The knife Henry dropped after he stabbed me. After the Shade pulled out his heart.
Abigail steps closer. “To repent, you must unburden yourself of your sins. Let them go, Miss Westwood.”
I glance down at the knife again, just a brief flick of my eyes.
“Confess,” she says, voice soft and melodious as she holds her palms toward me. “Tell us everything you know about Dominic Graves.”
My blood goes cold. That’s what this is about. It isn’t just about my bounty; it’s about taking down Dominic too.
“He isn’t who you think he is,” Henderson says. “He is not the kind of Shadowbane you want to associate with. There’s something wrong with how he operates, and I will find out what that is if it’s the last thing I do. If you tell me what you know about him, confess before our holy witnesses, you will be forgiven.”
“You can do this,” Abigail says. “I knew you were sensible when we first spoke in Thornfal. I knew you were just like me. You’ve sinned, but you were only trying to survive. You sinned again because you thought all hope was lost. You thought Absolution was only a distant dream of your past. But you’re sorry now, and you can atone. Return to the path of righteousness, and you can regain everything you’ve lost. You could even be made Sinless.”
I purse my lips, but I can’t hide my smile. It isn’t a grin of joy but of wicked amusement. “You thought I was the sensible one? You couldn’t be more wrong about me. I’m nothing like you.”
She frowns, her sympathy replaced with shock. “I refuse to believe you’re wicked. Let me save—”
I crouch down, reach for the blade, and lunge for Abigail. Her eyes go wide as I grab her wrist and wrench it behind her back, my taller height an immediate advantage. Then I face her forward and press the knife—still stained with my dried blood from two years ago—to her throat. “Let me pass.”
The priests’ swords are already raised, and Henderson slowly unsheathes his. His expression is calm. Amused, even.
I press the knife’s edge more firmly against Abigail’s throat, and she cries out. “I mean it,” I say. “I will slit her fucking throat if you don’t let me pass.”
“Do it,” Henderson says, taking a slow step closer. He doesn’t bother shifting into a fighting stance. His lack of fear is unnerving. “I can heal her. I can stab straight through her just to get to you. Meanwhile the priests can hack off your arms. My blood can heal yourwounds just enough to keep you alive. Not that I need to. It’s only that your bounty is worth more with your heart still beating.”
The organ in question riots in response. This isn’t going how I wanted.
“Slit her throat or drop the knife,” he says. “This is the last choice I’m giving you.”
My knife hand trembles. All it would take is one swipe of the blade, and I could spill Abigail’s blood. Seize my chance. See if Henderson is bluffing about stabbing through her to get to me. Dominic said she’s Henderson’s favorite Summoner. Maybe they’re more than just a professional partnership. Maybe they’re like…
Like me and Dominic.
That thought has my hand shaking harder. As much as I despise these people, I can’t bring myself to cut this woman’s throat. Abigail is a pious, ignorant fool. Her reverence is for lies, but she doesn’t know that. Or maybe she doesn’t want to look too hard lest she discover the darkness creeping beneath everything she stands for. Either way, I can’t kill her. I’ve never killed anyone—
The memory of Henry’s heart in the Shade’s hand flashes through my mind.
I hesitate too long.
The priests lunge forward and wrench my arms, forcing me to release the Summoner. One pulls my wrist behind my back, just like I did to Abigail, while the other attempts to wrest the knife from my fingers. I bare my teeth and tighten my grip, focusing all my rage on the veiled priest.
Hatred burns in my heart, a sickening, nauseating, beautiful fury.
It simmers in my blood.
Rises to the surface of my skin.
Radiates down my arms to my fingertips.
I cry out as the priest finally loosens my grip, but as the knife falls to the ground, darkness fills the space in its absence, a tiny wisp of shadow that grows against my palm.
There is no lantern light to brighten the cell.
Not this time.
A Shade coalesces in my hand, taking form as a flying squirrel. The priest gasps, but before he can react, the Shade leaps from my hand to his shoulder, then beneath his veil. The priest makes a choking sound and begins to convulse, slowly at first, but then harder. Harder.
His body goes still just as blotches of red splash against the other side of his veil, painting it in blood.
