Page 62 of Sharpest Court

“What is it?” Keil stopped behind me. His voice dropped. “Is that—?”

“Yes,” I breathed, goose bumps rushing up my arms. Even in the dimness, this engraving was unmistakable, carved into the floor as it had been carved into Erik’s weapons. “It’s Erik’s symbol.”

Keil grabbed my elbow and pulled me up. “We need to get out of here.”

A shuffle sounded to the left.

My specter flared toward the surface as Keil’s dagger whistled free.

“Put that blade away, highborn,” a low voice drawled. “You’ll take an eye out.”

A silhouette peeled from the shadows, dark leather slicked with moonlight. Raff was smirking, wielding a crossbow.

And aiming its arrow squarely at Keil’s chest.

17

I stumbled forward automatically, but Keil seized my good ar and yanked me behind him, his grip unyielding.

“What is this?” he asked roughly, his dagger flashing in the dark.

“Protection,” Raff said. “Not all of us are born with a built-in weapon, but I’ll bet your specter isn’t faster than an arrow fired at this distance.” He threw me a narrow look. “So you should tell your lover to lower his dagger.”

Keil jutted his chin at the symbol. “Not until you explain that.”

Raff glanced toward our feet and lifted an eyebrow. “That, highborn, is a dirty floor. Do you not have them at your mansion?”

“Enough.” I pulled down Keil’s dagger-wielding arm. “If you only lured us here to point a weapon at us, then we’re leaving.”

“I thought you wanted a meeting,” Raff said.

“With the translator. Not with you.”

Raff widened his stance. “You two aren’t seeing Caly alone.”

“Are you her handler?” I snapped.

“Of course not,” said a singsong voice, trickling from the shadows. “He’s my husband.”

Keil and I tensed as another figure drifted like vapor into the light.

Raff extended his free arm to tuck the woman close to his side. And though his gaze remained hard, his shoulders relaxed as she melted against his chest, her twin buns of tightly coiled hair settling under his chin.

“They have every right to be defensive, love,” Calytrix said dreamily. Then, to us, with a conspiratorial air: “I’ve always told him: He makes a terrible first impression.”

Raff rolled his eyes and bumped his hip against hers, the gesture astonishingly playful mid-standoff. When even Keil untensed beside me, I looked Calytrix over once more: the smooth ebony skin, the heart-shaped face, the full figure currently pressed to Raff’s. She couldn’t have been older than twenty-five. Yet I’d met courtiers twice her age who couldn’t defuse tension so successfully.

“You’re the translator?” I asked.

Calytrix laughed, the sound bright and disarming. “I’m not a translator. Lysander knew that when he sought my help the first time.”

Keil sheathed his blade and mumbled, “Remind me to tell Lye to be more forthcoming about his contacts in the future.”

“Lysander meant only to protect me,” said Calytrix.

I narrowed my eyes. “From what?”

The couple shared a look that seemed to contain an entire conversation. Finally, Raff sighed and lowered his crossbow.