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  After Father had retired, she had called for the carriage and went to vespers-not to the basilica that, despite its gold-plated finery, she found cold and forbidding, but to her childhood parish off the Forum. Though small and unassuming with plain plaster walls and a simple altarpiece, the priory at St. Azari's exuded a comforting atmosphere, like having Father's arms around her as a child. Safe. Protected. However, not even the familiar hymns and solemn liturgy had been able to quell the angst raging inside her. Unable to find solace in prayer, she'd returned home as despondent as before.

  Before bed she had written a letter to Anastasia, an earnest apology splashed with genuine tears. In it she explained how sorry she was to miss her dearest friend's wedding. With every word her heart moved farther away from her father's love, and by the end she could almost say she hated him. Despite her agony, Josey realized he was doing what he thought was right. As a dutiful daughter she ought to respect that. Instead, it made her want to fight him all the harder. She was not a child any longer. She could decide things for herself.

  Finally, she could take the tumult inside her head no longer and got out of bed. She didn't pause to light a taper for fear she would lose her ire in the delay, but marched straight from her room in the dark. She hesitated for a moment in the hallway as she considered what to say. He had defeated all of her logical arguments for staying. How else could she sway him? For a moment the specter of apprehension almost overcame her. She could wait until morning, appeal to him when he was rested and most inclined to indulge her. No, I must do this now.

  She tiptoed to his bedchamber. The door was partway open, and a faint light shined from within. He was awake, likely reading as was his habit at night. With a deep breath, Josey grasped the knob and pushed open the door. She began her argument right away, before her willpower could falter.

  "Father, I want you to reconsider-"

  The words died on her lips as the ghastly scene unraveled before her. The dull glow of the fireplace showed Father sitting at his worktable, his head thrown back. A deep, red wound gaped in his breast like an obscene second mouth. Over Father hovered a man clad in muted gray and black from head to toe. A gush of hot bile filled Josey's throat. She put a hand to her middle as her stomach threatened to void the remains of her supper. Terrified, she began to scream.

  The man in black leapt.

  She had never seen anyone move so swiftly. His movements were sure and quick, almost graceful. Before Josey could get the scream out of her chest, he had seized her with one arm and clapped a gloved hand over her mouth, bruising her lips.

  Josey stood rigid with terror, the taste of leather in her mouth. The killer's hands were strong, too strong for her to break their hold, but when he dragged her toward the bed, a will to resist bubbled up inside her. She shook and flailed, kicked with her feet. The man in black lifted her like she was a child and thrust her down on the firm mattress. He let go for an instant and she clawed to get away, but a heavy weight pushed her flat onto her stomach. The sound of ripping cloth presaged her hands being yanked behind her back and bound in strips of torn blanket, and the same for her ankles. A wad of cloth was forced between her teeth and tied behind her head. She lay on the bed, chest heaving, straining to hear a sign, a clue of what the killer intended next. Suddenly, the weight was gone from her back. She waited for something dire to happen.

  "Now we can go," the killer said.

  Josey twisted her head around. Was he talking to her? She wasn't about to go anywhere with him! Yet the room was empty except for the two of them and her poor, departed father. The horrified expression on Father's face bludgeoned her from across the room. Every time she tried to comprehend what he had suffered, she shivered with fury.

  A loud crash from downstairs shook Josey from her misery. Heavy boots pounded on the stairs. Someone was coming! Fenrik must have awakened and called for help. Elation surged through her. Now you'll face justice!

  The assassin didn't wait to be caught. He darted to the window and climbed out. Josey struggled against her bonds. If she could get free, she could tell her rescuers which way the killer had gone. However, the bindings refused to cooperate. Every wriggle she made only seemed to twist them tighter.

  The bedchamber door slammed open and four men in the uniforms of the Sacred Brotherhood burst into the room. They fanned out with naked blades in their hands and lanterns raised high to pierce the shadows. Josey shouted as best she could through the gag, but the soldiers paid her no mind as they searched the chamber. She tried to nod toward the window and could have sighed with relief as one guardsman went to the aperture, but he was satisfied after a cursory look and turned back to face the murder scene. She kicked and screamed.

