Elio pats her hand. “Isla wouldn’t have put them in your privy.”
While he reassures Sofiya that I havesomescruples, I coax my talons out of my nailbeds and gently skim them through Ivan’s hair, erasing him from sight. He jumps.
“These new weapons you all tote around may have given you the delusion of being on equal footing with Faeries,” I purr, “but the Fae have unparalleled power at their fingertips. Power that most have had centuries to wield, so odds are, your friends failed, just like you’ve failed, just like you’ll all fail.”
“Yer wrong, whore. We’re gonna win! No matter how many of us you cut down, more’ll come. King Korol’s time is up.”
“Speaking of King Korol,” I say. “Shall I reiterate my question, or do you recall it?”
“I ain’t talkin’.”
“You’re right.” I plow his scalp with the tips of my talons, adding just enough pressure to coax blood. “You’re going to sing.”
He must’ve sealed his lips to keep from screaming, because all that puffs from his mouth are labored wheezes.
“You were also right about me killing you anyway, but you see, either I’ll have mercy on your wretched soul and keep my friends from torturing you, or?—”
“Does she mean me and you?” I hear Sofiya ask Elio.
“Yes,” he tells her gently.
“I’ve never had a Crow friend.” The burn of emotion roughens Sofiya’s pitch. “Or a Shabbin one. Or a half-blood one.”
I pick up where I left off. “—or I will fillet your skull and leave you to bleed out. What do you prefer?” I wiggle my nails, drawing a scream from his lips this time. “Where are they keeping Konstantin Korol?”
Ivan pants, hollers, snivels.
“What’ll it be?” I make ribbons of his scalp. “A quick trip to the underworld or an agonizingly slow one?”
“In the Throne Room! They’re in the Throne Room!”
48
ISLA
“Rot in agony,” I whisper into Ivan’s ear at the same time as I slash his neck with my talons.
When I straighten, blood is gushing from his neck in crimson ropes, eyes already milky with the sheen of death.
Elio gags, cheeks puffing as though he were holding back a mouthful of vomit. In spite of his waterboarding threat, my friend’s heart is too tender for all of this.
Unlike mine.
“I had a vine at the ready,” Sofiya grumbles as though miffed I beat her to the punch. “In other news, I’m really glad we’re friends now.”
A smile flickers across my lips, brief as a dying ember.
“Help me up. Let’s go off more rebels. I’m feeling very vindictive right now.” Sofiya bears down on Elio’s hand, struggling to sit. She doesn’t succeed. “Stupid iron,” she huffs, hiking up her skirt.
Her breath catches, along with mine and Elio’s, because her leg is…
“Holy Cauldron, is it me or is my leg gray?”
As she props herself up for a better look, I shapeshift into my shadows.Dádhi, the powder in those human bullets… How do you extract it from a Faerie’s bloodstream?
Why? Who was shot?my father’s tone is so sharp it feels like a talon to my eardrums.
Sofiya Patchenkov,I manage to say before shifting back to skin.
