Ruthless Vows (Letters of Enchantment, #2)(124)

The fifth floor had been blown away, its remnants scattered like chaff. She knew she should be feeling something, but her chest was numb.

Forest had come here first, for Sarah. Chances were, they had gone to her place, to be with her father.

Iris turned, her eyes sweeping the street and the jagged new skyline of buildings that had collapsed or had disintegrating walls. It was unrecognizable; it felt like she had never stood in this spot before, where the tram tracks cut grooves into the cobblestones.

Where did Sarah live? Iris didn’t know for certain, although she’d heard Sarah mention a neighborhood in the southern reaches of Oath. Remembering, Iris had to bite down her panic.

I’ll find them. They’re safe. They’re fine.

She began to walk, climbing over debris. The slices on her palms began to bleed again. She could hardly feel their sting as she picked a path through the rubble.

Should I head north, to the Kitt estate?

She paused, torn between venturing farther south for Forest and Sarah, or pressing north for Roman. A few young men ran past her, wielding guns, their excited voices carrying on the warm breeze. The sight should have scared her, but Iris could only blink in their wake. She was overwhelmed by the wreckage. How would they ever rebuild this? It would never be the same, feel the same.

More people were beginning to venture out into the streets. In the distance—the way she had come from—voices were cheering and shouting. She knew it was at Gould’s Café, which had stood unscathed during the bombing, suffering only two cracked windows, ceiling tiles that had been knocked loose, and multiple broken dishes. That was where she had left Dacre’s head. Champagne was popped and passed around, as well as more biscuits and cake in celebration, but Iris had slipped away through the crowd after she had ensured Attie was safely reunited with her family and Tobias.

Iris began to wander, hardly knowing where she was going.

She didn’t know why she felt so hollow. Why she didn’t feel like celebrating Dacre’s death. Surely, the war had now come to an end. But then why did she sense that something else was brewing? Like another shoe was bound to drop.

“Stop it, Iris,” she scolded herself, shaking away her pessimism. “Where are you going?”

She finally realized where she was. She walked through more wreckage, only stopping when three young men approached her. They bore guns, but they looked at her in awe.

“Are you the woman who cut off Dacre’s head?” one asked.

Iris was silent. But she couldn’t hide the ichor that was splattered over her trousers, staining her clothes. Dacre had bled and bled after his head had rolled away. It had made her gag, retch.

She walked past the men, felt them stare at her as she kept walking. Soon, she reached the place she both longed and dreaded to see, uncertain if it had survived.

The building with the Inkridden Tribune.

It still stood, although most of the windows had blown out, and a portion of the walls from the uppermost floor had crumbled. Iris was gazing up at it when she heard a familiar voice.

“What are you doing here, kid? I thought I gave you the day off.”

Iris turned to see Helena on the other side of the street, smoking a cigarette. Her heart leapt to see her boss, hale and alive albeit rumpled and bleary-eyed, and she hurried to embrace her.

“Don’t worry, I’m fine,” Helena said, awkwardly patting her back. “And before you ask … the Tribune pulled through, also. What about Attie?”

Iris nodded, tears welling in her throat. “She’s okay.”

“Good. Now what in Enva’s name are you doing out here, alone and—” Helena was interrupted by a sudden peal of gunfire.

Iris jumped, pulse quickening as she crouched down. Helena took hold of her arm, rushing her toward a pile of rubble for cover.

“Listen, kid,” Helena said, stomping on her cigarette. “You need to get home or stay with people you trust. The streets aren’t safe, and they won’t be that way for a while. Not with the Graveyard emerging from their dens.”

“The Graveyard?” Iris repeated. “Why would they be coming out and firing at people? At a time like this, after what we just survived?”

Helena raked her fingers through her hair. “Because the chancellor’s dead. A god is also dead, if the rumors are true.” She noticed the ichor stains on Iris’s clothes. “They’re rounding up Dacre’s soldiers. To execute them.”



* * *



Roman and Shane passed over the threshold to the realm above.

The light was dim, but as Shane locked the door behind them, Roman could see they were standing in a decadent bedroom. Floor-to-ceiling curtains were drawn over the windows, but a slice of sunlight limned a four-poster bed and a massive mirror, ornately trimmed in gold. The carpet beneath Roman’s grimy boots was plush and soft.

It was the sort of bedroom his parents would have, which meant they must have emerged somewhere north of the river, in one of the wealthier neighborhoods.

“Where are we?” Roman asked, his voice hoarse.

Shane didn’t reply. He moved to the bedroom door and opened it, slipping out into the corridor.

Roman followed, but when they reached the foyer, Shane came to a startled halt.

Soldiers rushed back and forth from one room to the next, overturning parlor tables and chairs, taking shelter behind anything they could find, including a grand piano. Their guns were ready, their faces tense, like they were about to engage in a skirmish.