He asked every day. Neither of them knew if it was a joke. But today, there was something newly apprehensive in his face, as if for the first time he knew the answer was no.
So Lore kissed him again instead of speaking.
He lingered at her lips a moment before stepping back. “I’ll see you at the Northwest Ward, right?” He switched into reciting the plans for the drop-off instead of asking her anything further. Smart man, not to push. “Right at the bell, when the guard is changing. Leave the cart at the old storefront. And you’ll stay with it until it gets picked up from the catacombs’ entrance.”
A tiny shiver slunk over Lore’s skin at the mention of the catacombs. “Shouldn’t take long,” she said, trying to sound reassuring. It wasn’t so bad, the outer branches of the catacombs—outside of the city center, they were little more than tunnels, the dead were all kept under the Citadel—but being close to them still made her feel twitchy.
Lore knew the catacombs. Not just in the sense of someone who remembered the twists and turns of a place—Lore felt them, a part of her, like if you turned her skin inside out, a map would be printed on the wet, bloody underside. And because of that uncanny knowing, she’d be able to tell if someone was coming through them.
Another handy side effect of a dark, strange childhood.
She’d been the watchdog for the crew since she was thirteen, when Mari first found her wandering the streets with blank eyes, and brought her back to Val’s headquarters at the docks. Val, thankfully, didn’t ask why or how Lore had acquired such an odd skill. She just put it to use.
And if Lore stayed with Michal, who was increasingly vocal about his objection to her dangerous position, things could get precarious for him.
She closed her eyes.
A calloused hand on her cheek made them open again. Michal kissed her, sweetly this time, without heat. “Be careful,” he murmured. Then he slipped out.
Alone, Lore took a deep, ragged breath. Despite the chill outside, the sun through the cracked window was warm on her skin. She rested her forehead against the glass and counted her breaths, an old trick from childhood to calm her heart, calm her nerves.
They’d still be looking for her. Lore knew that. And the longer she stayed in one place, the easier she’d be to find.
She could move in with Val and Mari again, if she wanted. That door was always open. But having someone who tried to control her comings and goings never sat well with her, after… after what her life had been like before.
So not with Val, then. But staying here wasn’t an option.
It’d be awkward to end things, with both her and Michal on Val’s team. Val would intercede where she could once she knew the situation, but it would be impossible for them not to see each other at all. Val had warned her as much, when Lore first took up with Michal. Lore had thrown it back at her, saying that Val and Mari had obviously made it work, so why couldn’t she? But both of them knew it wasn’t the same, that it was an argument for the sake of arguing. Lore wasn’t looking to be settled. Lore was always running, always moving. She just liked to rest sometimes.
She sighed, forehead still pressed to the glass. It’d be easiest if she could make Michal hate her, probably. And though the thought was an ice pick, she knew she could do it. She could make Michal glad she’d decided to leave, hurt him so badly that he’d never try to get close again.
That would be easiest.
Lore opened her eyes, straightened. She pushed aside the curtain that served as a door and walked down the stairs.
A flounce of tulle on the couch indicated that Elle had resumed her pre-breakfast position. Lore huffed a laugh. “Bye, Elle-Flower.”
Elle groaned in response.
At the threshold, Lore paused, placing her hand along the weather-beaten wood of the lintel. She’d stayed here longer than any of the previous places—with Michal, with Elle. He was a good man, one of the first she’d encountered. He cared about her.
She’d miss him more than the house, more than the safety. That was new.
Another pat against the doorframe. “Goodbye,” Lore murmured, then she slipped out to lose herself in Dellaire’s streets again.
if you enjoyed
FOR THE THRONE
look out for
ONE DARK WINDOW
by
Rachel Gillig
Elspeth Spindle needs more than luck to stay safe in the eerie, mist-locked kingdom of Blunder—she needs a monster. She calls him the Nightmare, an ancient, mercurial spirit trapped in her head. He protects her. He keeps her secrets.
But nothing comes for free, especially magic.
When Elspeth meets a mysterious highwayman on the forest road, her life takes a drastic turn. Thrust into a world of shadow and deception, she joins a dangerous quest to cure Blunder of the dark magic infecting it. Except the highwayman just so happens to be the king’s own nephew, captain of the most dangerous men in Blunder… and guilty of high treason.
He and Elspeth have until Solstice to gather twelve Providence Cards—the keys to the cure. But as the stakes heighten and their undeniable attraction intensifies, Elspeth is forced to face her darkest secret yet: The Nightmare is slowly, darkly taking over her mind. And she might not be able to stop him.
Nothing is free.
Nothing is safe.
Magic is love, but also, it’s hate.
It comes at a cost.
You’re found, and you’re lost.
Magic is love, but also, it’s hate.
It began the night of the great storm. The wind blew the shutters of my casement open, sharp flashes of lightning casting grotesque shadows across my bedroom floor. The stairs creaked as my father climbed on tiptoe, my handmaid’s cries still ripping through the corridors as she fled. When he came to my door, I was unmoving, delirious, my veins dark as tree roots. He pulled me from the narrow frame of my childhood bed and cast me into a carriage.
I awoke two days later in a wood, in the care of my aunt Opal.
When the fever broke, I woke every day at dawn to inspect my body for any new signs of magic. But the magic did come. I slept each night praying it had all been a grave mistake and that soon my father would come to bring me home.
I felt their eyes on me, servants quick to scurry away, my uncle with a narrowed gaze, waiting. Even the horses shied away from me, somehow able to sense my infection—the sprouting persuasion of magic in my young blood.
In my fourth month in the wood, my uncle and six men rode through the gate, their horses slick with sweat, my uncle’s sword bloodied. I cast my gangly body into the shadow of the stable and watched them, curious to see my reserved uncle with a triumphant smile on his mouth. He called for Jedha, the master-at-arms, and they spoke in low, swift voices before turning to the house.
I stayed in the shadows and trailed them through the hall into the mahogany library, the wooden doors left slightly ajar. I can’t remember what they said to one another—how my uncle had gotten the Providence Card away from the highwaymen—only that they were consumed with excitement.