Curse it. I knew something was wrong.
And I let my desperation to find my sister distract me.
“Do you think it’s the kidnapper?” Anissa whispers.
Belladonna cuts a sharp hand in her direction, which is interesting.
Kidnapper?
Damn it, Soraya. Where are you? What happened to you?
“I think,” Belladonna whispers, her gaze cutting right through me before it searches on, “that someone has returned to finish the job.” She steps closer to me. “What are you searching for, little thief? Didn’t you find it the other night?”
I glance toward the open window. It’s a temptation and a lie, because she’ll be expecting me to go for it. And Anissa stands between me and the door.
Anissa starts tugging the sheets out from under the mattress, lifting the corners of the bed. “The letters have to be here somewhere.”
I just need her to move a fraction to the left—
There it is.
I Sift toward the door. The only problem with my magic is that it’s restricted to line of sight, and so, if I wish to escape the room, I need to be able to open the door to see past it.
“There!” Belladonna cries, and something—a slash of magic—cuts into my back. “There’s blood! Near the door!”
I jerk the door open, solidifying just enough to be able to use the handle and then—
The door is torn from my fingers, slamming closed.
Another Sift, and I’m behind them.
Belladonna turns as if she can see me—or maybe she can scent my blood—and then she has a knife in her hand.
This is what I know. My body reacts as that blade lashes out and I catch her hand, rolling beneath the blow and tossing her over my shoulder. A startled squeak escapes her. I’m punching in and out of shadow, forming for the barest fraction of a second—just enough to throw her—before I vanish again.
It must feel like wrestling with a shadow.
Belladonna lands on the bed and her knife drives into the wall beside Anissa, point first. Anissa screams, hands jerking up far, far too late. The knife missed her by an inch.
Belladonna’s focus locks on her friend and then knife, and then an expression of pure rage twists her features.
Past time to be going.
Belladonna rolls free of the tangle of sheets, and then whips her hand toward me as if she’s throwing something.
A sharp slash of heat whips across my abdomen.
There’s four feet between us but she might as well have a knife in hand.
Blood magic.
And here I am, with only my shadows to save me.
I know when the odds are against me. I punch into shadows, reforming on the window ledge with one hand clapped over my wound. One last look back, where I catch her startled glance, and then I throw myself out the window.
The wind catches me, and then I Sift again.
Gone.
Unseen.
But not unnoticed.
7
“What happened?” Keir grabs two handfuls of my shirt and tears it apart, revealing the blood that weeps down my side.
He was pouring himself a drink when I staggered over the windowsill, and the second he saw me, his eyes turned gold with rage.
Though perhaps it wasn’t aimed at me, for all he did was haul me into the wash chambers and hiss under his breath.
“I told you what happened,” I growl, sitting on the edge of my vanity, where he’s cornered me. “There was a ward set over Soraya’s room. I triggered it when I entered, and then Anissa and Belladonna appeared. I didn’t know Belladonna had the ability to bloody me from such a distance.”
“She’s a princess of the Blood Court.”
And clearly, I am an idiot.
“It’s rare that the royal bloodlines breed down so strongly,” I mutter. “I know Malechus and his brothers have the blood magic, but I didn’t expect Belladonna to wield it. Narcissa didn’t.”
Every royal court is ruled by the strongest family in the lands—marriages are kept firmly along certain lines so as not to dilute the magic in the royal line.
But dilution happens.
It’s rare for any but the direct heirs to wield the kind of magic the court is renowned for.
Some fae marry for love, even though they know their children will suffer the consequences. Some are passed over again and again and must settle for a lower-born marriage. And some reject court life and the pressure of upholding their family’s honor.
For a minor cousin to wield the family’s magic so strongly, it means the Blood Court is not just dangerous—but have spent centuries on carefully selective breeding.
It also means Malechus had best watch his back.
“Narcissa didn’t,” Keir confirms. “She was also desperate to try and lift her status within her family.” A muscle hitches in Keir’s jaw as he surveys the wadded-up shirt I stuffed against my side. I wouldn’t let him touch it until now, and clearly my attempts to contain the bleeding have fallen short. “Who taught you to medic yourself? A pig farmer who’s never seen a needle and thread in his life?”
A wraith warrior who cared less about what a wound looked like after he was done, and more about salvaging what he could from the training camp ranks.
“I’ll heal.”
“Not from this, you won’t.” He gently touches my flushed skin and I wince. “That’s what makes them so dangerous. Many members of this court can cut you from a distance, but if a royal cuts you, then you don’t stop bleeding.”
No wonder I’m ruining a second shirt.
I bite my lip. It’s such a little wound but hasn’t stopped bleeding. The one on my back is shallower, but it’s weeping blood too.
“Here.” Keir tugs a knife from the sheath at his hip and I flinch. He pauses, noting my sudden discomfort. Dark eyes search my face. “I’m not going to hurt you, Merisel.”
Cauldron’s scurvy surface. “Zemira,” I grate out. “The rooms are warded, so nobody will hear you call me by my name in here. And it’s a professional hazard of the job. Knives
