Текст книги "Heartless hunter"

Автор книги: Kristen Ciccarelli

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

THIRTY-SIX GIDEON

THE SUN HAD SET by the time Gideon arrived on Freshwater Street. Harrow rode atop a borrowed horse beside him.

After finding the Taskers’ apartment empty, Gideon led them here, to the entertainment district of town, whose establishments the brothers liked to frequent. Gideon intended to ask around in the hopes that someone had seen them.

The entertainment district was the capital’s underbelly, known for its brothels, gambling dens, and drunken brawls. Normally, the atmosphere lit up the street like a carnival, but now the district was eerily quiet. Up ahead, a hushed crowd gathered outside of an alleyway.

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.

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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?”

“He said that all Blood Guard officers of a certain rank—usually the captains or their seconds—carry an access coin, allowing them to bring witches straight through to Fortitude Gate.”

If every Blood Guard captain carried an access coin, Gideon surely had one.

Rune wondered where he kept it.

The cogs of Rune’s mind were turning. If she stole Gideon’s coin, and perhaps a Blood Guard uniform—though how she’d do that, she didn’t yet know—would she be able to walk straight through the last gate?

A sudden commotion interrupted her thoughts.

Rune glanced toward the doors to find someone she recognized entering the courtyard. Someone who’d recently shot her.

Laila Creed.

Dressed in her scarlet Blood Guard uniform, Laila strode through the guests while gripping the arm of a prisoner. A black bag covered the prisoner’s head, and from the iron restraints encasing her hands, Rune knew the prisoner was a witch.

While staff filled cups with hot coffee or chilled wine and handed out plates with sugar-dusted pastries, Laila marched her charge through the courtyard. The lights of a thousand candles flickered down the lengths of tables as guests murmured excitedly, their attention on the stage now assembled in the middle of the space.

No, thought Rune. It’s not a stage.

Thick chains hung from a solid beam erected over the platform. Chains Laila was connecting to the ankles of the witch.

It’s a purging platform.

Rune didn’t think, just started forward.

Verity grabbed her wrist to stop her. “There’s nothing you can do,” she whispered, her face going whiter than snow. “Not here.”

Rune’s hands clenched and unclenched, knowing she was right. “Who—”

Before she could finish the question, Laila tugged the black hood off the witch.

Rune and Verity both sucked in a breath.

The face beneath the hood was shockingly familiar to Rune. She knew it from the gold locket Nan used to wear around her neck. It was a locket her grandmother rarely took off.

As a child, Rune liked to open the locket and peer in at the two young women painted on the two panels. On one side was Kestrel’s face, rendered when she was about nineteen; on the other was Seraphine’s, not much older.

The two women had grown up together, Rune knew. They’d been best friends since childhood.

Which was why the sight before her didn’t make any sense.

The witch on the platform bore the exact same face as the one inside Nan’s locket—sparkling brown eyes, sharp birdlike features, black curls that haloed her head like a cloud. As if Seraphine Oakes hadn’t aged a single day.

Why is she so young?

Nan had been over seventy the day she died, and the woman on the platform—Seraphine—looked no older than twenty-three.

Rune’s mind spun with confusion. As she tried to make sense of it, the Good Commander ascended the steps of the platform, causing a hush to fall over the entire courtyard.

The Blood Guard soldiers retreated. Nicolas Creed stepped toward Seraphine, whose hands were manacled at her sides. The witch restraints clasped her hands entirely in iron, so that her wrists ended in two black metal stubs, preventing use.

“Good evening,” said Nicolas, dressed in his usual black. “We have a surprise in store for you tonight. We’re simply waiting for …” His piercing gaze scanned the room before landing directly on Rune. “Ah. There she is. Citizen Winters, will you join me up here for a moment?”

Is this another trap?

Rune glanced into the sea of faces, but the guests looked as surprised as she was. Verity’s hand tightened on her wrist. But Rune couldn’t refuse the Commander, and Verity knew it.

Reluctantly, she let go.

With no other choice, Rune started toward the platform. Drawing nearer, she could see the split in Seraphine’s lip and the bruise ringing her eye, blackening her brown skin.

