Clare surged to her feet, gripping her knife. Venn cursed as he struggled—and failed—to rise. Clare stepped over him. Shetried to think past the panic swelling inside her. There was nowhere to run and she refused to leave Venn.
The approaching attacker grinned at her fighting stance and flipped the blade in his hand. She realized too late he wasn’t going to fight hand-to-hand—he’d only come closer so he wouldn’t miss.
Clare tensed and the man drew back his arm, prepared to hurl the knife.
A soldier plowed into him, toppling them both to the ground. The movement was a blur, but Clare knew it was Bennick. Her chest squeezed painfully as Bennick and the attacker rolled on the hard floor, Bennick ending up on top. He cocked back a fist and slammed it into the man’s face.
Dirk skiddedto a stop in front of Clare,blocking her view.“Are you all right?” She jerked out a nod and some of the strain left Dirk’s face. He grasped her arm. “We need to find cover.”
“But Venn—”
“The others will get him.”
Arguing would only prolong the danger for all of them, so she moved with him, Dirk sheltering her as they ran to the nearest table. Clare crawled underneath it, jostled by others seeking safety. Elbows caught her ribs and back but she pushed against them to create more space.
Dirk didn’t join her, though. He crouched beside her, one hand grasping the table’s edge. For the first time she noticed the drawn sword in his hand. The blade was streaked red.
Though it felt like an eternity, it was only a few moments before Dirk lurched away so he could help Bennick haul Venn under the table.
Bennick breathed hard, his face slick with sweat. He kneltbeside Venn, but his eyes tracked over Clare, catching on her bloody gloves.
“It’s Venn’s,” she said before he could ask. She made her own quick study of Bennick; he seemed unharmed, except for some swelling on his jaw where he must have taken a hit.
A vein in his temple pulsed as his attention dropped to Venn and the bolt stuck in his back. Without warning, Bennick gripped the bolt and tore it out.
Venn howled. Clare jumped, nearly hitting her head on the table.
Bennick snagged a linen napkin that had fallen to the floor and pressed it over the wound. “You’re going to be fine,” he told Venn, who was trembling.
Clare set a comforting hand against Venn’s head.
“I hate you so much right now,” Venn rasped at Bennick.
“I’m saving your life.”
“If you really cared, you could’ve let him shoot you instead.”
Bennick ignored him and darted a look at Clare. “Can you keep pressure on the wound?”
She nodded, though her stomach knotted. Bennick backed out from under the table to rejoin the fight. Dirk remained beside her, though the way he kept shifting his weight told Clare he itched to help the others.
Shrieks and yells continued as people fought and died. The clash of longswords rang out in the vaulted hall and the thud of bodies falling always seemed to follow the snap of a crossbow. The crash of the main doors flying open made Clare jump and shepressed closer to Venn as new shouts rose above the roar of the fight. Footsteps pounded the stone floor—more palace guards had arrived.
Clare murmured soothing words to Venn, ignoring the strange looks of the nobles huddled nearby. If they thought Serene wouldn’t help Venn, they didn’t really know her.
The fighting was brutal, but after another couple of minutes it was over. Weeping and pained cries filled the room and soldiers shouted orders as they rounded up the surviving enemies.
Bennick ducked under the table. Seeing him safe swept a wave a relief over Clare. He darted a look at Venn. “How is he?”
“I’m not dead,” Venn grunted. “You don’t have to talk over me.”
Wilf and Dirk crouched on either side of Bennick. Wilf eyed Venn and grunted. “You’re supposed to dodge them, idiot.”
Venn growled low in his throat.
“He needs a physician,” Dirk said.
“Wilf,” Bennick ordered.
The pox-scarred soldier nodded and sheathed his weapons.
“Not him,” Venn groaned.
Bennick ignored his friend and wrapped a hand around Clare’s fingers, easing her hand away from Venn’s wound so Wilf could drag the young soldier up into his arms and carry him off.
Bennick’s thumb brushed over her wrist. “Are you all right?”
They were alone under the table now. The nobles had scrambled out, and Dirk stood beside them. Clare’s hands felt weighted with Venn’s blood and she was still trembling. She was alive—all her guards were, but . . . “I thought you were dead,” she whispered, voice roughened with emotion. Bennick stiffened beside her, but she forced herself to continue. “I saw you and Dirk walking toward the main doors with Gavril, and when I saw the soldiers lying there . . .”
Bennick’s eyes softened. “Gavril had a feeling he couldn’t shake. He asked me to come with him to search the nearby servants’ passages, but we didn’t even make it out of the room before the strike happened.” His jaw flexed, his eyes focused on her. “When I saw that man coming for you . . . Fates, I didn’t think I was going to make it.”
Clare swallowed. “Maybe my next lesson should be in throwing knives.”
He huffed a weak laugh and helped her out from under the table. He let go of her arm but remained close at her side.
Clare scanned the room, taking in the damage. Tables had been overthrown, dishes, chairs, and food scattered. Bodies werestretched out on the ground, loved ones kneeling beside them, crying. Guards carried the wounded from the room, leaving the dead on the floor. Clare’s attention lurched over all the bodies, trying not to see the details, but then her eyes snagged on Amil. He was hunched over his father’s body, his