  One man came over to peer down at her. He held his light up to her face. "What's she doing here?"

  A young guardsman with a chubby face said, "Maybe she heard a noise and came to check it out."

  "She ain't supposed to be breathing anymore," the first said. "This is all screwed up."

  "What's screwed up?" a voice asked from the doorway.

  Josey was perplexed by this bizarre behavior, but calmed as Markus entered the room. He looked so gallant in his prefect's uniform that for an instant she felt the tiniest bit jealous he was betrothed to Anastasia, but the feeling passed as she focused on the here and now. She grunted through the gag and shook her bound hands.

  The first man pointed at her with the point of his sword. "He didn't kill her. He just left her trussed up."

  "So I see." Markus came over to the bed. "Where's the assassin?"

  "He wasn't here," the guardsman with the lantern replied.

  Markus smacked his hands together. "Damn! Epps and Lauk, go search the yard. Whistle if you see anything."

  As the two soldiers dashed out, the lantern-holder said to Markus, "We could make this one look the same as the other."

  Markus nodded to the first man. "Take care of it, but make it fast."

  Josey tried to wriggle free once more, but the soldier straddled her hips and yanked back hard on her hair. She screamed as a blade's edge pressed against her exposed neck.

  "No!

  Josey shook with relief as the blade stopped. A large tear ran down the length of her nose.

  "Not here," Markus said. "Take her back to her own room."

  What were they doing? Josey tried to shout, but the air whooshed from her lungs as the guardsman hefted her onto his shoulder. The room spun; the tableau of her dead father flashed before her eyes. She sobbed as her captor headed toward the door.

  Then, the room exploded into violence.

  From Josey's vantage point it appeared that the shadows along the wall came alive and attacked the man standing by the window. He fell to his knees, his face as pale as a bedsheet. A ribbon of blood spilled from his open mouth. Markus drew his sword. A silvery blur flashed. Markus fell to the carpet, bleeding from a gaping cut across his throat. Josey's bearer dropped her without warning. She landed hard on her hip. A moment later, the man gasped before joining her on the floor with a ghastly wound where his nose had been.

  Josey curled into a tight ball and squeezed her eyes shut. This can't be happening! But it was. She rocked and prayed for the nightmare to end.

  It was over as quickly as it began. Silence fell over the chamber, except for the crackle of the hearth embers. Josey yelped as powerful hands lifted her into the air. She imagined a knife blade sinking toward her bosom, its red tip eager to end her life. The room spun between the cracked slits of her eyelids, and a cool breeze rustled the hem of her nightgown.

  The window! The beast was abducting her. She squirmed to get away. She clawed with both hands. One of her kicks landed squarely and the killer paused. Fingers grasped her hair. Then, a terrible pain shot through her skull and her sight dimmed.

  A cold wind caressed Josey's face as she floated through a gray-black world of shadows lit by a smiling, silver moon.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  aim's insides trembled as he sto
le across the midnight lawn. It was all he could do to keep his hands from shaking. Five members of the Sacred-fucking-Brotherhood lay in a High Town mansion, dead by his hand, and a plethora of questions raced through his head. Most of them concerned the limp, sweet-smelling form slung over his shoulder.

  He regretted dashing the girl's head against the wall, but she had been wriggling so hard he thought she might pitch them both out the window. Anyway, it gave him some much-needed silence to think. He climbed over the gate and dropped into the alley behind the house with a grunt. The girl stirred, but did not waken. He couldn't help noticing her long legs under the flimsy nightgown and the soft breasts pressed against his shoulder. With a sigh, Caim shifted her weight and started hiking.

  As he crept down the dark alley, he considered the carnage he'd left behind. He had run into his share of crooked lawmen in his time, but he had never seen any operate as boldly as the soldiers inside. They had been downright cocky. How had they gotten there so quickly? Had they been tipped off? That was a possibility. Even the men of the Brotherhood weren't above the graft and corruption that flowed through Othir like a foul air. The old man's death hadn't concerned them in the least, but finding the girl still alive had caught them off guard. Why? What was her place in this mystery? He needed answers, and he'd wager tonight's earnings she knew something.