“Our guest of honor is a model patriot. Miss Winters’ bravery, loyalty, and refusal to tolerate witchcraft is an example to us all.”

At the name Winters, Seraphine’s head whipped sharply toward Rune, her dark brown eyes narrowing.

With hate, Rune thought.

She swallowed, making her way toward the platform, realizing with increasing horror what was happening.

They were going to kill Seraphine. Right here, in the middle of this courtyard.

This was tonight’s entertainment: a private witch purging for Luminaries guests.

Rune’s pulse thudded loudly in her ears. Everywhere around her, faint whispers buzzed in the air. She glanced around, looking for Gideon. Had he known? Was this another one of his traps?

But Gideon was nowhere to be seen.

As she stepped up beside the Good Commander, who placed a heavy hand on her shoulder, Laila opened a black box and drew out the purging knife. She cradled it, almost lovingly, in a piece of red velvet. Then held it out to Rune.

A smile ghosted across her lips as she said, “Rune Winters, I grant you the privilege of purging Seraphine Oakes tonight.”

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THIRTY-EIGHT RUNE

SILENCE RANG THROUGH THE courtyard as the lethal curve of the purging knife glinted in the space between them. A knife that had stolen not only Nan’s life, but hundreds of others.

Rune expected it to burn her when she took it. But as Laila placed it in her hands, both the hilt and the steel were cold to the touch. Rune hoped her trembling didn’t give her away.

What am I going to do?

If she refused to kill the witch before her, she’d reveal the truth to every single one of her enemies. Rune was surrounded. There weren’t only Laila and the other Blood Guard soldiers to contend with. There was the Good Commander himself, not to mention the hundreds of patriots seated at tables, and the thousands of guards beyond, patrolling the halls of the palace.

Cold panic hummed in Rune’s blood.

She was trapped.

The Commander signaled to the musicians to begin. This was the sickest part of private purgings: the music. As if slitting the throat of a girl and watching her bleed out over the floor weren’t butchery or murder, but refined art.

Rune’s fingers tightened around the knife hilt.

Laila retreated, moving toward the levers. In a moment, she’d pull them, and the chains would snap, yanking Seraphine’s feet out from under her and drawing her toward the sky, to hang upside down. Like a cow to be slaughtered.

Rune and Seraphine were momentarily alone on the platform.

She could cast a spell. But to do that, she’d have to pull the blood vial from her pocket, uncork it, and draw the spellmarks. Someone would realize what she was doing and stop her before she could finish.

I could nick my finger with this knife, she thought. Just the fingertip. And use the blood to draw a spellmark on my palm.

But what spell would be quick enough? What wouldn’t require much blood or draw much attention?

And the silvery scar she’d be left with would damn her.

Maybe that was the price she needed to pay, to save Seraphine. To fulfill her grandmother’s last request.

The music still played as Laila grabbed hold of the levers.

“You disgust me.” Seraphine spat. The spittle hit Rune’s cheek, startling her and drawing her attention back to the witch. “Kestrel would be ashamed of you.”

Beneath the grime of too many nights spent in a disgusting cell, Seraphine was fine-boned and pretty. She reminded Rune of a sparrow.

“You don’t deserve the Winters name.” The witch’s eyes burned like black fire. As if, were their positions reversed, Seraphine would have already cut Rune’s throat.

I went to find you, Rune wanted to say. I’ve been trying to save you.

With so many people listening, she didn’t dare.

“Do you have nothing to say to me?” Seraphine’s voice shook—out of hatred for Rune, or grief over Kestrel, or possibly the knowledge that she was about to die.

What they needed was a distraction. Something to put the room into a panic.

A fire would be good. Rune could cause utter chaos with a fire. But summoning actual fire was a complex spell that required a lot of fresh blood, and not only did Rune not know the marks, she didn’t have the blood.

But the illusion of a fire … that she might manage.

Laila pulled the lever. There was an awful clinking sound of metal straining against metal. Rune knew what came next. So did everyone else.

The chains yanked Seraphine’s feet out from under her. She flipped in the air, and her body swung helplessly as she was hauled skyward.

