone at this time of night.”
I had been able to fool the guards at the front door. Those were expendable. These, though, were Tarkan’s personal guards. Carefully chosen. Well-trained.
“Are you sure?” I said, letting my uncertain pout slip into my voice. “I—I’m very late, but I don’t want to disappoint him. He wanted me here tonight.”
The guards exchanged another glance—
And then blood painted the space between us.
24
Atrius and I moved the moment the guards’ eyes left us. He took the one on the left, stabbing him through with his sword and snapping his body aside with a flick of his blood magic. I took the one on the right, driving my dagger through his throat. We tossed the bodies to either side of the doors like sacks of flour.
Within the chambers, commotion stirred immediately. The threads trembled, like the reverberations after a sudden discordant strum of an instrument, as those inside responded.
We didn’t give them time to prepare.
We burst through the doors. Tarkan’s wing was large, much more an apartment than a bedchamber. He kept his most trusted warriors close, even in the dead of night, though apparently still did not respect them enough to give them beds to sleep on—most of the men who jerked awake from their drug-laden sleep now had been sprawled out on sofas and armchairs, and a few even on the fur rug. I wondered if Tarkan had increased the number of people within his chambers in light of Atrius’s movements across Glaea.
Several of the guards inside had been awake, stationed to watch for an attack. They were ready.
But so were we.
We dismantled them. Then continued to carve our way through the men who threw themselves at us. We naturally fell into position, back-to-back, covering the areas that the other couldn’t reach. I stretched threads between our opponents and slipped between them, disappearing and reappearing at their throats before they had time to register the movement.
So quickly—so disconcertingly easily—Atrius and I fell into a rhythm. Smoother, even, than what we had done in Alka. I struck, stunned, crippled. He finished.
Through the carnage, as we cut through the first wave, Atrius rasped at me, “Where?”
Where is Tarkan?
That was the only thought in my mind, too. I could feel him there, like a splinter wedged into my fingertip.
I pointed my blade to the bedchamber. “There.”
There were other guards there, too—just a few. I sensed them rushing into Tarkan’s bedchamber from the opposite wing of the apartment. Arming him, perhaps, or maybe attempting to help him escape.
They wouldn’t get the chance for that.
The two of us stepped over the freshest bodies toward the bedchamber door.
But Tarkan wasn’t Aaves. He wouldn’t meet his death cowering at the foot of his bed. Tarkan had gotten where he was today because he was a warrior.