She had no doubt that Alucard and his guards were searching for the Hand, but she was willing to bet they’d focused their efforts on the city’s darkest corners.
She thought of the handprints circling the shal, how obvious they seemed. A bull’s-eye in red paint. The X on a treasure map. Her hand slipped into her pocket, fingers tightening around the coin, its uneven edge digging into her palm as her gaze skated back to the northern banks, home to the city’s elite.
They cannot hide, said Alucard.
But what if the real danger wasn’t hiding at all?
What if it was standing in plain sight?
* * *
Back at the Setting Sun, the tavern was dark, the shutters drawn. Lila climbed the stairs, limbs growing heavier with every step, but when she reached her room, it was empty. Crimson spilled in through the window, caught on the edge of the trunk, cast pale red fingers across the unused bed.
Kell hadn’t come back.
No matter, Lila told herself as she slumped onto the cot. More room for her. She tucked her hands beneath her head, let the quiet settle like a sheet, waited for sleep. It didn’t come. At last, Lila heaved herself up, an oath on her lips, the knife already in her hand. The brief prick of pain, the well of blood against her fingers. She drew the mark, and whispered the words to the wall, felt the wood drop away as she stepped through.
The narrow room vanished, replaced by the grand palace chamber, as if the world had drawn in a very deep breath, and pushed outward, the low ceiling thrust into a vaulted one, decked in gossamer clouds, the weathered wood turned to marble. The only common tie, that crimson light, spilling now through etched glass doors, glancing off the gold threads in the rug, and the body sprawled atop the royal bed.
Kell lay half-dressed and facedown, his coat and shoes cast off in a breadcrumb trail from the door to the foot of the mattress. His back rose and fell. His copper hair fanned out like a dying fire over his cheek and onto the pillow.
Too many years of safety had made him a heavy sleeper.
He didn’t stir when she kicked off her boots. Or when she shed her coat, and the more cumbersome blades. Or when she climbed onto the bed. Or when she reached out and ran her fingers with all the lightness of a thief over the pale streak that glinted in his hair. Or when she curled in, close enough to hear the soft tide of his breath, and let it pull her down to sleep.
IV
WHITE LONDON
It was dark by the time Kosika mounted the castle steps, her clothes stiff with blood.
With every stop on the procession, she had shed more and more of her guard. Now, returning from the Silver Wood, only four soldiers flanked her, Lark among them. And only one Vir—Serak. And Nasi, of course.
The drums had ceased, but she could still feel them echoing in her skull. Kosika told herself it was not a headache; it was the pulse of the city growing stronger. Still, it had been a long day. Her arm ached where she had cut it in the ritual, and her legs were sore from crossing the city on foot, and she wanted nothing more than to rinse the blood from her skin, and sleep.
But the castle doors swung open onto celebration, the great hall brimming with life.
Lanterns hung like orbs of silver light, a dozen pale suns casting the shadows from the stone, and the scent of a banquet wafted through the air like steam. It was the Vir who insisted on throwing these extravagant feasts. As if the tithes and gifts were only a preface, as if they weren’t the entire point of the day.
The city’s highborns gathered, their hands neatly bandaged in silk instead of gauze, the only signs that there had been a tithe at all. The royal guard had cast off their helms, and now moved about the room, mingling with the guests, and the Vir stood around, resplendent in their silver mantles.
The sight of it all rankled Kosika.
This was meant to be a day of prayer. Of sacrifice. Devotion. And instead—
“Our queen!” said Vir Talik lifting his glass, and across the hall, the drinks all rose, their contents crimson.
Nasi came up behind her, reaching to peel the bloodied cloak from Kosika’s shoulders.
“Leave it,” she snapped, striding out of her friend’s reach. She walked into the gathered crowd, the sea of people parting like water, burbling their praise. But Kosika didn’t linger to be fêted. She continued past them, to the stairs. She wasn’t in the mood to entertain, to be paraded through the halls. Vir Reska, a keen-eyed woman with greying hair, tried to cut her off.
“Your Majesty, the feast.”
“I’m tired,” said Kosika, and that should have been reason enough to make her step aside, but the Vir gestured at the crowd of nobles.
“But you must—”
Kosika’s gaze swung toward the Vir like a blade as she realized her mistake. She took a step back, and dropped to one knee, her silver half-cloak skimming the floor. Kosika reached out, and brought her hand to the Vir’s shoulder, just as she had earlier that day. She could feel the woman tense beneath the touch. They both knew that of all the blood that stained Kosika’s skin, some of it was her own. Knew that it would only take a word, and the Vir would come apart, just as her attacker had. His bones were still heaped in the street, the rest of him churned into the river.
The sounds of the party faltered around them, and Kosika lowered her voice, the words meant only for the silvered servant.
“Tell me, Vir Reska,” she said, “what must I do?”
“Nothing, my queen,” answered the Vir, her voice tight as bowstrings. “You have done more than enough. If you are tired, you must rest. The Vir will host this evening in your stead, and in your honor.”
Kosika lifted her hand from the Vir’s shoulder.
“You do that,” she said, turning again toward the stairs.
The time, everyone had the sense to let her go.
* * *
FOUR YEARS AGO
The doors to the throne room were heavy things.
It took four guards to guide them open and closed. Or one annoyed Antari.
It was Nasi who had come to find her that afternoon, to warn her of the Vir.
“What of them?” Kosika had asked, distracted until she saw the look on Nasi’s face.
Just as the other girl had never held her tongue, she could not hide her emotions, either. When she smiled, her whole face seemed to be splintering with joy. But when she was mad, her scarred face took on the stiffness of a mask.
“They’re meeting,” she’d said. “Without you.”
The throne room doors groaned open on their hinges as they swung wide, announcing Kosika’s arrival. She had seen drawings of a whale, a sea creature large enough to stand within. The throne room reminded her of that, the bone-white pillars, the vaulted ceiling arched like ribs far overhead.
The queen’s Vir had the decency to look surprised, their voices dropping away mid-sentence as she strode into the vast hall, her small shoes sounding on the floor. That floor. It was rumored that once upon a time, it had been laced with bits of bone. The enemies of Astrid Dane, bleached white and studded in the marble. It was only a rumor, and even if it weren’t, those stones had long since been replaced.
Right now, she wished they hadn’t been. She would have liked to add some more.
Kosika’s throne sat in the center of the room, the council’s chairs curved in a loose circle, like hands cupped around the queen. That throne alone sat empty.
“Your Majesty,” said Vir Patjoric, rising to his feet.
“Don’t get up,” she said, but they did anyway. She knew it was a sign of deference, but all it did was make Kosika feel even shorter than she was. “It’s my fault for being late.” She took her seat, tucked her legs beneath her to hide the fact they didn’t reach the floor. “Of course, I wouldn’t have been late if someone had told me we were meeting.”