Nothing.
Just fire and smoke and debris raining down into water that hissed and steamed from the heat. Just the sick probability settling in my stomach that Jorn had actually died.
For us. For thirty-six people whose names we didn’t know and countless others.
Wickett’s hands tightened on my shoulders for the span of a breath, so brief I might have imagined it before he released me and spun to face his hunters.
I saw it happen. Saw the exact moment the shift occurred.
The warmth drained from his eyes. His jaw set into something carved from stone. With his shoulders squared, his stance widened, and the Ripper slid into place like a mask made of ice and death and absolute authority.
“Incompetent!” The word cracked across the dock like a whip. He gestured at the burning wreckage, at the hunters pulling their comrade out of the water. “I had him cornered, and you let him escape by killing himself! Do you understand what you cost us? He could have revealed everything!”
One of the hunters stammered, water dripping from him after hauling his comrade to safety. “Sir, we came as fast as?—”
“Not. Fast. Enough. It took me one day of investigation to find this operation. One day.” Wickett moved closer, and the hunters actually stepped back. “How long have you been searching? Weeks? Months? And you found nothing until I handed it to you. No one is to get in or out of this city. We quadrupled the guard around the entire wall. You couldn’t get into the Bloodwood right now if your life depended on it, yet the witches still have a way out. Right under your fucking noses.”
The hunters exchanged glances. No one answered. No one was foolish enough to answer.
“Get out of my sight. All of you. The entire operation was on that ship. So go fucking choose which head will go on my stake.” He turned his back on them, the ultimate dismissal, the clearest statement of disgust. “And pray my father doesn’t ask me why his elite are less effective than one man working alone.”
They scattered. Dragging their waterlogged companion with them, moving as though they couldn’t get away quickly enough.
When they were gone, Wickett turned to me.
The Ripper was still firmly in place. Cold. Controlled. Everything his father had trained him to be.
“Go back to Chancellery House, witch.” He was loud enough to be heard by anyone within earshot. “Before I’m tempted to remind them what a witch’s blood looks like, since apparently they haven’t seen any in a while.”
I swallowed a tiny gasp.
I knew it was a performance; knew he was protecting me—protecting both of us by selling the illusion that we were nothing to each other. Commander and conscript. Hunter and witch. Nothing more.
But Furies, he sold it well.
So well that for one horrible moment, I almost believed him. Almost forgot the way he’d nearly kissed me in the hallway this morning, the vulnerability in his eyes when he admitted whathe was really doing here. I almost forgot that, somewhere in the flames and smoke, his friend might be dying while we stood here pretending not to care.
I turned and walked away.
Silas fell into step beside me, and I felt rather than saw Wickett watch me go.
I’d made it twenty paces before the rest of the Venatori appeared, emerging from the maze of warehouses and stacked cargo like they’d been there the whole time.
Calder’s gaze found mine. “Okay?”
I managed a nod. “Okay.”
They walked beside me without question, and we made our way back toward refuge through a city that felt like it was dying by its own choice. We passed the heretics huddled on street corners, the sprites swarming above, moved past the crowds streaming toward the docks because they were curious.
A young hunter, who couldn’t have been more than ten, sat on the ground outside a shuttered shop, fidgeting with her Life Rune. Adjusting it. Checking it. Making sure it was still there, still working, still keeping her alive.
We passed a scorched woman who leaned out a high window to see what the commotion at the docks had been, her face lined with the kind of exhaustion that came from simply surviving.
And, on the corner, a boy sold newspapers, his voice cutting through the afternoon noise. “Nexus update! The championship is coming! Betting odds! Monster attacks in the Tangles leaves families dead!” He paused for breath, then continued. “Get your papers! October ninth, hot off the press.”
We kept walking, leaving Wickett farther and farther behind.
His easy dismissal before,I’m tempted to remind them what a witch’s blood looks like, echoed in my mind.
