He thins his lips as if he only now realizes our conversation has veered far from where he wanted it. I’m ready to let him seize control again. I can’t imagine this ending well unless I agree to our damn talk. One wrong move and he’ll have the Shades behind us closing in. Even if I could manage to cut through the frenzy without endangering my crew, I’d still have to reverse the wagon off the bridge and flee back the way we came. Unless I deal with Henderson here and now, he’ll follow us.
At least I have something like a plan.
He straightens, his expression darkening. “Come, Graves. Leave your sword and bring your Summoners.”
I hand the reins over to Calvin, huffing a humorless laugh. “I’m not leaving my sword or bringing my Summoners. You’re armed, and I don’t believe for a minute that’s your entire crew. You normally have five or six Summoners, and I don’t see your favorite.” I scan the four masked figures, finding none who resembles the older woman from the tavern. She’s been his Summoner the longest, and if I recall, her name is Abigail.
“Leave the youngest, then,” Henderson says. “I’m not interested in her anyway.”
I bristle. That means heisinterested in Inana and Bard.
“And if you insist on meeting as equals…” He unhooks his sword belt and passes it to one of his Summoners. At Henderson’s nod, the Summoner sets it down in the snow behind them. “Satisfied?”
I’d feel better if we both kept our swords, but if he wants a farce, I’ll play.
Besides, the diversion serves me well. While I unstrap my scabbard with one hand, I slide my hidden vial out from my gauntlet with the other. I uncork it, cover the opening with my thumb, and briefly tip it. As I set the sword to the side, I swipe my thumb over my tongue, the taste of blood filling my veins with a tingling hum of power. The pain from my wound disappears completely. By the time I climb down from the wagon, the vial is sealed and tucked back under my gauntlet.
“Order your Summoners out,” Henderson says. “No artistic tools. Keep them four paces behind you.”
“Bard. Inana.” Under my breath, I add, “Sloth, tell Inana to hum. Tell her that she and Bard are to run back to the wagon when I give the signal. They’ll know it when they see it.”
Bard and Inana emerge from the wagon behind me. I sense Sloth pulling away, slithering in a pool over the snow and hiding beneath Inana’s skirts. He passes on the message, his words hidden from everyone save for me and her. I feel the moment she obeys, my three shadows calming at once. Her voice is too quiet to catch over the roar of the river below us, but that’s enough. So long as she hums and Harlow draws, we should be able to counteract whatever art Henderson’s Summoner is performing. Until his archer fucking shoots, that is.
Slowly, I close the distance between us and Henderson, my fingers begging me to unsheathe one of the daggers at my waist. That bastard must not consider my knife skills much of a threat for him to have let me keep them. Though he too is strapped with a dagger, so I suppose we’re even.
I stop on the other side of the diagram.
“What is this about, Henderson?” I shift my feet as I speak, letting the vial slide from my gauntlet to fall safely onto the snow before I fold my arms over my chest. “Why are you so godsdamned interested in my Summoners?”
“You know what they’re guilty of, don’t you? Murder. Of an unspeakable nature. Which makes their crimes treason too.”
I sense the moment Inana stops humming, a heartbeat before I hear her cracked voice. “What?”
Henderson’s eyes slide to her. “Ah, yes, you. The woman who destroyed an entire village with her actions.”
Even from four paces behind me, her shock invades my senses. I mentally tug Sloth away from her, to free me from getting tangled in her emotions, but he won’t budge. Damn that dog.
“Don’t play coy,” Henderson says. “I know you’re a killer.”
Her panic briefly abates. “You’ve got the wrong person. I didn’t murder anyone or destroy a—”
“Dunway?” Henderson beams with satisfaction as she snaps her mouth shut. “I see you know what I’m talking about.”
“I don’t.”
“Enough,” I say, both to her and Henderson. She should fucking know better than to fall for his lure. “You have no right to interrogate them. As my Summoners, they can’t be prosecuted for past crimes.”
Henderson returns his gaze to me. “But a pious Shadowbane would dismiss his Summoners and turn them over to the crown if he found out they were guilty of treason. If you’re not willing to do that, relinquish them into my custody. Let me turn them in. I’m willing to look away from your shortcomings and accept that they’re due to a moral quandary you’re having. Is that what it is? Do you feel guilty about condemning them to the crown’s justice? Or…”
I shift slightly as his lips tilt in a devious grin. With subtle motions, I slide the vial forward with the tip of my shoe, hidden beneath the snow, until it reaches the edge of the circle. Then, without stepping fully down, I plant my foot over it.
“Or is it something more sinister?” Henderson says. “Do you perhaps dole out justice on your own, adopting these pitiful outlaws, using them, and then slitting their fucking—”
I bare my teeth and press my foot all the way down. Glass cracks beneath my boot, freeing the blood that hums in resonance with the iron tang still melting on my tongue. At once, light erupts before us, filling the diagram, as wide as the bridge and twice my height. Without hesitation, I dart through the pillar of light and come out the other side, charging straight for the armed Summoner. His hands tremble as he retrieves the arrow that must have fallen in the snow when he was startled by the unexpected light. He doesn’t see me until my knife is already at his throat.
I whirl the man around, letting my blade dig into his skin. “Shoot him,” I grate in his ear as we face Henderson, who scrambles on his knees. He manages to close his hands around the hilt of his sword but freezes when he sees me with his Summoner. The archer slams his head back, aiming for my nose, but I’m already angled away from him. His attempt does nothing but give me a reason to drag my blade across his throat. As I do, blood sprays from the wound.
The resistance of flesh against steel is so much stronger—so much more personal—than cleaving through a Shade or decapitating an Incarnate with my sword. Disgust writhes through me, but it’s faint, as is the guilt and shame that always comes from taking a life, even with my blunted emotional range.
