He hadn’t been waiting at Helarin Way. That was just when she’d finally noticed him. She put out the flame, and brought her hand to her face, rubbing her eyes. “How long were you following me?”
“From the palace,” he answered, an obedient servant now. “You crossed the southern walk, then circled the shal before going into the Merry Way, then—”
“Enough.” Lila prickled in annoyance. She hadn’t heard him coming. It was the queen’s damned work, the cloak absorbing light, the armor spelled for stealth, even the boots warded so they made no sound on the paving stones. Still, she thought, she should have sensed him sooner. She wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
Lila rested the tip of her blade against the chalice on his chest.
“Take a message to the queen. Next time she sends a crow to follow me, I’ll cut off its wings.”
The boy—and he really was a boy—looked about to speak, then thought better of it. He nodded once, but didn’t move. Lila stepped aside with a flourish, but he still hesitated, as if waiting for her to leave first. Not a chance.
“Fly away,” she ordered, and as she said it, a gust of wind rolled through and pushed him in the right direction. She watched him leave, watched until her eye couldn’t split him from the other shadows, until he melted away into the dark.
* * *
On the way back, she took her time.
It was almost midnight, and the city had quieted, taken on the weariness of a body needing sleep. She retraced her steps across the Copper Bridge, which despite its name was mostly wood and stone, the green-tinged metal reserved for rail and arch and filigreed post.
Lila stopped halfway across.
Despite the hour, she wasn’t the only one on the bridge. A carriage rattled past, and a few nobles were making their way back to the northern bank on foot. One stopped to admire the palace, the way it vaulted over the Isle and doubled there, golden edges reflected against the watery sky. But Lila put her back to the spires, and looked out at London. Stood there, halfway between the banks, the city cleaved in two by the crimson river.
They’d been looking in the wrong place.
She had no doubt that Alucard and his guards were searching for the Hand, but she was willing to bet they’d focused their efforts on the city’s darkest corners.
She thought of the handprints circling the shal, how obvious they seemed. A bull’s-eye in red paint. The X on a treasure map. Her hand slipped into her pocket, fingers tightening around the coin, its uneven edge digging into her palm as her gaze skated back to the northern banks, home to the city’s elite.
They cannot hide, said Alucard.
But what if the real danger wasn’t hiding at all?
What if it was standing in plain sight?
* * *
Back at the Setting Sun, the tavern was dark, the shutters drawn. Lila climbed the stairs, limbs growing heavier with every step, but when she reached her room, it was empty. Crimson spilled in through the window, caught on the edge of the trunk, cast pale red fingers across the unused bed.
Kell hadn’t come back.
No matter, Lila told herself as she slumped onto the cot. More room for her. She tucked her hands beneath her head, let the quiet settle like a sheet, waited for sleep. It didn’t come. At last, Lila heaved herself up, an oath on her lips, the knife already in her hand. The brief prick of pain, the well of blood against her fingers. She drew the mark, and whispered the words to the wall, felt the wood drop away as she stepped through.
The narrow room vanished, replaced by the grand palace chamber, as if the world had drawn in a very deep breath, and pushed outward, the low ceiling thrust into a vaulted one, decked in gossamer clouds, the weathered wood turned to marble. The only common tie, that crimson light, spilling now through etched glass doors, glancing off the gold threads in the rug, and the body sprawled atop the royal bed.
Kell lay half-dressed and facedown, his coat and shoes cast off in a breadcrumb trail from the door to the foot of the mattress. His back rose and fell. His copper hair fanned out like a dying fire over his cheek and onto the pillow.
Too many years of safety had made him a heavy sleeper.
He didn’t stir when she kicked off her boots. Or when she shed her coat, and the more cumbersome blades. Or when she climbed onto the bed. Or when she reached out and ran her fingers with all the lightness of a thief over the pale streak that glinted in his hair. Or when she curled in, close enough to hear the soft tide of his breath, and let it pull her down to sleep.
IV
WHITE LONDON
It was dark by the time Kosika mounted the castle steps, her clothes stiff with blood.