Page 8 of The Lure of Wolves and Whispers

Her stormy eyes fly open, flashing to the silvery gray mist thickening at the end of the lane.

A chill climbs up my ribs. “What is it?”

The dull thump of steel shudders through the hazy air, and the heavy pad of marching boots follows.

Finn pales. Her eyes find mine. “Hide!”

I whirl, searching the lane and alleys for a place to hide. But all the doors are shut, the windows drawn tight. Motes of dust and dirt mingle in the dim light. The mist swallows up any sunlight, and the marching is moving fast—too fast.

Finn’s cheeks turn a sickly gray and her breath catches as she runs her hands along every door we slink past. I can sense the thoughts churning in her mind. Smashing a window would make too much noise; it would only get us caught faster. But if we can’t find a place to hide…

A faint creak sounds beneath her fingers. Without a word, she twists the two of us through a narrow door halfway off its hinges. We scramble inside and press into a narrow space behind the door, mere inches from the mist thickening to eerie fog outside.

My sister presses a finger to her lips.

She doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t need to. I can read her face as easily as the Lady of Shadows tracks down treachery.

If the gardai catch us on the streets so soon after whatever that was in the market, they’ll kill us.

Mercy isn’t a trait bred into the bones of soldiers.

Figures shift outside the slats of the door. Rough breathing and the clang of weapons rise to a din, and the gardai march right in front of us… searching. Hunting.

Wide with terror, Finn’s eyes meet mine. I could reach out an arm and brush the crimson tunics and black leathers of the marching gardai; they’re that close.

Breathing feels lethally loud.

Six. Eight. Ten. Twelve. Fourteen. The column of gardai marches two by two and seems to stretch on without end. My chest burns, and it aches to suck in a full breath; shallow half breaths are all I dare take now.

The gardai mutterings drift through the slats. The same words, again and again, like a chant they’ve been drilled to memorize.“The threat comes in green.”

Finn’s forehead creases.

What threat? Whygreen?

Outside the slatted door, the gardai’s marching boots fade.

We wait, not daring to move until windows begin to crack open again and the sounds of families spill out onto the mist.

“Come on,” Finn whispers, something heavy and dark weighing in her eyes.

We press forward in silence, passing another small shrine to the Martyr wedged between the rotting timbers of an alehouse. It’s nothing but loose mortar, melted candle wax, and the dust of what could be ground bones—or ash. This time, though, Finn doesn’t reach for it. She keeps her hand on the hilt of the short sword at her side.

I keep mine on the familiar knife at my waist.

The steel might not be worth much, even melted down. But being the daughters of a weapons trader means we’re never without some kind of blade, and thank the Old Ones for that. I might not be as good as Finn with a sword yet—she only started trainingme on weapons after our mother was executed—and even a short sword is heavy for my size. But at least knives come naturally, and I can defend myself if someone backs me into a corner.

Just ahead, the end of the lane opens.

Finn’s managed to cut us back to the market in half the time it feels like it took us to get away. Familiar stalls held up by salt-warped old wood rise like wraiths in the mist. The crashing of the sea on the market quay beneath us is a haunting heartbeat. In the distance, past the craggy hulk beneath Castle Mount, the sea cliffs stretch out as far as I can see.

A thin skim of rain sticks to my cheeks. I suck in deep breaths of cold air, until a salt-tinged tang bites at my nose.

I can’t tell what comes from the sting of the mist and what comes from all the blood soaking the dock.

It’severywhere.

They butchered half the market and left the bodies lying in the mud.