Now, he felt only hatred.
“It’s her,” he seethed. He wanted to bolt after her, but they needed to close the distance first. The streets were too crowded and the alleyways of Zagrev were intricate, difficult to navigate and easy to get lost in. They couldn’t afford to alert Tam to their presence until they were close enough to actually catch her. He refused to lose her—or any rebels she might be meeting with.
Carver started moving, with Rhone mirroring him. He shot a glance at the knight. “She’s dangerous. Don’t underestimate her.” Not like he—or Rivard—had.
Rhone’s expression darkened, obviously following Carver’s thoughts.
They moved quickly but quietly through the crowd, headed for the alleyway Tam had disappeared down. Carver hadn’t brought his longsword, and he regretted that now. Still, in the confines of a narrow alley, knives would be better anyway. He withdrew one from his belt. From the corner of his eye, he saw Rhone draw one of his own. Saints, he’d never imagined he would enter a fight with Rhone Quinn at his side.
Near the alley’s mouth, an older man managing a wooden cart laden with an assortment of fruit noticed their drawn blades. His face paled.
“Church business,” Rhone snapped. “Keep quiet and out of the way.”
The man’s eyes slashed over Rhone’s unmistakable uniform, and he shrank back with a short, terrified nod, even as he made the sign to ward off evil.
Rhone and Carver entered the alley swiftly and silently. There was no sign of Tam, but the shadows weren’t deep enough to hide her and there were no doors or windows along the buildings. There was only one way she could have gone: forward.
They moved among the refuse that littered the alley, the cloying stench of rotted food mingling with the acrid scent of urine—and worse. Carver tried not to breathe too deeply. He also tried not to think of how stealthily Rhone moved. Like a perfectly trained soldier. Or what he really was: a hunter, trained to kill empaths.
Their steps slowed only a little as they neared the end of the alley, an ingrained caution that had saved Carver’s life on multiple occasions. The alley’s exit allowed only two easy options, left or right, since a hulking building sat in front of them.
He met Rhone’s glance, and they shared a short nod before they each peeked around a different corner.
Carver saw nothing to the right, but he heard Rhone’s lowly exhaled, “Here.”
He shifted to look, and there was Tam, making her way down the slightly curving alleyway. She was walking beside the man she’d met in the square. Carver moved to follow, but Rhone caught his arm and dragged him back. Just in time, since Tam had started to throw a look over her shoulder.
Carver pressed his back against the alley wall, gritting his teeth to keep from springing after her.
After a couple of heartbeats, Rhone slowly—carefully—peered around the corner. A muscle in his jaw worked. “They’re still moving . . . turning right . . .”
Carver knew they must have disappeared from view because Rhone was suddenly moving after them. Carver was right on his heels, his grip on his dagger firm and ready.
They jogged quietly down the curved alley, passing doors with peeling paint that may have once been bright, but were now layered in grime. Carver tried to avoid the suspect puddles on the ground—it hadn’t rained in days—and he and Rhone both attempted to keep their footfalls quiet against the cobbled street, especially as they approached the alleyway Tam must have vanished down.
They were nearly there when four men charged around the corner, rushing them with drawn knives glinting.
Chapter 39
Amryn
“You’vegrownup,”Tirassaid, his cool eyes fastened on her.
Amryn’s heart pounded as she stared at her brother. The last time she’d seen him, he’d still been a boy at twelve years old. He’d been stained in blood. They’dbothbeen. Their mother’s, and the knights who had killed her.
Tiras had saved her life that night, just as he protected her during their long walk back to Ferradin’s castle. They’d walked right up to their Uncle Rix, who had looked upon them with horror.
Amryn hadn’t been horrified by the blood on her tattered nightgown or under her fingernails. She’d felt nothing as she’d followed her brother home.
Tiras had made sure of that.
Amryn glanced toward Ford and Elowen. They were nearby. Close enough that Ford should have noticed a stranger standing with her. But he hadn’t. The banter between him and Elowen continued without pause. Like they didn’t even see Tiras.
Fear trickled through her. She knew Tiras could make anyone in the square feel whatever he wanted them to feel. Disinterest or apathy clearly worked for his purposes, at least for now.
“You’ve changed,” Tiras said. There was no inflection in his voice. No hint of nostalgia. She couldn’t even tell if he was disparaging her somehow.
“So have you,” she whispered.
