The solange-eyed one—was it the solange-eyed one?—pressed his lips into a cruel smile. The wind had never been good at reading human expressions, but it was certain this was a death smile.
The wind skittered over the fabric of the man’s shirt and swept over the line of his muscles. The scent of cranberry and allspice was gone, replaced by the acrid, smokelike tint of bitterness and cruelty.
Sometimes, the trickster dressed himself in illusion and played at being the solange-eyed one. This wasn’t the trickster. The wind was fooled sometimes; it admitted that it could be fooled by illusion. The trickster was good, but the wind knew to look for the lightning-quick flash of his mischievous smile or the laughing spark in his eyes. This man was not the trickster.
It wasn’t the boy either. The boy might cloak himself as someone else, but he couldn’t change his scent like the trickster, and his voice never took on the proper timbre. Besides, the boy was gone. Lost.
So the wind had to conclude this was the solange-eyed one, back from the underworld, a twisted, cruel, wrong thing.
“Mari?” the solange-eyed one asked, his voice a deep, thundering rumble. “You want me to help Mari?”
The innocent one held very still. His fingers, tipped with claws, curled into the soft flesh of his palm. The wind rode on his breath-held stillness.
“Yes,” he finally whispered. “No one else will. No one else can. She doesn’t want this. I know. She doesn’t want?—”
“How about . . .” the solange-eyed man interrupted, and the innocent one fell silent. He smiled at the blood running down the innocent one’s cheek. “How about you give a message to Mari for me? That would help her.”
The innocent one sagged in relief. The wind rode on his shuddering breath. Stupid. Stupid, relieved human. “Yes. Okay.”
The innocent one held very still. The wind held very, very still with him.
The solange-eyed one leaned forward, dragging his gaze over the long, bleeding slices on the innocent one’s skin. “Don’t worry. The cuts were a misunderstanding. Now that we see eye to eye . . .”
The innocent one gave a slow nod.
“Good.” The solange-eyed one’s pulse was a slow, throbbing drum, and the wind vibrated with the warning. “Then give Mari this message for me. I’m coming. I’m coming for you. I’m going to kill everything and everyone you love. And after, when you’re a broken, wrecked heap of misery, I’m going to slit your throat while you watch the world burn.”
The innocent one cried, “No!” and threw his hands out.
It was too late.
The solange-eyed one plunged his fire sword into the innocent one’s heart.
The wind shrieked as the sword flew through it and pierced the innocent one, pinning him in place. The wind wailed as blood bubbled around the burning fire sword and the innocent one fell to his knees.
The solange-eyed one gripped the sword and shoved it deeper, wrenching a wretched, dying cry from the innocent one. The solange-eyed one watched him with a grim, cold expression that reminded the wind of the terrible, mute watcher stones beneath the Bard’s mansion. He watched with terrible, mute coldness as the innocent one gasped and struggled to breathe.
The wind slipped over a hot tear and gently stroked the innocent one’s face. It will be okay. It will be all right. The wind blew a warm breeze through his soft cattail hair and fanned the gentle scent of the morning sun shining on dew-soaked maples. It knew the innocent one liked to sit on the green park bench beneath the maples and watch the sun rise. It saw him quiet and alone in the river park sometimes. So the wind stroked his wet cheek and brought him the scent of green, sunlit morning leaves. It will be all right. It will be okay.
The wind couldn’t offer any benedictions; it never offered absolution, but it could offer comfort.
Innocent one, it will be all right.
“Mercy,” he gasped, “please. Mercy.”
Was he asking for himself, or was he asking for the girl?
The solange-eyed one twisted the sword and shoved the innocent one free. He collapsed to the dirty, garbage-stained concrete.
The wind fell over him, spreading in a thin, comforting sheet. The innocent one took a shallow, shaking breath.
“Sorry,” the solange-eyed one said. “I’m all out of mercy.”
The innocent one died.
The wind climbed upward, rising on his last exhale, spearing toward the sky. It brushed aside the fog. It swept through the rain. It rose above the alley where the solange-eyed man stood over the innocent one’s body.
The wind sped through the mist, spurred on by the innocent one’s plea. It rushed eastward toward the dark spires of Hell Gate. There was no time to waste. There was no time to mourn. The wind had to warn the girl that innocence was dead.
