“Stay there,” he spat, reaching around to his back. “I’ll deal with you in a moment.”
In the streak of moonlight, I saw the flash of a milky-white blade— a lunea dagger held in his hand. I rose as Weber started for the aisle, snapping forward and grabbing the sleeve of the arm wielding the blade.
The baker cocked his arm, catching me in the face. Pain burst along my nose as I staggered sideways, falling into the wall. Wood groaned under the impact as I lifted my hand to my nose. Wet warmth coated my fingers.
Blood.
My blood.
Tiny hairs rose all over my body as my gaze locked on to his. My thoughts quieted, and it . . . it happened. I connected with him, and my intuition came alive, showing me the future— the excruciating crack of bone in my right arm, then my left. The phantom pain traveled to my throat. I felt it all.
His death.
And I . . . I smiled.
“Stupid bitch, you stay there and stay quiet. You’ve already got a steep price to pay. Don’t make it— ” His words ended in a choked gasp.
And my breath stalled in my chest.
The Hyhborn lord stood there, moonlight slicing over his bowed head and bloodied chest. He looked like an avenging spirit conjured from the depths of nightmares as he held the baker by the throat with one hand and the wrist with another.
“Attempting to capture . . . me was a bad choice to . . . make.” His voice was so soft yet so cold, it sent a chill of dread down my spine. “But striking her?”
My blood-tinged lips parted as the Lord lifted the mortal off the floor, unperturbed as Weber beat at the arm holding him up.
“That was a fatal mistake,” the Hyhborn snarled.
Weber sputtered, eyes bulging.
The Hyhborn’s head tilted, sending several strands of hair sliding back. The moonlight cut over his profile, glancing over his mouth. His smile was as bloody as mine had been. He twisted Weber’s arm sharply.
The crack of the baker’s bone was like thunder. The dagger landed with a thud. His wheezy whimper gave way to a smothered, keening wail.
“I . . . remember you.” The Lord’s head straightened. “You were the one . . . who jumped me outside the tavern.” He reached across, grasping Weber’s other arm. “You’re the one . . . who put a spike . . . in my chest.”
I pressed back against the wall at the snap of the second bone, my hand falling from my bloodied nose.
“And you laughed while doing it.” The Lord suddenly jerked his hand back—
I turned away but I still heard the sickening crunch— still saw the glossy blue-white of cartilage of Weber’s windpipe. I tried not to see even though I already had, seconds ago.
“And that will not be a sound you make again.” The Lord tossed the clump of ruined tissue and flesh aside. He dropped the baker.
Bile climbing up my throat, I turned and looked to where Weber lay, a twitching, spasming heap of man. I’d seen my fair share of death. In the streets and in the orphanages as a kid, even long before my Hyhborn lord had come to Union City. I’d seen death so many times, in my mind and before me— those who passed due to ailments that had festered and grown inside them, and those who passed due to the evils that had grown inside of others. I’d seen so much death that I would think I’d have grown used to it by now, and maybe in a little way I had, because I wasn’t screaming or shaking. But it was still a shock. A loss, even if Weber had it coming, but I . . .
I had never smiled at it before.
“Your intervention . . . was unnecessary,” the Lord said, drawing my gaze to him. Kneeling, he wiped the gore from his hand on Weber’s shirt. He turned his head toward me, and I thought I could see the beginning of an actual eye in the right socket. “You should’ve . . . stayed back.”
It took me a moment to find words. “You were injured. You’re still injured.” And he was. His chest was moving in short, shallow pants. Even in the moonlight, I could see that his skin had lost a lot of its color. The violence had cost him.
“And you are . . . a mortal barely able to defend yourself . . . or another.” He rose, his movements shaky. “But you’re brave— braver than . . . many stronger than you.”
A laugh rattled out of me. “I’m not brave.”
“Then what . . . do you call your actions tonight?”
“Foolish.”
“Well, there is such a thing as foolish bravery,” he said, sighing as he moved toward me. “He . . . struck you.”
I inched to the side, away from him. “I’m fine.”