I scramble behind the desk, keeping it between us as a buffer.
By the fucking Immortals.
His speed is inhuman—he’s godkissed.
This makes the fight infinitely more challenging. In my youth, fighting in Jocki’s rings, I was paired with other godkissed fighters whenever they could find one. A fourteen-year-old girl with godkissed strength slammed me to the ground so hard that my tailbone still aches when it rains. A godkissed boy from the distant deserts of Kravada could call the winds to toss me around like a leaf. Still, I managed to defeat both of them. There’s only been one godkissed fighter who ever bested me, and his gift was goddamn speed.
Folke knocks another arrow and raises the crossbow. “Wolf, Pruitt’s Creek!”
Pruitt’s Creek. He’s referring to a skirmish we were in against rebel agitators hiding out in a logging camp south of Old Coros. We lit their timber stores on fire to add the cover of smoke while we attacked. I instantly understand the maneuver he’s suggesting.
The cloaked attacker circles the desk’s edges so fast that he’s almost a blur. Struggling to stay a step ahead of him, I scramble into the center of the common room. He’s there in a flash, but I’m able to anticipate his trajectory with my keen hearing, and put the charred tables between us.
Folke keeps his crossbow at the ready, waiting, waiting.
Smoke now fills the entire upper half of the common room. My throat is raw, and my body wants to double over with a coughing fit, but I squelch the urge. Plunging myself into smoke may not be the smartest idea, but it’s the best chance I have. My opponent, while fast, can’t pursue what he can’t see.
I, however, can hear his heartbeat as clearly as if it was a resounding gong.
He stalks through the smoke more cautiously now, unable to see where I’m hiding. I can only imagine his eyes are as blurry and stinging as my own, doubling how difficult it is to spot me. This is how it went down in Pruitt’s Creek—I lured the agitators into the smoke, where I had the advantage.
Once I hear his heartbeat closing in, I bunch my leg muscles and, with a battle cry, hurl my full weight against him. He might be fast, but I outweigh him significantly.
We slam to the floor. The air pushes out of his lungs, and I use the opportunity to smash a fist into his nose. I won’t have long—once he’s recovered, he’ll use his speed to strike me faster than I can block him.
“Folke!” I shout.
“On it! Move out of the damn way!”
Still dazed, the attacker struggles against me, but I’m able to pin him to the floor with my knee. I toss my hair back, straightening to give Folke a clean shot at his head.
I hear the rasp of Folke’s finger on the trigger before the arrow is even free. At that exact moment, the cloaked man snaps back to attention. Blinking to clear his watery eyes, he uses his godkiss to slam a fist into my chest. He isn’t the strongest man I’ve fought, but he immediately brings his fist back for another strike before I’ve had time to recover.
But then, it’s too late for him.
Folke’s arrow slams into his neck. The man’s body wracks with pain as he claps a hand over the blood spurting from his neck. I keep my knee dug into his chest, not taking any chances, until a gurgle of blood spills out of his throat, and he finally goes still.
Letting out a deep exhale, I crawl off him, on hands and knees on the floor, where the air is clearer. Finally, I let out the hacking cough that’s been torturing my lungs. Phlegm and soot scratch my throat as I hack onto the floor.
“Folke.” Mustering my strength, I push to my feet and stagger to where my friend is slumped against the door frame between the kitchen and the common room. Blood flows steadily out of a cut on his temple, and more of it stains the front of his shirt—but at least he’s upright. I clap a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Who the fuck is he?”
Folke drags his sleeve over the blood coating his face. “A spy. I don’t know who for, but I’d hazard a guess it’s the fucking Red Church. They must have gotten wind of my mission. Sent him to stop me.”
My fingers tighten on Folke’s shoulder, supporting him. His heart beats erratically from blood loss. The smoke is so thick, I can barely make out his features.
I ask urgently, “He knew you were here? He started the fire to flush you out?”
Folke sways, weak from his wounds, and slumps down the door frame. At the same time, a ceiling joist splinters. As flames roar, an oak beam cracks and crashes down to the charred furniture, bringing a good portion of the ceiling with it. Clouds of ash and debris rise around us. With all the new fodder, the flames spread faster, eager to eat up anything able to burn.
I grab Folke by the shoulders. We have to get the fuck out of here.
Chapter 17
Sabine
I’m numbed to the pain in my heel as I half-run, half-hobble down the Blackwater streets. Townspeople race past me in the opposite direction to help put out the fire at the Manywaters Inn. Or maybe they’re hoping to loot what remains of it—I don’t know. What matters is that no one cares about the barefoot girl with a limp, and that’s exactly how I want it.
For once, I’m a nobody. Not a lord’s daughter. Not a godkissed bride. Not a naked prisoner. Just a girl trying to get to her horse.
My shoulders ache from the rucksack’s weight. Basten makes carrying it look effortless, but I don’t have his strength. Groaning, I slide it to the ground, so I can catch my breath.
Behind me, smoke rises high into the night. My throat seizes up at the terrible image of Basten trapped in the burning building, unable to get out. Who is this friend he’s risking his life for? That damn loyalty of his is going to get him killed.
Basten, please be okay. I need you.
Sweat rolls down the hills of my cheeks, dampening the corners of my mouth. The reek of smoke permeates everything from my dress to my hair to my skin. I keep willing Basten to appear on the street behind me, but there’s no sign of him. My heart races so dangerously fast that I’m surprised he can’t hear it, wherever he is.
I need him to get me out of this town, but the need doesn’t end there. Somehow, his safety has become of paramount concern to me. He’s become my companion, my shadow, my friend just as much as my bane. It’s a struggle to think of waking to another sunrise without his grumpy ass by my side.
Wiping my brow, I glance ahead at the street. The lantern hanging outside Myst’s stable swings in the breeze. Grimacing, I shoulder the rucksack again and hobble over cobblestones in its direction. My heel throbs. My lungs ache from the smoke, making it a challenge to take a full breath. By the time I finally stagger through the stable’s entryway, I’m so exhausted I could collapse.
It’s empty, the stable’s staff long since gone to bed.
Myst is there, in the last stall on the right where we housed her, and I sigh deeply.
There you are, pretty girl.
Panting, I drop the rucksack on the straw-covered floor and limp toward her in exhausted relief. If there’s a soul in the world that warms my heart as much as her, I’ve yet to meet them. And yet, as I reach her stall gate, her head jerks toward me in alarm. Her eyes flash so wide I can see the whites around her irises.
Not alone!
My stomach tightens at her words. I know my brave girl, and she doesn’t look scared, exactly—more like she’s wary and unsure how to communicate to me what is happening. I reach for the latch on her stall, shaking my head in confusion.