Her brand.
Despite the heat of the shower, Gideon shivered.
The youngest Sister Queen might be dead, but she’d marked him forever.
Gideon often thought about cutting it out, just to be rid of every last fucking trace of her. But digging the brand out of his skin wouldn’t carve the memories from his mind. Or rid him of the flashbacks. Or soften the nightmares.
It didn’t matter. Every time he got out the knife and put the honed edge to his skin, his hands shook too much to do the job right. So, for now, it stayed.
The thought of her made him wonder if the spirits of particularly evil witches could live on past their deaths, returning to haunt those they’d tormented while alive. He immediately wished he could unthink it. Gideon turned off the water, eying the steamy room around him as the cold air rushed in, raising the hairs on his arms and legs.
She’s dead, you fool. And there’s no such thing as ghosts.
Cressida might be dead, but there were equally dangerous witches out there. Three nights ago, another mutilated body had been found dragged under a bridge. Chest ripped open. Blood drained out. Gideon wasn’t surprised when he learned it belonged to a Blood Guard officer. They always did. It was the third one this month.
Gideon couldn’t prove the Crimson Moth was committing the heinous acts, but he had a strong hunch. The murders usually took place right before she struck, breaking his charges out of their prison cells and escaping his ever-tightening security. To do that, the Moth needed spells, and spells required blood. Fresh blood.
Which of us is next?
Running his hands over his face, Gideon shook the water from his hair, grabbed a towel, and dried himself off, directing his thoughts somewhere else. Anywhere else.
The opera.
Yes. Good. He would go over tonight in his mind, and the preparation would banish the eerie chill in his bathroom.
First, Gideon would button his tired body into a uniform and drag himself to the opera house. There, while some useless story played itself out across the stage, Harrow would tell him what she’d learned about the Moth. And finally, Gideon would come home, devise a plan while falling into bed, sleep dreamlessly—or so he hoped—and resume his hunt for the fiend upon waking, armed with new information.
And this time, he would catch her.
But first Gideon needed to get through a night at the opera. An activity even less tolerable than trudging through mud and rain on horseback, hunting down a witch.
The only good news was, he was going to miss the first half.
FOUR
RUNE
HERE IN THE FOYER, the Blood Guard stood out like red poppies in a meadow. Their uniforms were impossible to miss, even in the brightly dressed crowd. But not a single one was Gideon.
Maybe he’s not here tonight.
If Alex’s elder brother had indeed brought Seraphine in, he might still be processing her. Or possibly taking the rest of the night off.
Rune couldn’t stop herself from wondering if it was Gideon who’d ripped the dress off Seraphine and forced her to stand naked in the rain while he and his soldiers raked their eyes over her body, searching it for scars.
Her teeth clenched at the thought.
Gideon Sharpe.
She loathed him.
As Rune’s rage simmered like a red-hot coal, she moved skillfully through the crowd, presenting a smiling, happy face, commenting on new fashions and hairstyles, or the delightful dinners of the New Republic’s well-to-do that she’d attended last week, never lingering long, all while constantly looking for the next scarlet uniform.
She passed her usual marks: Blood Guard affiliates, daughters and sons of Tribunal members, people who not only were well connected, but enjoyed flaunting those connections and, in doing so, unwittingly giving information away. Their conversations droned in the air like bees drunk on pollen.
The chandeliers overhead lit the ceiling, which was painted with a blue-black sky full of stars—a rendering that had been allowed to remain untouched in the revolution’s aftermath. There were two salons on either side of the foyer and along the wall, behind the columns lining the room, were several small alcoves for more … illicit meetings.
Rune was headed toward the salon, where Blood Guard members often gathered, when a hand grabbed her wrist, pulling her out of the crowd and into one of the shadowed alcoves.
Spinning to face her assailant she found golden-brown eyes peering at her from beneath tawny brows.
The tension bled out of her.
It was only Alex.
“Rune.” His fingertips pressed against the sensitive skin of her wrist as he drew her deeper into the darkness. “You look like you’re prepared to walk into hell itself.”