Page 50 of Sharpest Court

“But that’s not the naughtiest thing Briar has ever done, is it?” she crooned.

My body hummed with agony, and my specter puddled on the floor around me, oozing out like a shimmering blood-spill only I could see. I tried to mold it, to solidify it, but my breaths were sawing out too rapidly now, the terror debilitating. I’d imagined this so many times—being overcome by a Hunter. And so the reality took on a nightmare quality, a horror made worse by its inevitability.

Mara’s face hovered over me, her features cast in shadows. “I was there that night, you know,” she said quietly. “Not in the study. Briar wanted to do that part by herself.”

Tears burned my eyes. I knew what night she was referring to. What scene she must have been echoing with this assault—a Capewell pinning a Paine to the floor.

“I waited downstairs while she finished your father,” Mara said, making the blood roar in my ears. “Briar said he didn’t scream. Didn’t beg. He just said one name, right before he died.” She leaned closer, her hair gliding across my throat as she whispered, “Alissa.”

My specter gushed up, wet with my grief, slopping against Mara so fluidly that she chuckled.

“Garret was less dignified,” she said, adding to my torment. “You should’ve seen how he begged. Writhing under Briar’s blade like a worm.”

I gritted my teeth against a sob, the mass of power crashing around me like a wave as Mara reached behind her.

And brought out another gleaming knife.

I began thrashing again, a bolt of alarm sharpening the mental image: Mara cleaving into my heart as Briar had cleaved into my father’s.

But Mara just increased the pressure of her knees until my hands throbbed, fingers red-hot with my rushing blood.

“Relax, cousin.” She branched a hand through my hair, flattening my cheek against the floor. “I’m not allowed to kill you.” I trembled as the blade flashed in my eyeline, its edge settling on my bottom lip. My breaths fogged the steel as Mara said into my ear, “But I’m just dying for a slice of that pretty face.”

The blade pressed deeper against the soft skin of my lip. I squeezed my eyes shut.

Then Mara’s body surged off me, and the knife clattered to the floor beside my face.

I gasped, cold air rushing back into me. I felt bruised all over, and my hands were unresponsive, shaking and numb.

I jolted as another figure blocked the light above me. Then Keil’s golden eyes came into focus, his voice penetrating the cotton-muffle in my head. His hands were frantic—on my face, my shoulders, sweeping back the hair now plastering my forehead.

Footsteps pounded again, and I bolted upright, searching for Mara. But she must have already run, because it was Lye who now barreled toward us.

“I lost her.” He panted, eyes widening as he looked me over. “Who in hell was she?”

I glanced in dread toward my specter, still sludging off my body and pooling like tar around me.

“My cousin,” I said, the words rasping up my throat. “A Hunter.”

“We have a problem,” Keil said as we strode into the outbuilding on his estate. We’d abandoned our scheme of talking to Raff tomorrow morning and instead hailed a coach out of the Coal Quarter. Now, night blackened the windows beyond this space—a training room, with weapons lining the brick walls and leather punching bags hanging from steel ceiling beams. A springy mat absorbed my steps as the occupants of the room whipped toward us.

Osana had paused with her arm drawn back, about to launch her dagger at a target; Goren and Dashiel halted in their sparring, their shirt-plastered chests heaving.

Then Dashiel sheathed his sword, sweat running into the furrows of his forehead. He looked at the blood on Keil’s shirt—a shoulder wound from when he had knocked me away from Mara’s blade—and his frown deepened. “What happened?”

Keil inhaled, his jaw ticking. “A Daradonian Hunter has made passage to Ansora.”

The group collectively flinched, but Osana appeared the most affected; her arm slackened, and her eyes widened with horror.

“The boy?” Goren demanded, and I stiffened, realizing he was referring to Garret.

“No,” Keil said. Then added, more strained, “This one isn’t quite as fond of Alissa.”

“Well.” Lye hopped onto a weapons cabinet, the contents jostling with his weight. “Fond enough to have left a gift before she ran.” He unsheathed Mara’s knife from his bandolier and tossed it to the mat.

Osana glared at me. “You let her get away?”

“That implies I had any choice in the matter,” I said.