With no other choice, Rune decided to risk the casting scar.

She was about to touch the knife’s sharp steel to the tip of her finger and press down hard, when the acrid tang of smoke burned in the air.

“Fire!” someone yelled.

What? Rune hadn’t even drawn blood yet.

“FIRE!” More people took up the call.

Rune lowered the knife and glanced up. Black smoke thickened the air, drawing her gaze to the column of fire rising on the far side of the courtyard. Instead of red flames, these were black. Just like Seraphine’s eyes.

Spellfire.

This isn’t my spell, she realized.

She remembered the murderous look in Seraphine’s eyes.

Is it hers?

Suddenly, the column moved. Fast. Snaking toward the purging platform. Heading straight for Rune. Realizing it, she inhaled sharply, and the sting of smoke burned down her throat.

Rune erupted in a fit of coughing and her eyes burned with tears, making it hard to see.

Help Seraphine.

As she stumbled through the smoke, someone called Rune’s name—Verity?—but she didn’t glance toward the sound. She needed to get Seraphine down before the spellfire devoured them both.

Black fire crackled around them. Its fiery heat curled up Rune’s back and singed her hair. The knife hilt grew hot in her hands, burning her skin. She dropped it.

Before she could lunge for Seraphine, the dark flames snaked between them. The witch vanished, leaving Rune alone, trapped in the spellfire.

On some invisible command, the fiery circle constricted, closing in on her.

As if it intended to burn her alive.

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THIRTY-NINE GIDEON

AFTER LEAVING THE GROTESQUE scene on Freshwater Street, Gideon rode for the palace, hoping he hadn’t missed the Luminaries Dinner entirely. After stabling his horse and eyeing the carriages being pulled up in the rotunda, signaling that dinner was nearly at an end, Gideon trod up the steps and headed for the courtyard.

He was striding down the grand hallway, trying to push the image of James Tasker’s corpse out of his mind, when several screams of “Fire!” made him nearly jump out of his skin.

They were all coming from the same direction.

As more voices echoed the frantic call, Gideon started to run. After living in this palace, he knew the quickest routes, and when he reached the courtyard, he found Luminaries guests pushing through the doors, tripping over each other to escape.

The smell of smoke rushed out with them. Gideon looked over the heads of the escapees in time to see Rune standing alone on a purging platform, with a pillar of black flames spinning toward her.

“No … ”

Gideon surged straight into the crowd of panicked guests, pushing them back, not caring about their protests. He ignored their frantic elbows and fists as he forced himself through the doors, trying to get to Rune.

Stumbling into the courtyard, he glanced up and saw her disappear into the flames.

“Rune!”

Gideon tugged off his jacket—the expensive one she’d sent him earlier today—and pulled it over his head before diving into the thick smoke.

He tried not to breathe as he barreled forward, bumping into tables and tripping over chairs. He picked himself up and kept going, even as the smoke stung his eyes and the heat burned his skin. When he tripped again, it was on the steps of the platform. Gideon stumbled up them, pulled his jacket tighter over his head, and ran straight into the dark flames spinning around the spot where Rune had disappeared.

It smelled like a pyre. All burning wood and singed hair.

When he burst through the other side, into the eye of the spinning flames, Rune turned towards him. His chest tightened at the sight of her ashen face.

Gideon closed the space between them in a single stride and threw the jacket over her, tucking her into it. Her whole body trembled with shock.

“You came,” she whispered.

He pulled Rune against him, trying to shield her from the heat. What would have happened if he’d arrived five minutes later? If he hadn’t made it here at all?

Don’t think about that. Just get her out of here.

“Ready to run?”

She nodded.

Scooping her into his arms, Gideon plunged through the flames. He didn’t feel the searing heat on his skin. Only Rune’s forehead pressed against his throat, and the lock of her arms around his neck. Bursting out the other side, Gideon choked on the thick smoke, lost sight of the stairs, and half stumbled down them, nearly dropping Rune.

At the bottom of the steps, he regained his balance and steadied them both, then kept running out of the smoke, toward the edge of the courtyard. Rune’s arms tightened around him as she stared over his shoulder.