  At least one thing had gone right tonight. He had resisted the urge to call upon his powers, but it hadn't been easy. He'd wanted that edge, felt it calling him. Just a sliver; that's all he would need. But the memory of what had happened at the Blue Vine and the monstrous presence that had answered his summons were enough to deter him. Caim shook his head in the dark. What was happening to him?

  Kit hovered over him. "How did the tinmen get here so fast?"

  "Good question." He kept his voice low. Sounds carried a long way on these quiet streets. "I wish I knew."

  Kit floated closer to the girl. "Why did you take her? Not having enough fun as a cutthroat, you've sunk to kidnapping now?"

  The question was bothering Caim as well. Why had he gone back? The job was a bust. He could have left the girl and fled the house, content that his part in the events would remain unknown. But overhearing the soldiers' conversation, it became apparent that they meant to eliminate her, and something in him couldn't let that happen. So he had risked everything he had built-his livelihood, his freedom-to save her. What the hell was he thinking? The girl's bosom expanded and contracted against Calm's cheek. She smelled faintly of lavender.

  "You'd be better off just killing her and dumping the body," Kit said. "She'll scream for help as soon as she comes to."

  "Kit, go scout-"

  "Maybe you should hit her on the head again, just to make sure."

  "Kit!" He clenched his jaws shut as his voice echoed off the stone facades on either side.

  She put her hands on her tiny hips. "I looked already, all right? There's no one around, which is weird. I mean, High Town is always crawling with the law. But tonight it's like they all have something better to do. There's no one out except for a couple youngsters over on Duchess Street."

  "Then check them out. I don't want to be caught by surprise again tonight."

  "They're harmless. Just a couple kids out for a ride on their daddies' ponies. Not like this one." She swatted at the girl's drooping head, her hand passing through the wavy locks. "She's going to be nothing but trouble. Mark my words."

  Caim ground his teeth together until he thought he might shatter a tooth. Nothing about tonight made sense, especially his reaction to this strange girl. He didn't like snags in his routine. With Kit staring at him, he felt something give.

  "I couldn't leave her there. All right? I can't explain it. I just felt, I don't know, like it was wrong. The whole thing stinks. Anyway, she might know something about what happened up there."

  "And I'm sure she'll be eager to tell you everything, what with you looking all guilty standing over her father's corpse."

  "He was already dead when I got there."

  She wiped an imaginary tear from her eye. "I'm sure she'll believe that. So what really happened up there?"

  Caim glanced back at the manor falling into the background of the cityscape. The sensation of being watched itched between his shoulder blades. More imagination. No one could track him in the dark. "I don't know, but I intend to find out. Now go scout a path home, the long way around. I don't want any tails."

  "So you're really taking her home with us?" She exhaled a loud huff. "Sometimes, love, you're dumber than you look."

  Caim batted a hand at her ethereal backside. "Scoot."

  "I hear and obey."

  She darted away on the wind, leaving Caim alone with his thoughts and the girl. He studied her while he walked. She was young, maybe eighteen or nineteen, with a proud aquiline nose. Her mouth had fallen open, which made her appear even more innocent and fragile. Caim shook his head. What was he doing? He didn't pretend to know. But it was too late for subtlety. He increased his pace to a quick jog and wished he could leave this night behind.

  The moon hid behind a curtain of clouds. That, and the lateness of the hour, allowed him to leave High Town unseen. Once across the Processional and back on the streets of Low Town, he felt better. He paused at the corner of Clesia and Julian streets, caught at the intersection of two thoughts. He could still dump the girl somewhere and forget this entire night. There was an abandoned house on Clesia used by drunks to sleep off their rotgut dreams. Certainly, that would make Kit happy. But something gnawed at Calm's insides. Someone had tried to set him up. The Brotherhood's arrival had been too well timed. Had they taken him, no magistrate in the city would believe he found the man already dead, nor care. His story would have ended with a speedy trial and a brisk walk to the gallows. It all stank like last week's garbage.

