Smoke billows up the stairs. A woman screams from a different floor. Doors slam, and feet gallop as the other guests hurry to flee.
I wrap my arms around Basten’s neck, burying my face in his massive chest, as he carries me through the smoke, and out into the night’s safety.
Chapter 16
Wolf
Smoke billows out of the windows and doors of the Manywaters Inn. The street is thick with coughing guests who have escaped the fire, and more people rush from nearby houses to help put out the flames. With the Innis River just a stone’s throw away, people swarm the bridge, lowering buckets tied to ropes to fill with water.
As I carry Sabine, I scan the crowd for a familiar face, but Folke isn’t among the survivors in the street. With his wounded leg, he can’t climb down stairs easily. If he’s not here, there’s a chance he’s still in the building.
“Have you seen a man with a cane?” I shout to a burly older man who is leading the efforts to put out the fire. “Light brown skin. Mid-thirties. Graying hair.”
Unable to spare me much attention, he quickly shakes his head.
Fuck!
The flames throw heat on us as the inferno reaches the second floor. I tote Sabine through the crowd, to the recessed doorway of a fishmonger’s shop across the street. I ease her onto the stoop, then set to investigating the wound on her foot. The nail cut deep but cleanly, which means as long as I can stop the bleeding, she should be fine. There’s always the risk of infection, but we’ll be in Duren the day after tomorrow, and Lord Rian has teams of healers at his disposal—even one with a godkiss that can mend torn skin. He’ll ensure that she’s showered with medical attention.
I rip the hem off her dress and use the fabric strip to bind her bleeding wound. She gives a hacking cough, her lungs clogged from having passed through the smoke. Her eyes are watering, ringed in red. She rubs them with the back of her hand like they ache.
I smooth a hand down her hair. “Sabine, can you walk?”
“I think so.” Her voice is scratchy from smoke, but doesn’t waver. My little violet is so damn brave. She rests her hands on my shoulders as I help her to her feet. Delicately, she exerts some pressure on the ball of her left foot, testing it out. She gives a shaky nod. “It’s okay if I don’t put much weight on it.”
A dusting of soot streaks her cheek. I can’t resist rubbing it away with my thumb, stroking her soft skin with my calloused finger, wanting to erase any imperfection on her flawless face. My heart thrashes inside my chest like a trapped animal. She’s safe, but it terrifies me to think of what might have happened if I hadn’t gotten her away from the fire.
One of the inn’s upstairs windows shatters. Screams come from the street, where the men and women throwing buckets of water on the structure are struck by sharp glass shards. With a mighty boom, flames erupt out of the broken window.
I pull Sabine into my arms, holding her tight, even though we’re safely out of harm’s way. Then, I cup my hands around her face, guiding her to look me in the eyes so I can be sure she understands me. “I want you to go to the stables. Take the rucksack—it’ll be stolen in a second if we leave it here. Get Myst. I’ll be right behind you.”
Her round, glistening eyes fill with worry as she latches onto my shirt with one hand. Breathless, she asks, “Why, where are you going?”
“The fire—I have a friend in there. I have to make sure he made it out.”
I left things with Folke on a bad note. There are painfully few people in this world I’d consider a friend, and I’d pass through hell for any of them. I can’t walk away before I know that he survived.
Another upstairs window explodes behind us, and Sabine flinches and leans into my chest. My hands automatically circle her back. Briefly, I let my head sink on top of hers, so I can breathe in the scent of her hair.
Not five minutes ago, I was willing to tear both our worlds apart to be with her. I was so tempted to stab Rian in the back, and let the sleeping gods damn me for eternity, just to act on what could happen between those sheets. My body is still hot and hard with yearning.
If the fire hadn’t interrupted us . . .
It would have been a mistake to sleep with Sabine. But fuck, what a wonderful mistake.
“Go.” I help her into the rucksack’s straps, then urge her toward the street. “Quickly. You’ll be safe—Myst will protect you. I’ll be right there.”
She gives me one last wide-eyed look that’s both fearful and trusting before darting down the street, struggling under the rucksack’s weight, limp-running toward the stables.
I watch her go as long as I can, but I can’t delay. The fire is spreading. Folke still hasn’t emerged from the building. As I hurry through the crowd toward the burning inn, I promise myself that Sabine will be all right. She’s dressed, so she doesn’t stand out. Her long hair and looks would normally garner plenty of interest from the riffraff out at this hour in Blackwater, but everyone’s attention is on the fire, not the girl limping away.
Sweating, soot-streaked men hurl bucket after bucket of water on the inn’s facade, but the flames have already climbed too high to save the structure. Knowing this, the men divert their efforts toward wetting down the neighboring buildings to try to quell the flames’ spread.
Shouldering my way through the crowd, I head straight for the burned-out front door.
The burly older man grabs me, coughing. “What are you doing? Are you crazy? You can’t go in there!”
I throw off his arm and plunge into the burning inn. The common room is clogged with smoke, forcing me to press one sleeve over my nose and mouth. My eyes burn. Flames feast on the wooden tables and lick their way up the curtains. Broken earthenware dishes litter the floor.
Fighting through the smoke, I make my way to the stairs.
“Folke?” I yell up, though the fire’s roar drowns out my voice.
There’s a crash behind me. Sparks rain down as a ceiling joist cracks. Raising my arm against the shower of sparks, I see a figure stagger through the doorway between the common room and the kitchen.
It’s Folke. Thank the gods. He leans on a broken stairway spindle as a makeshift cane. His face is streaked in soot, and a dark substance that might be blood. His rope-like locks are a mess. But my initial relief folds in on itself when, with his free hand, he raises a crossbow in my direction.
What the fuck?
My ingrained training kicks in with an order to dodge out of his range. I hurtle myself against the inn’s reception desk just as Folke lets loose the arrow. The arrow’s wake whips the air as it speeds by me, missing my neck by an inch, to lodge in the rear wall.
I’m hit with a burst of anger. I explode on him, “Folke, what the hell—”
“Behind you!” he shouts.
I pivot just in time to see a knife blade slash toward my shoulder. I evade on instinct, bending backward over the desk, so the blade slices through the air above me. A man in a dark cloak whirls back around with well-honed moves and raises the blade again.
I don’t have the luxury of time to figure out what the hell is going on. My attacker strikes again. He slashes his blade with such startling speed that I can barely duck in time. If I didn’t have my godkissed ability to detect the subtle tells in his movements, he would have slit my throat. I still wasn’t quite fast enough, and the blade’s tip grazed my scalp. A bolt of pain ricochets through my head.