“It’s coming for us.”

He could feel the heat on his back. See the flickering black at the edge of his vision.

Get to the doors.

This fire was no natural fire. There was a witch in their midst. A powerful one. He hadn’t seen magic this formidable in years. He only hoped that whoever it was, she didn’t also decide to lock the doors and trap them inside the courtyard.

When the doors were ten paces away, Gideon pumped his legs. Willing them to go faster.

His shoulder hit the wood first and the door gave instantly, swinging open and depositing him and Rune onto the floor of the hall. As they fell, Gideon twisted his body so that his shoulder blade hit the marble first. He winced at the impact but managed to spare Rune, who sprawled on top of him.

The guests were gone. The hall was empty.

With her palms pressed to the floor on either side of his head, Rune sat astride Gideon. His jacket hung from her shoulders, mostly burned, and her red-gold hair was a wild mess, filling his vision.

A bewildered expression lit up her face.

“Why did you do that?”

He frowned at her, his hands moving to her hips. “What?”

“Why … why risk your life for me?”

Gideon sat up so they were eye to eye. “Did you think I’d let you be burned alive?”

“Maybe? I don’t know! What am I supposed to think?” She was still sitting on top of him, her dress hiked to her thighs. “I didn’t hear from you for three days. You didn’t even send flowers!”

Flowers?

What is she talking about?

Gideon stared up at her ash-streaked face. “Do you … want flowers?”

“What?” Rune fell off him, trying to untangle herself from his jacket. “No. Never mind.”

Clearly she was in shock.

Before he could make sense of it, the smell of burning wood filled the air. They both looked to find that unearthly fire eating through the doors. As if it were ravenous, and only Rune would satiate.

As guards and palace staff arrived with buckets of water to put out the flames, Gideon scrambled to his feet. He pulled the remnants of his coat—which was all but singed to ash—off of Rune. Knowing water wouldn’t put out this fire, Gideon grabbed her hand and tugged her away from the door.

They kept running.

Remembering the days he’d lived in this palace, Gideon led her through the servants’ quarters and the kitchens. The cooking staff froze, gaping at the Blood Guard captain and the disheveled aristocrat rushing through their workspace.

He took Rune out through the back door used for deliveries. Not long after it swung shut behind them, and they were safe—at least for the moment—Rune pulled her hand from Gideon’s and fell against the stone wall, her breath coming in quick gasps. She bent over, pressing her hands to her knees.

Gideon kept his eye on the kitchen door, half expecting it to catch fire, too.

It was quiet out here, and they were alone. The full moon rose overhead, moving in and out of the clouds.

“What the hell was that?”

“A spell,” said Rune.

“I know it was a spell. Why was it targeting you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” Rune slid down the wall to sit in the alley dirt. Black soot from the smoke smudged her face. “But if you had seen the look in Seraphine’s eyes … she wanted me dead, Gideon.”

“You think it was her?”

Gideon might not be a witch, but he’d spent the better part of two years in the constant presence of one. For Seraphine to cast such a powerful spell, she’d need a lot of blood and, more importantly, the use of her hands—which were encased in iron.

“It’s not possible.”

The back door to the kitchen swung open, and Gideon immediately reached for the pistol holstered at his hip. But it was only a wide-eyed child. Belonging to one of the kitchen staff, probably. The young girl held a glass of water in her hands and, after shooting a fearful look at Gideon, crouched down to give it to Rune.

“The spellfire’s gone, Miss Winters.”

After taking the glass with trembling fingers, Rune touched the girl’s cheek—a gesture that, for some reason, made Gideon’s chest tighten. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

Gideon watched her gulp down the water, trying to make sense of it all.

A witch had tried to kill her tonight.

Witches didn’t kill other witches.

Therefore, Rune couldn’t be a witch.

Right?

When the child went back inside, and they were alone again, Gideon remembered Rune’s strange words to him a few moments ago. “What did you mean in the hall? About the flowers.”

Rune’s cheeks reddened. “I have no idea why I said that.” She quickly got to her feet.

“You were upset with me. Why?”

