He wanted her, and Iris reached for the sword.
The jacket fell away as she unsheathed the blade. She was shaking as she eased forward. She wondered if her bones would come out of their sockets as she lifted the sword, belatedly remembering what Enva had told her about it.
It cuts through bone and flesh like a knife does butter, if only its wielder offers the blade and the hilt a taste of their blood first. A sacrifice, to weaken yourself and wound your own hand before striking.
Iris hesitated before she reached for the sword’s edge. She winced as the steel stung her palm, her blood beginning to flow and drip, hot and swift. It hurt to hold the hilt with both hands; the metal became slick, and she had never felt more awkward wielding something in her life.
But she stepped forward again, a piece of the broken pot crunching beneath her foot.
The intruder stopped striking her brother and turned to look at her, a sliver of light cutting across his face.
Iris recognized him. It was one of Dacre’s men. Val. The one who had been transporting Roman’s articles to the Gazette. The one who commanded eithrals and rode on their backs.
“Put the sword down, Iris,” he said as he stood and faced her. He held out his gloved hand. There were metal spikes on the backs of the knuckles. “Come with me, and I’ll let your brother live.”
Forest groaned on the floor. It distracted Iris, and she glanced at her brother. His face was bloodied; his nose looked broken.
Val darted forward, taking advantage of her split attention.
He intended to knock the sword away from her, no doubt believing it would be an easy feat. But Iris lowered her hands so that the pommel was braced against her waist, the point of the sword angled up. Val walked directly into it, the steel sinking into his chest.
He let out a strangled gasp, staring at Iris in shock. She saw the recognition flash though him, a moment too late. Which blade she held.
As he fell, the sword continued to slice upward, catching on two silver necklaces that hung beneath his clothes. A flute and an iron key. The chains broke beneath the steel’s enchantment, clinking to the floor like chimes as the blade continued to cut until it had divided his heart, his sternum, the branch of his ribs.
I just killed him.
Iris whimpered, but she didn’t let go of the hilt. She watched as Val collapsed on the floor, blood pooling beneath him. She stared at the key and the small flute, islands in a growing red lake. Her skin prickled as her gorge rose, a bitter taste haunting her mouth.
I just killed a man.
“Iris.”
She dropped the blade and stepped over Val to reach her brother.
“Are you hurt?” he rasped.
“No,” Iris said, even as her palm burned. “But you are.” Focusing on him gave her a distraction. She reached for the blanket on the couch and gently wiped his face.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Forest said. “But who was that? What did he want with you?”
“He’s one of Dacre’s men,” she replied, helping Forest to his feet.
The two of them stared down at Val, uncertain what to do. Should they leave him here? Bury him somewhere? Burn him?
Iris bent to take the flute and the key, amidst Forest’s protests.
“Don’t, Iris!”
She didn’t answer, her fingers closing over the key. She reached for the sword next, and before Forest could demand any further answers from her, she spoke first.
“We can’t stay here tonight. We need to leave.”
I killed someone, Iris thought, clenching her eyes shut.
And she shivered when she acknowledged that he wouldn’t be the last.
* * *
Attie’s father didn’t appear shocked to find Iris and Forest on the front porch, quietly knocking on the door in the dead of night. The town house’s lights were on, illumination seeping through the shutters, and it had made Iris feel a little better about disturbing her friend’s family at such a late hour.
Mr. Attwood took one look at Iris, with her snarled hair and the sword sheathed at her back, and Forest, whose face was battered, and he opened the door wide.
“I’m so sorry,” Iris said, breathless from their harried trek over. “I … we didn’t know where else to go.”
The scent of treacle and sugar biscuits drifted from the house. It almost made Iris sink to her knees.
“Come in, come in,” said Mr. Attwood, reaching out to welcome them. “You look like you’ve had a rough night, and we just brewed some tea.”
* * *
“Sometimes I bake when I can’t sleep,” Attie said, setting the plate of warm biscuits on the dining room table. “A few nights in the Bluff, I baked with Marisol. She taught me a thing or two about scones, which I can never get right.”