Page 178 of Winter's Echo
“Let’s go.” He took my hand and pulled me forward, his hand sliding up my arm to grip my elbow like before.
We rounded another corner, heading back to the inn when we walked right into the two men who had been with Vorn.
“Shit.”
The point of a sword was at my throat.
“Not so smart now, are you?” the other one said.
Nicco jerked me back, and I felt the scrape against my throat. He lunged forward, his sword in hand, and I scrambled for my own sword as the one who’d held his sword to my throat thrust forward.
I was defending myself quickly, but he was better, faster, and had a longer reach.
He knocked my sword free, and just as I thought he would strike, Nicco’s arm wrapped around his throat, pulling him back. His eyes were on mine as he quickly checked me over.
“Mine,” he growled into the man’s ear, just as he slit his throat.
“You there! Stop!”
I turned and saw the guards rushing in from both directions. There were too many. I looked back at Nicco in panic. He looked over my shoulder, his eyes narrowing.
“You!” came the shout again.
I darted forward, but a strong hand grabbed my cloak and jerked me back.
I looked ahead, expecting to see Nicco charge forward to help me. Instead, he melted into the shadows of a doorway. The way only Nicco could. Present, then not present, the dark simply absorbed him as if he were one of its own.
More guards reached me.
I stood in the street with two bodies on the ground and no companion, and apparently, a very clear description that matched the woman with long dark hair who had been seen in the square earlier that evening.
I didn't run. There was nowhere to run to.
My magic surged, and I forced it down. I definitely did not needthatkind of attention right now.
They took my arms. I let them. I looked up once at the doorway where the shadow was.
Nothing there.
Just the dark, indifferent, and ordinary, as if nothing had happened in its back streets tonight worth noting.
The guards didn't waste time.
My sword was snatched up and gone before I'd thought to grab it. My belt knife followed. Someone patted down my cloak with the practiced thoroughness of someone who had learned that people hid things in obvious places.
They found my purse.
"That's mine," I said.
Nobody responded.
One of them crouched over the two bodies in the street with a lamp, examining them, and I heard the distinct sound of a man deciding which problem required immediate attention and which could wait. He stood and looked at me.
He decided the dead could wait a little longer.
"I didn't—" I started.
"Save it," the one holding my right arm said. Not unkindly. Just tired. Someone who had heard every excuse before and been moved by none of it.