She looked away, fisting her hands. “Please, let’s just forget it.”

Gideon stepped toward her. Taking her face in his palms, he guided her eyes back to his. “Tell me.” Her jaw was clenched, so he ran his thumb along its edge until she relaxed.

Standing this near to her was dangerous. Like the moon and the tide, the closer he got to her, the closer he wanted her. Wanted her softness to chase away the memory of James Tasker’s bloodless face. Wanted her kiss to erase the ominous warning written on the alley wall.

Rune was a bright light burning in a long, dark night.

Except she’s not for you.

“I kept waiting for a telegram,” she said. “Or some other sign that maybe I’m not so easy to walk away from. But there was nothing until your note tonight—and that was only to say you’d be late.” She looked up at him. “I thought you were jilting me.”

“Jilting you?” Gideon’s eyebrows arched. He almost laughed. “Rune, I haven’t stopped thinking about you for three straight days.”

Her forehead creased in confusion. He was about to prove it to her, when the sound of footsteps crunching pebbles interrupted them.

Gideon let her go just as someone appeared at the far end of the path, silhouetted against the lights of the street beyond.

This time, Gideon did draw his pistol.

“Show yourself,” he called out, stepping in front of Rune to shield her.

“Merciful Ancients,” said a feminine voice. “I’ve searched the whole palace looking for you! Are you all right?”

Rune squinted into the distance. “Verity?” Stepping around Gideon, she started toward the voice.

“Wait,” he warned. “It could be an illusion.”

But Rune was already running.

“Why don’t you shoot me and see if I bleed?” said Verity, materializing out of the darkness. She slit her eyes at Gideon while pulling Rune into a hug.

“Tempting,” he said, holstering his pistol.

Rune cut him a stern look, then turned back to her friend. “Are you all right?”

Verity nodded. “I’m fine. But we need to get out of here. They haven’t caught the witch responsible for that fire. She could be anywhere.”

Gideon didn’t like the thought of Rune returning to Wintersea alone. Not after a witch tried to kill her. “Let me send soldiers to escort you.”

“I appreciate your concern,” said Rune. “But it’s unnecessary.”

“You were the target of that spell,” he pressed. “If the witch who cast it comes for you again, you won’t be able to stop her.”

“And you will?” asked Verity.

Of course I will, Gideon wanted to say. Except he was no match for a powerful witch, and they all knew it.

“I’ll be all right,” said Rune. Walking back to Gideon, she pushed herself onto her toes and planted a quick kiss on his cheek. “Thank you for not letting me burn.”

He felt Verity’s eyes on him. She made no effort to conceal the fact that she thought him unworthy of Rune. Annoyed by her disdain and overcome by the sudden urge to prove her wrong, Gideon cupped Rune’s neck with both hands and captured her mouth with his, stopping her from leaving. He kissed her slowly, deeply. Claiming her in front of Verity. At least, that’s how it started. As Rune softened, and her hand slid up his chest, he forgot their audience entirely—just as Rune remembered it.

She pushed against him, halting the kiss, and stepped out of his reach.

“Buttercups are my favorite,” she whispered, breathless and walking backward. “But daisies are also acceptable.”

The corner of Gideon’s mouth turned up. “Noted.”

It went against all of his instincts, watching her walk away, not knowing what danger waited for her beyond this alley. But as Verity had pointed out, there was little he could do to protect Rune.

Except for catching the witch who’d attacked her tonight.

Behind him, the kitchen door swung open. Gideon turned to find Laila stepping out.

“There’s something you should see. But we need to be quick. It’s already fading.”

Curious, he followed her inside.

Back in the courtyard, which reeked of smoke but was devoid of spellfire, Laila peeled a scorched tablecloth back from a long table. She pointed underneath.

Gideon crouched down, ducking his head to see.

Something glowed in the space between the chairs, moon-pale and delicate.

“It’s a casting signature,” Laila said, her voice floating down from overhead.

Gideon dropped to all fours, squinting in its direction, trying to get a better look. He crawled under the table, the pebbles shifting beneath his knees, until he knew exactly what he was looking at.