"I'm fine."
"You're not, but we can argue later." She squares her shoulders. "Which way?"
Every instinct says shadow-travel her somewhere safe. But I need to assess damage, check who else is compromised. Can't do that remotely.
"Behind me. Always. I say drop, you hit ground. I say run, you run. Clear?"
She nods. Her hand grabs my ruined shirt. Holding on.
More screams below. Joss expressing displeasure through knifework. At least lieutenants are handling things.
I guide us through carnage that was my organized life. Should have known. Should have prepared.
Should have kissed her when I had the chance.
Problem for men who survive the next hour. Right now, guild to protect. Civilian going into shock once adrenaline crashes.
The Shadow King has work.
She still hasn't let go of my shirt.
Chapter 12
I can't let go of his shirt and there's blood under my fingernails and I think I want to kiss him more now than I did five minutes ago, which seems like something I should examine later when people aren't actively trying to murder us.
"Left," Ruvan says, and I follow because that's what you do when someone who just killed six people gives directions. His shoulder's bleeding through his shirt – that lovely black shirt that probably cost more than my monthly rent and now has holes in it. Water magic holes. Very specific damage. Going to need special mending.
We turn left into a corridor I remember from yesterday. I'd been carrying too many cleaning supplies and knocked over that suit of armor. Someone put it back. Now there's blood on the helmet.
More Tide Runners ahead. Four of them, water swirling around their hands. The water catches the torchlight and makes these beautiful refraction patterns that I'd love to paint if they weren't attached to people trying to kill us.
Ruvan doesn't even slow down. Just walks forward. His shadows unfurl from his feet – have you ever watched ink spill across wet paper? It moves like that but faster. And vertical. And homicidal.
The first attacker raises his hands and the water forms this gorgeous spiral, all blues and whites like seafoam. Would make an excellent study for—
The shadow goes through his chest with a wet sound. The water spiral collapses instantly, splashing everywhere. Those floors just dried from yesterday's mopping.
He moves like violence is just breathing to him. Natural as heartbeat. Turn. Duck. The second one's water whip misses by inches – leaves droplets on the wall that are definitely going to cause water stains. Ruvan's already inside his guard, shadows wrapping around his throat. The crack echoes off stone.
My thighs clench.
That's— okay. That's arousal. I know what arousal is. I'm twenty-seven, not twelve. But right now? While someone's windpipe is being crushed? My body thinks this is the appropriate time for... that? Someone just died and I'm standing here getting wet because Ruvan made murder look graceful. What is wrong with me? This is like getting turned on at a funeral. Worse. At least funerals have already happened. This is active killing and my body's responding like he's doing something much different with those hands.
The next two rush together. Smart tactics. Their water merges into this massive wave that smells like the harbor – salt and fish and something rotting. Doesn't matter. Ruvan splits into shadow – literally splits – and reforms behind them. They don't even have time to turn before the shadows pierce through. Quick. Clean. Efficient.
Beautiful.
That thought sits there like a stone in my stomach. I found it beautiful. Violence. Death. The way he moved through them like it was nothing. My body's doing that warm melting thing it does when— when normal people do normal attractive things. Not murder.
Is this something people talk about? "Hi, I watched someone commit multiple homicides and now I need to changemy underwear." That's not a conversation that happens. Is it? Maybe it is. Maybe there's a support group.
The water splashes down, no longer controlled, just gravity doing its job. Going to need so many towels. And everyone's getting soaked. That's going to be so many colds tomorrow.
"Are you hurt?" He's in front of me suddenly, hands hovering like he wants to check for injuries but won't touch without permission. There's blood spray across his jaw.
"No, I'm—" Aroused. Disturbed. Questioning everything about myself. "Fine. Your shoulder's worse though."
"It's nothing."
