They had nearly reached the alley when a dark shape stepped into their path, blocking their way. Beyond him, two more Dark Bloods ran across the street. The place was crawling with them!
Ignoring a stab of panic, Rom turned to Jonathan, who he knew to be unarmed. His escape was the only thing that mattered now.
“Through that alley to the Basilica of Spires. Get to Jordin. Stop for nothing. We’ll meet you outside the city.”
Without waiting for a response, Rom veered to his right, straight toward the first Dark Blood. “Roland!” His cry rang down the street. “More!”
He swung his sword as the closest one moved to block Jonathan. With a single blow, he buried the heavy blade into the man’s chest.
“Run!” he shouted. “Now!”
Jonathan dodged the falling body and ran, sprinting around the corner. Alone and running. Gone.
Maker help him.
Rom was so distracted by the thought of this newest risk to him that he only narrowly avoided an oncoming blade. He blocked it at the very last instant, dancing out into the street, away from the alley. Away from the path of Jonathan’s flight.
There would be blood on this street tonight, but at least it would not be Jonathan’s.
The two Dark Bloods converged on him at once.
“Roland!”
CHAPTER TWELVE
AN HOUR HAD PASSED since the others had entered this city of death. An hour that Jordin had spent fighting her own battle-namely, the terrible fear that harm might find Jonathan.
What if the Dark Bloods were already in the Citadel? What if they were more formidable than Roland said? What if there were hundreds of them?
What if, what if, what if?
She had reminded herself that he was with Rom and Roland, who could maneuver and fight their way through the thickest spot. That Jonathan himself was fast and surprisingly skilled. But the truth was that if it came down to it, she wasn’t sure he had the heart to kill.
What if Jonathan was wounded or taken? Or simply unwilling to use his blade?
She should have gone!
Nerves raw, Jordin had hurried through the city, her hood pulled low over her forehead, taking as many back alleys as she could find with the two horses, avoiding the pungent odor of death wherever it was strongest. But any concern for her own discovery had been wholly overshadowed an hour ago by her sheer need to see Jonathan at her side again, unharmed and beautiful.
She had tied the horses to a utility pole tucked behind the basilica and then climbed up the fire escape to the roof. From there it had been an easy matter to climb up the exterior ladder of the tallest spire and swing beneath the rail of the narrow walk near the top.
Byzantium, city of the dead, stretched out before her, its stone-and-brick buildings looking to her eye like nothing so much as a mausoleum. From here she could see the Citadel just to the south, the broad wall around it, the rare, dim outdoor electrical lights of its grounds. For half an hour she’d searched the gates, the streets leading to the far entrance, for any sight of them, looking for any Mortal movement beyond the occasional truck or cart or dead pedestrian ambling by. With each passing minute her anxiety twisted her gut tighter.
The sound of hooves drew her attention to a closer side street intersecting the main way. There a horse-drawn covered cart wobbled in the moonlight, alone. She could smell the human contents from here.
Corpses, Corpses, everywhere.
Too strange, to think that but for the blood she might be oblivious to the odor of death. That she might see in Byzantium a world as alive as the Nomad camp. To think that apart from the external factors of custom and dress, there had once been no difference between Nomads and those of the Order.
That was before Jonathan’s coming, when they had celebrated life without having it.
Without knowing it.
She studied the streets for sight of the others. Her vision had grown more acute the last few years as Jonathan’s blood had matured in her veins. But no amount of Mortal vision could conjure him from the shadows.
She willed herself to be still and to master the cold creeping into her fingertips, to relengthen her breath.
Until tonight, her greatest concern for Jonathan had been that he’d be misunderstood. That the uncertainty and gentleness in his eyes would be seen as weakness by a people who lived by a code of vigilant strength and wild life.
She knew better than perhaps even the old Keeper that Jonathan carried a terrible burden-one she doubted he could carry alone indefinitely.
The blood in his veins had chosen him, not the other way around. He hadn’t asked to take on humanity’s redemption from death, to bleed out for the world, one portion of blood at a time.
Did the others see the torture in his eyes? The questions that followed him like carrion birds? Did they lay awake at night and beg the Maker to ease the way of their savior, as she did? Did they care as much for his life as his blood?
Or was Jonathan only that vessel selected by the centuries to do the Maker’s bidding?
She would be the one by his side-not someone who cared only about the promise of what he could bring-but a woman who knew and loved him for the secrets in his heart.
The instant she thought it, she chided herself. He was the Sovereign and savior of the world. She was an orphan who had been saved by his blood. Her role was to protect and love him. His was to right the world.
From here on out, she would vow to keep her mind in its proper-
Her train of thought broke with movement at the edge of her vision: a man, tearing from an alley into a street two hundred paces west of here.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, adrenaline flooding her veins. She would know that running form anywhere-that head lowered into the night, the length of that stride, his braids streaming behind him.
Jonathan, alone, headed for the front of the basilica.
And then not alone. A tall form sprinted around the corner, thirty paces behind him. A Dark Blood. On the side street, the horse-drawn cart meandered on, on a direct path to intersect Jonathan’s flight.
There was no sign of Rom or Roland.
Something had gone wrong.
Jordin reached around for the bow on her shoulder and then stopped. The distance was too great, a low- percentage attempt that would only delay her getting to him. She had to get closer.
She sprang, catlike, over the short railing, bounded across the ceramic roof tiles, seven paces to the fire escape along the back of the basilica. She swung onto the ladder’s guide rails and slid down, palms burning from the friction of rusted steel on skin.
Down two stories. Three. She shoved away from the fire escape, dropped fifteen feet to the ground on light feet. And then she was running before her thoughts had time to catch her, focused on one thing only: reaching Jonathan before the Dark Blood did.
She ran along the basilica’s eastern wall, sprinting on her toes, demanding her legs fly faster.
Around the corner, grabbing for the drain pipe on the turn.
Hand over her shoulder, slipping her bow free.
The main street careened into view.
Jordin pulled up hard, arrow notched,
