Denaochi lifted a gloved hand and snapped his fingers. The door to the Lupine opened, and Naranpa half expected Nuuma’s daughter to walk down the stairs, even though she knew who was waiting outside.
Nuuma must have expected her daughter, too, because she had stood and was moving toward the door before she recognized the young man dressed in black, a single red feather emblazoned over his heart.
“Okoa Carrion Crow,” she breathed. Her eyes ricocheted between Naranpa and Okoa, wild. “Is this a trap?”
“No trap. Okoa is Sky Made. Surely you cannot object to his presence.”
“He is not the matron.”
“I speak for the matron,” Okoa said.
Naranpa had forgotten the rich tones of his voice, and how they carried, and what a striking figure he cut. Nuuma’s voice equaled his in volume, if not control. “And where is your monster?”
“I came alone.”
“That beast that killed my niece is a monster, and you are harboring him in your house. Your sister knows our demands. There is nothing you can say here that will change my mind. So speak all you want, Crow. It means nothing. I will not be satisfied until I have your Odo Sedoh’s head rolling at my feet.”
Okoa’s expression had been mild, his tone civil, but now his face darkened, and Naranpa caught a glimpse of the fire that had animated him when last they had met.
“Then you will have to learn to live with disappointment.”
Nuuma’s thin lips flattened. “And you will not live long at all.” Her command was a dark growl. “Kill them.”
The Golden Eagle Shield moved toward Okoa. Naranpa rose, shouting a warning, but it was unneeded. The Carrion Crow scion leaped from the stairs, taking the captain down to the floor. She tried to run to them, but Denaochi was there, holding her back.
“Leave it,” he warned. “You’ll only distract him. He looks capable enough.”
She watched them struggle, and her brother had the right of it. Okoa had the man pinned. But Naranpa caught the flash of obsidian across the man’s knuckles, some kind of sharp weapon, and he struck Okoa in the chest. The Crow fell back.
“Naranpa!” She heard the mistress of the Agave, Sedaysa, scream her name. She turned just in time to see Pasko in the midst of a throw, something small and black flying from his hand.
Her mind had barely registered it as a knife before Denaochi was there, hurling himself between her and the blade. She sensed more than saw the knife find flesh, and Denaochi collapsed to the floor.
She screamed and fell to her knees, hands reaching for her brother. It didn’t make sense. Pasko was on their side.
Blood pumped from Denaochi’s chest, already coating his shirt, a blade sunk deep into his heart.
He smiled.
“I am your Shield,” he whispered through blood-flecked lips.
“No!” She called her healing powers, and warmth came to her palms, but she didn’t have time to touch her brother before Pasko came barreling toward her.
Her rage flared, and she scrambled to meet Pasko’s charge. She threw her arms open as if she would catch him in an embrace. They collided, and time seemed to slow, eternity stretching before her.
She wasn’t sure when it happened. The healing power she had called to aid Denaochi morphed into something else. And in the cauldron of her anger, that something became heat, became fire, and flames roared from her palms.
Her back slammed into the ground but she did not let go. She clamped her hands to the sides of Pasko’s face, willing the fire to consume him. At first, his skin only smoldered, tendrils of smoke intertwined with his curling black hair. Then heat built as if from inside, and his skin began to bubble like water on the boil. His cheeks collapsed, then his forehead, and his eyes popped and sank.
She watched, mouth open in a wordless scream, as the proprietor of the Blackfire burned.
Eventually, she became aware of Ieyoue Water Strider kneeling in front of her. Just over her shoulder was Okoa Carrion Crow, his handsome face bloodied and drawn at what he saw before him. He and Ieyoue’s Shield rolled Pasko off her, and Okoa gently peeled her hands from the dead man’s face. She stared at her palms. Perfectly normal-looking palms, except for the flakes of burned flesh that stuck to them in patches.
Behind her, someone was weeping.
It was Zataya, and her anguished howls brought Naranpa back to the present.
“Ochi?” she asked, her voice small.
Ieyoue shook her head.
Naranpa stumbled toward her brother.
“Heal him!” Zataya knelt beside Denaochi’s body, her face a molted mess of tears and rage. “Use your power to heal him!”