Lukain vanishes over the side of the bridge just as Barnabac’s soldiers begin to advance into Trithea Plaza to shore up the damage done to their district.
I suck in a sharp gasp as Garro says, “Hold tight, lass.”
My world plummets, my arms wrapped so tightly around Garro’s neck I think I’ll suffocate him.
We land on Garro’s feet, Vall quickly behind us. The dhampir limps fast as he can, holding his belly. Vallan ignores the wound to his shoulder and takes off with us.
I take the lead, my mates not willing to let me be the last one out. Our legs carry us mindlessly through smaller streets, winding away toward our exit point.
We run into Skartovius on the way. He’s covered in blood, soot, and ash. I gasp at the sight of the blood.
“None of it is mine,” he says, answering my question before I can ask it. His gold-flecked gaze trains on me. “Butthatis your blood, Sephania.”
I cringe, nodding slowly at my wounded leg.
Skar peels his upper lip back in a snarl. “I’ll kill every last one of these motherfu—”
“Not right now you won’t, Master!” Garro urges.
Skar bites back a retort. His lips firm with a begrudging nod. His hand flicks out, creating tendrils of shadowy walkways our remaining fighters can use along the streets. He takes my hand, tugs me into him, and leads me into the nearest patch of inky blackness—Skar’s own shadow, plastered against a nearby wall, cast from the moon overhead.
Our quartet disappears just as a dozen Military Ward soldiers spill into the street twenty feet away from us.
We emerge out of the shadow of a corpse—one of Manor Marquin’s own—a hundred yards away, past the bridges and canal.
I give Trithea Plaza one last glance over my shoulder, hoping to never see it again. It’s silent here, but behind us the city is filled with thick smoke, shouting, and weapons clashing.
We came here to ambush the ambushers, who thought we would be meeting with the Red Butcher to form some kind of alliance. Our stratagem was to execute a well-planned trap against Alacine Mortis’ spies and assassins. They expected us in the streets—not behind them in their own damned shadows.
At the same time, we didn’t expect Barnabac Craxon’s footmen to emerge on the battlefield so quickly. Because of their swift arrival, I’m unsure how successful our mission has been.Did we execute it well enough and push the Spymistress as much as we needed to?
It’s almost as if Overlord Barnabac had foreknowledge of what was going to happen here tonight.
Our quartet sprints away, running against the wind as we escape the Military Ward alive.
We have no idea how many of Skar’s court also made it out alive. And, against my better judgment, I can’t stop thinking about how my heart lurched when I spotted Lukain Mortis fighting against us.
Chapter 25
Sephania
We return to Manor Marquin bruised and bloodied. The acolytes bandage our wounds, an eerie silence filling the grand ballroom of the mansion as it turns into a makeshift infirmary.
As members of Lord Ashfen’s ragtag nobleblood rebels trickle in throughout the rest of the night, we wait until an hour before dawn to judge the final count.
Out of eighteen members, nine of us return. There’s me, Skartovius, Vallan, Garroway, Indokkus—who strikes a strong, paler resemblance to his brother Vanison—as well as Demilord Tymon Aldion, Helget and one of her mates, and one other. Helg’s second mate didn’t make it back.
“I’ll find two more to replace him,” Helget tells me in the ballroom, wiping blood from her chin where she must have bitten into an assassin, like me.
My old friend’s eyes are anything but friendly these days. Her previously soft, round features have morphed into hard muscle and scowls during her short years as a vampiress. Helget doesn’t show grief at the loss of one of her mates. There’s only fierce determination etched on her face as her other mate embraces her from behind.
“This one made me,” she says, patting the tall man’s arm draped over her front. “Ferar was an exciting third wheel, yes, sweet? But he can be replaced.”
The stern nobleblood nods into her shoulder, his voice raspy as he says, “Yes, my bleak mistress.”
There’s more pain in his eyes than Helget’s. I have a feeling this nobleblood, named Demilord Godial, is responsible for turning Ferar as well as Helget. The loss of his bloodthrall must pain him.
Godial and Ferar acquired Helg during a shadowgala I attended with Lukain and Rirth, what seems like a lifetime ago. They had her disrobed, pulled between them—an instant obsession—in a matter of minutes. I remember being horrified at the time I witnessed it.
