Nightbane (Lightlark, #2)(64)

One landed in the middle of his chest. The other landed in the middle of his throat. He looked down briefly before falling forward, accidentally impaling himself on his own sword.

Nausea rolled through her stomach. She had just killed her first person that she knew of . . . Should she feel guilty? He had been attacking her. But she had invaded his home . . .

The blow came out of nowhere. The other man struck the side of her head with the hilt of his blade, and she immediately fell to the floor. Her ears rang. Blood dripped down her temple.

He could have killed her, but he didn’t. Which meant he was thinking of other uses for her. Anger and fear made her breathing uneven.

In the fall, she had dropped her sword. The Nightshade approached. He kicked her weapon out of reach, and the metal clattered against the marble floor. He smiled as he walked toward her. His eyes roamed down her body in a way that made her want to retch.

“I think I’ll keep you for myself,” he said. “I like them with a little fight.”

Grim. Where was he? Was he coming?

The man stepped forward. From this angle, he was framed by the window curtain behind him. He grinned as he approached. He wanted to be closer to her. He wanted to be pressed against her.

She decided to give him exactly what he wanted.

Before she could have second thoughts, Isla rushed to her feet and shoved herself against him with a roar, his blade slicing her arm in the process. He tensed in confusion. She pushed as hard as she could—

And sent them both crashing through the window. The curtain ripped away. Glass shattered.

The man screamed for half a second before his entire body melted into ash beneath her. She gasped and accidentally inhaled some of it. The rest stuck to the blood on her arms and face.

Isla stood on shaking legs, caked in what was left of the man. She turned very slowly to see Grim standing in the hall, staring at her through what remained of the window.

She bent over and retched.

Grim just watched her as she walked through the open hole in the wall. She used one of the other curtains to try to get the ashes off her. “Did you find it?” she asked before heaving again.

“No,” he said. “But I found him.”

That was when she noticed the Nightshade on the floor, bound and gagged. “I’ve asked you three times about the sword,” Grim said. “I’ve described it in detail. You know what I am referring to. Now, for the last time. Where is it? Is it here?” He ripped the fabric from the man’s mouth.

The Nightshade made a sound like a whimper. He shook his head.

Grim sighed. “I really didn’t want to get my sword dirty,” he said.

Then he cut off the man’s hand.

The Nightshade screamed a wild sound. She watched the man’s hand spasm on the ground and felt like she was going to be sick again.

“It’s already dirty now,” Grim said, frowning down at his sword. “Your limbs are next.”

He lifted his blade, and the man said, “Wait. Wait.” He trembled. “If I tell you, will you let me go?”

Grim considered. He nodded.

“Do you swear it?”

“We swear it,” Isla said, eyes darting to the man’s injury. He needed to cauterize the wound soon, or he would bleed to death in front of them.

The man swallowed. His words came out in just a rasp. “It hasn’t been here in decades. We stole it, but one of us went rogue. He took the sword and lost it to someone else. Only he knows where it is now.”

“Where can we find him?” Grim demanded.

“His name is Viktor. He’s been seen near Creetan’s Crag.”

“How will we know it’s him?” Isla asked.

The man let out a wheezing noise. He was pressing his wound against his body to try to stop the blood. It was getting everywhere. “He has . . . he has a snake. Takes it with him everywhere.” A snake?

“Thank you for being so helpful,” Grim said, sounding genuinely sincere.

Then he slit the man’s throat.

Isla gasped. She watched the man choke on his own blood before he collapsed on the floor.

“You promised,” she said, turning to him.

Grim frowned down at her. “No, Hearteater,” he said. “You promised.” Tears stung in the corners of her eyes. They swept down her cheeks. He looked at her with disgust. “Don’t tell me you are crying for that filth’s death.”

“Filth?” she asked, incredulous. “He is one of your people.”

“Don’t speak about my people when you don’t know the first thing about your own. Locked in a room with the glass painted over . . .” Grim bared his teeth at her. “He was a thief and sold much more than just rare objects,” he said. “He deserved to die, and I was happy to be the one to end him.”

Isla swallowed. She turned to the other dead body in the room. Then to the man she had stabbed in the side with his own dagger. He was dead now too. And the man who was now no more than ashes . . . A sob scraped against the back of her throat. “I—I’ve never . . .”

Grim just stared down at her. His expression did not soften in the slightest in response to her tears. He watched her cry for a few more seconds, before saying, “It gets easier.”

Then he took her arm and portaled them back to her room.

She had to close her eyes against the sudden rush of nausea. She didn’t want to retch again. She didn’t want to think about what she had just done—