The Treasure Keeper

and forearms sank into the stabbed man's chest.

He felt him breathe. He felt the blood in his lungs, the bubbly rasping ache.

He felt it.

Later on Rhys would never be able to fully explain what manic thing seized him then; divine inspiration or the devil's own hand, it hardly mattered. All that mattered was that he realized what it meant. What he could do.

And so he did it.

A few things happened at once.

Her fingers released the paper flowers to the ground.

The sanf with the gun stepped forward, the soles of his shoes grinding against the minute grains of dust and grit that sprinkled the courtyard with a sound in her ears that was as loud as the ocean thundering to shore. His breath hissed out; the air in front of him pushed forward, parted with measurable friction against the surface of her back.

All her muscles grew taut, every inch of her flow and movement. As she was pivoting around she was Turning invisible, a gown that stood alone, hairpins suspended midair.

He wasn't expecting it, clearly. He pulled back, his eyes widening. The barrel of the pistol wavered, stealing the pallid light in a long, silvery dart.

One shot. That's all he'd have. One shot before she reached him.

The gown floated over the stones. She herself floated, dreamlike in her state of fury and fright, dodging the hollow black dot of the barrel trying to follow her, moving closer, and closer, until the man who was the filthy hand of the sanf inimicus peeled his lips back into a sneer and took a quick and steady aim at her dress.

Something flashed. She heard no noise from the gun, no retort. Felt no pain.

But she froze anyway, an instinctive reaction, waiting for it, for the blood at least.

The sanf still stared at her, the same sneer distorting his face. And there was the blood, gurgling down his jabot, staining the dull white ruffles with dark, dark liquid, because there was a knife in his throat. He pulled it out, lurching backward, his mouth opening and closing like a fish flopped to air.

Something heavy collapsed behind her. She whirled about and saw it was the other man, Hayden's driver. He'd gotten up somehow. He'd taken the knife and thrown it and saved her—

Zoe flung herself to her knees, pressing both palms to his chest. Alain Fortin stared up at her with wondering eyes.

'No, no.' She pushed more firmly against his wound, blood leaking through her fingers; it smelled of hot metal and salt. His heartbeat thudded in slow, hard clouts, uneven against his breastbone. 'I'm so sorry. I'm sorry.'

One breath. Another.

He seemed about to speak, but instead took one last, rattling breath that squeezed away into silence.

'Thank you,' she whispered, and realized she'd said it in English. 'Merci. Merci beaucoup.' She sat back with her wet dripping hands, dazed. As soon as she did, a curious mirage seemed to take the coachman's body, a blurred swirling darkness that rose from inside him to envelop his features, his face and clothing like he was sinking into a pool—but he wasn't. The thing was rising out of him.

'You're welcome,' said Rhys, pulling all the way free. 'Damned good thing I pitched cricket at school.'

She only just managed not to scream. She scrambled backward in surprise instead, her skirts caught beneath her, palms scraping against the flagstones.

'Is the other one dead?' the ghost of Rhys continued, stepping free from the body as easily as if he stepped over the raised entrance to a room. When she didn't respond he glanced down at her, brows lifted.

She could nearly see him—no reflection; there were no windows or glass nearby, only Rhys Langford standing there with all the depth and height and presence he'd always had in life, like a real person—perhaps one standing deep in the shade. The contours of his face, almost visible. The cut of his jaw. The gleam of his eyes.

He made a brisk motion with his hand.

'Zoe, quickly. You've got to check.'

She rolled to her feet. The sanf lay splayed across the courtyard still clutching the knife. The pistol had dropped a few feet away. Blood had sprayed everywhere, matting his hair, a sharp arc across his cheek. The scar across his eyebrow had blanched white. He looked very dead.

A loop of something red and orange and purple lay crushed beside his elbow. She realized it was the gay circlet she'd been given for the dance, the paper flowers soaking up blood.

She couldn't take another step. She tried to and could not. It was so odd, like her feet had sunk roots all the way to the center of the earth. A strange cold shiver began crawling from her fingers to her arms to the column of her spine. To fight it she shook out her hands, hard, and heard the tiny spatter of Alain Fortin's blood hit the stones.

Rhys took the step that she did not.

'I know him,' he said, his voice tight with excitement. 'I know this man. I've seen him before.'

She forced herself to speak. 'Where?'

He shook his head, his long hair curling with smoke, then crouched down to his heels, examining the body. 'I don't think he's dead yet. You'll have to finish it.'

Her voice came as a strangled whisper. 'No.'

'You don't have a choice. Hurry. Don't worry, I'll—I'll tell you how.'

'No!'

He stood, green eyes flashing. 'Goddamn it. This is exactly what I was talking about before. You cannot let him live. He knows what you look like, that you're here in the city. He will hunt you. He will killyou, just as easily as he did that chap over there. These humans have no remorse. We're nothing but animals to them. Do you understand?'

She was panting, knowing he was right, that she had to do it. Their eyes clashed; she gave a short, affirmative jerk of her head. From the ground came a harsh, wet sound; they both glanced back at the man. The sanf twitched once and was still.

'All right,' said the shadow, pushing back his hair. 'Fine. Good. It's done. Do you think you can search his pockets?'

Move. Do it.

She bent and ran her hands over the sanf's coat, his breeches. She found the bulge of a wallet and a fob watch on a silver chain. A holster for the gun. That was all.

'Now go.' Rhys was speaking more quickly now, his words soft and rushed, though of course no one else would overhear. 'The other way, not the way you came in. Get out of here before another couple wanders through. I doubt anyone's drunk enough to misinterpret this.'

Zoe blinked and gestured to the coachman. 'I have to—'

'No,' the shadow interrupted. 'Half the dance hall saw you lead him back here. Believe me, your face is unforgettable. You need to get away now.

'Please,' he said, when she still only stood there, clutching the wallet in her hands. He sounded tired suddenly, nearly exhausted. 'For God's sake, Zoe. Just listen to me. Please.'

She did not look at the two dead men again. She picked up the crushed circlet, pitched it down the well, turned on her heel, and went.

She was sick only once on the way back to the palace, finding an alley and then a wall as she lost the contents of her stomach, a beggar lolling unconscious at the other end, the shadow standing silently beside her.

Chapter Ten