Page 77

I search Death’s face, but it’s locked down too tightly for me to guess what game he’s playing. If he really intends to kill me, why go through all the song and dance earlier? Why give his word? Why hunt me now?

Death can’t lie.

And I’m a fool for believing it. I knew I couldn’t trust him. I knew he betrayed my mother, who was his ally. Why would I believe him, even a little, when he said he didn’t want me dead? This is the Tarot Trials, for fuck’s sake. There can be only five winners, and if Death’s decided I have to die for him to live, then he’ll cut me down without hesitation.

Just like he did my mother.

I grip Cato’s shoulder and reach for Vesper. I’m still a little lightheaded, but I can get us out of here. Then we can hide and … Nothing happens. I can feel the shadows right there, but it’s as if they’re on one side of the river and I’m on the other. I can’t step into them, dragging Cato and Vesper behind me. “Fuck.”

“Time’s run out.” Death and the Tower surge forth as one, their huge swords drawn and ready to end our lives.

Cato shoves Vesper and me back and gets his hands up, beams of sunlight erupting from his palms. The other night, they were huge rivers of magic to ward off the swordsmen, but this time, they’re almost like blades. Death meets him in a crash of power that rattles my bones, but the Tower isn’t aiming for Cato. He’s coming after me. Again.

He swings his broadsword, bringing it down right at my fucking head. I roll out of the way, only to realize too late that they’re intentionally separating us. I catch sight of Vesper’s wide eyes and then I have to roll again, retreating toward the far side of the bridge.

“What are you doing?” I scramble to my feet and pull out my sickles, guiding their handles to attach and creating the long staff with blades on either end. It felt aggressive when I did it the first time, but against the Tower’s sword, I’m suddenly not sure the extra reach will make a single bit of difference.

“Run, Kestrel.” He swings again. The bastard isn’t even breathing hard. “This will be over soon.”

I actually take a step back before I register his words fully. Understanding rolls over me, bringing rage in its wake. Death didn’t lie and neither did the Tower. They aren’t trying to kill me. They’re trying to kill Cato and Vesper. “No. You can’t have them.”

If there was any kind of joy on his face, I might hate him, but his dark eyes are desperate. “Two more have to die.” He doesn’t swing on me again, but he keeps his body between me and the others. “It’s almost over.”

“Not them.” I shift to the side. Vesper is plastered to Cato’s back, purple sparking as they pour every bit of luck at their disposal into keeping him a bare breath ahead of Death’s sword. Their luck will run out before his stamina does. Death doesn’t need to strike a killing blow to win. He is the killing blow.

If I can touch Cato and Vesper, I can get us out of here. Somehow. I couldn’t reach the shadows before, but I have true desperation driving me now. Maybe part of me didn’t really think these men would hurt me, even after everything, but that protection clearly won’t extend to Vesper and Cato. I can’t let them die. I refuse to.

“Kestrel.” The Tower takes up a stance that makes his body bigger, his sword held crosswise. “Don’t. Please.”

“I don’t have a choice.” I pull the shadows to me—they come sluggishly, but they do come—and step forward into them. Or I try to. They feel different this time, thick and viscous, slow to respond. Instead of traveling to the spot right behind Cato and Vesper, I fall.

And fall, and fall, and fall.

I hit the ground with an impact that should break bones, but I bounce a little instead. I press my hands to whatever I landed on, and they penetrate it as if it’s mud, despite the fact I’m clearly lying on the ground. But my hands sink deeper, and I have the sudden, horrible thought that I could sink through this barrier and keep falling forever.

“Where am I?” My words don’t carry. I blink and blink again, but there simply isn’t enough light to see with. The darkness presses against my skin in an almost physical way, cold and not cold at the same time.

Even with my brain desperately trying to skitter right out of my ears and take off into the night, I can compile evidence as well as the next person. I pulled the shadows to me. When I stepped into them, instead of emerging instantaneously at my destination, I ended up … in the shadows?

Just like the Chariot.

If I’m alive, that means he might be as well. The thought is enough to have me scrambling to my feet. My boots sink into the space below my soles, but not enough to prevent me from walking. The problem is I can’t see. I’ve never had to traverse the space between shadows before, and there’s no guarantee I can walk my way out of here. Magic got me in; it stands to reason that magic is the only way to exit. The question is how?

Without external stimulation, there’s nothing to distract me from how loud my racing heart is, from the way my breath rasps in and out of my lungs. At least there’s air here. If suffocation were a risk, I’d already be dead.

That realization would be a lot more comforting if it didn’t all but confirm the Chariot is lurking somewhere in these impenetrable shadows. I need to get out of here, and quickly.

The darkness is so distracting, I have to close my eyes. It helps a little, but now I’m even more aware of the strange stillness of this place. There’s no wind, no insects, no constant background noise of many people living in close quarters. Even in the Moon’s temple, it’s not as still as it is here. I don’t like it.

I like it even less when I do hear something.

A slow plod of footsteps, regular and steady and far more familiar than is comfortable. The sound of the Chariot’s tread—the feel of it—will be fuel for nightmares for years to come. Assuming I live that long. If I don’t get out of here, I won’t live to see sunrise.

Come on, come on, come on.

I try to reverse what Cato talked me through, to draw my power to my palms. With shadows all around, there’s no seeing my destination. My only chance is to imagine it perfectly. Except … I can’t really remember the street we were just on before we started across the bridge.

It’s like any other street on the hill—at least the Minor Court districts. Too-nice storefronts. Streets swept clean. Glass in the windows. Greenhouses and water towers overhead on the rooftops. Trying to picture the bridge itself is no better. Stone, stone, and more stone, the river rushing below. All these things are more impressions than real memory. Fuck.