“I second that,” said Laila, walking around the room, looking for anything they might have missed the first time. “We should at least—”
Beside Gideon, Harrow’s head snapped up. “Do you smell that?”
“Smell what?” asked Laila.
Gideon sniffed the air. Blood and roses.
“It smells like …”
“Magic,” said Gideon, rising to his feet. Fear snaked through his insides. “They’re still here.”
He looked to the rafters, but the beams were empty. Harrow rose to her feet beside him. The smell was growing stronger by the second, making Gideon queasy.
“We need to find the source,” said Harrow, moving for the door.
Gideon’s spine tingled. That bad feeling was back. Something was wrong. The fog. The empty room. The freshly lit candles, as if the meeting hadn’t even started yet when they’d burst through the door.
As if they’d been set up.
We were expected.
“Harrow, wait.”
She’d reached the door. Gideon stepped out of the circle, intending to stop her. But before he could grab her arm and pull her back into the room, a loud BOOM! shook the walls and floors. The red-hot force of an explosion threw him backward, slamming his body into solid brick.
Fire flared across his vision seconds before the world went black.
FORTY-SIX
RUNE
FOR THE PAST TWO years, ever since Nan’s death, Rune spent most nights tossing and turning in bed, her mind spinning with anxious thoughts as she went over plans, pieced together information, and mentally punished herself for the witches she hadn’t saved.
Tonight, she slept worse than ever. Nightmares about Nan kept her trapped, and when Rune finally woke from them, thrashing in her covers, a sheen of feverish sweat coated her skin.
It was still dark, but Rune rose anyway, afraid to shut her eyes again. Dressing warmly, she saddled Lady and rode down to the shore, trying to clear her head while the sun rose, scattering the mist off the sea.
When she returned to Wintersea House, Lizbeth was walking toward her through the gardens, her hands coiled around a rolled-up newspaper.
Rune dismounted Lady. “What is it?”
Lizbeth handed the paper to her. “You should read it yourself.”
Rune unrolled the New Herald, the regime’s official newspaper, and glanced down at the front page. In bold black letters, the first headline read: WITCH ATTACK. DOZENS DEAD.
Her heart stumbled.
A witch attack?
With one hand squeezing the leather strips of Lady’s lead, Rune quickly scanned the report.
Late last night, Blood Guard soldiers led by Captain Gideon Sharpe raided a print shop believed to be harboring witches. The soldiers were lured into a trap set by the witches they’d come to arrest. A dozen men and women were inside the building when it exploded. As help rushed to the scene, a second explosion tore through Blood Guard headquarters. As of this morning, the fires are still raging. Twenty-seven are confirmed dead and many more are injured.
Rune’s ears rang as she stared at Gideon’s name. Two explosions. Twenty-seven dead. She scanned down to the bottom of the page, but there was no other information.
The New Herald hadn’t printed the names of the deceased.
Is he one of them?
Choking down her fear, Rune tossed the newspaper on the ground and swiftly remounted. Grabbing Lady’s reins, she sent them sailing toward town.
Rune could see two pillars of billowing smoke long before she reached the capital. She headed straight for the print shop, where Gideon’s raid had taken place. It was past noon when she neared the smoking ruin. Ash filled the air, stinging her lungs.
As she arrived at the building’s scorched shell, the horrible thoughts Rune had tried to suppress broke through and an image of Gideon’s charred body appeared in her mind, unmooring her.
It felt like the air had been sucked from the world.
She couldn’t breathe.
Rune reached for her old hatred of the Blood Guard captain like she would for a weapon, to defend herself against the surge of overwhelming feelings. But her hatred was nowhere to be found.
She swung herself down from the saddle and pushed her way into the crowd of gawking bystanders.
“Is there anyone still in there?” she asked, feeling dizzy. “Does anyone know the names of the dead?”
But the bystanders were all asking the same questions. As she shoved her way to the front, people with buckets of water rushed inside or emerged with empty ones, telling the crowd to get back.
“You can’t come in here, miss,” said one of them. “It’s still smoldering.”