  Caim turned onto Julian Street. An hour later found him at the door to his apartment. Once inside, he laid the girl on the cot in his bedroom. After checking to make sure the window shutter was latched, he went out to the kitchen. He grabbed a half-filled jar of wine from the cupboard and drowned his thirst with a long swallow.

  Kit perched on the edge of the table, her pretty legs crossed. Her dress had changed to a fierce shade of indigo. The color accentuated her pale skin and brought out the purple in her eyes.

  "You know what I'm going to say," she said.

  He set down the wine jar. "You've said it half a dozen times already. Let it go, Kit. It's too late to change what happened."

  "Then let's leave town. Tonight. That High Town bitch is only going to bring you more headaches. Steal a horse and ride. We could be in Michaia in a fortnight."

  "There's a price on my head in Michaia."

  She jumped up and wrapped her arms around his neck. Her touch tickled his chest. "Go east, then, to Arnos. We could see the City of Jewels or hide in some tiny village by the coast, lounge by the ocean in luxury."

  "I'm not leaving. I won't be chased away."

  "Why not? We could make a fresh start. Othir is a stinking sewer. You could be a powerful man somewhere else, with servants and a big house."

  "That old man had a big house and servants. What did it gain him? He's dead this morning, just the same as any drunk knifed in the Gutters."

  "Exactly. Life is short, so enjoy it while you can."

  Caim walked over to a wooden shelf beside the coldbox and took down a small stone vial sealed in brown wax. He peeled it open and measured a spoonful of mealy yellow powder into an earthenware cup, then poured some wine into the cup and swirled it around.

  "I'm just saying you could do better," Kit said as she followed him to the bedroom.

  The girl was still sleeping soundly, but buffets to the head were difficult to judge. She could awake any minute, or not for hours. He dribbled the cup's contents into her mouth and got most of it to go down. He stood over her for a minute, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest. Her full lips glistened from the wine. He untied her bonds and
arranged her limbs more comfortably.

  He left the room, closing the bedroom door behind him as he went back out to the kitchen.

  Kit trailed behind him. "Caim, your mother wouldn't-"

  He held up the cup, one finger pointed at her nose. "Don't, Kit. Just let it go."

  "You know she wouldn't want to see you like this."

  "Give it a rest! This is my life. Either help me or leave me be."

  She puffed out her cheeks and bit her bottom lip, but she didn't go. "Fine. What do you want me to do?"

  He grabbed his cloak. "Watch over the girl. She should sleep till daybreak, but just in case. She might be important."

  "I'm not a nursemaid! Where are you going?"

  He opened the door and peered down the hallway. "To get some answers."

  "What if she wakes up?"

  "You'll think of something."

  He closed the door and padded down the hall, leaving two of his problems behind. It was past midnight and he had a host of questions with no answers. But he had an idea where to start looking.

  The Luccian Palace perched atop Celestial Hill like a harpy poised to swoop down on the city. Built during the old empire, and added to extensively in the decades since, the palace was as much a symbol of Othir's prominence as the True Church itself. Though the prelate abided at Castle DiVecci, most of the Church's administrative and bureaucratic activities were performed here.

  The wing where Ral was met by a young manservant was decorated in an antique style oozing with old money and power. Gold leaf dripped from every conceivable surface. Huge silk tapestries covered the high walls. The atrium's ceiling was painted with scenes from scripture displaying the majesty of the Church Fathers. There was hardly any evidence of their fabled mercy. One painting showed the current prelate, Benevolence II, with a golden orb in one hand and a bloody sword in the other, an impressive pile of dead sinners at his feet.

  Ral reached down to clutch the hilt of his sword while he paced across the black marble tiles, but his hand came away empty; the guards had confiscated his weapons, the ones they could find. He hadn't volunteered the few they missed.