Which had been fine. He’d used these three days to sort out his plans for Aelin Galathynius, how he’d return the favor she’d dealt him.

The inn seemed safe enough, so Lorcan left Elide to her bartering—turned out, she wanted new clothes, too—and wandered the ramshackle streets of the backwater town in search of supplies.

The streets were abuzz with river traders and fisherfolk mooring for the night. Lorcan managed to intimidate his way into buying a crate of apples, dried venison, and some oats for half their usual price. Just to get him away, the merchant along the crumbling quay threw in a few pears—for the lovely lady, he’d said.

Lorcan, arms full of his wares, was almost to the barge when the words echoed in his head, an off-kilter pealing.

He hadn’t taken Elide past that section of the quay. Hadn’t spied the man while he’d been docking, or when they’d left. Rumor could account for it, but this was a river town: strangers were always coming and going, and paid for their anonymity.

He hurried back to the barge. Fog had rippled in from the river, clouding the town and the opposite bank. By the time he dumped the crate and wares onto the boat, not even bothering to tie them down, the streets had emptied.

His magic stirred. He scanned the fog, the splotches of gold where candles shone in windows. Not right, not right, not right, his magic whispered.

Where was she?

Hurry, he willed her, counting the blocks they’d taken to the inn. She should have been back by now.

The fog pressed in. Squeaking sounded at his boots.

Lorcan snarled at the cobblestones as rats streamed past—toward the water. They flung themselves into the river, crawling and clawing over one another.

Something wasn’t coming—something was here.

The innkeeper insisted she try on the clothes before she bought them. She bundled them in Elide’s arms and pointed her toward a room in the back of the inn.

Men stared at her—too eagerly—as she passed and strode down a narrow hall. Typical of Lorcan to leave her while he sought whatever he needed. Elide shoved into the room, finding it black and chilled. She twisted, scanning for a candle and flint.

The door snapped shut, sealing her in.

Elide lunged for the handle as that little voice whispered, Run run run run run run.

She slammed into something muscled, bony, and leathery.

It reeked of spoiled meat and old blood.

A candle sparked to life across the room. Revealing a wooden table, an empty hearth, sealed windows, and …

Vernon. Sitting on the other side of the table, smiling at her like a cat.

Strong hands tipped in claws clamped on her shoulders, nails cutting through her leathers. The ilken held her firmly as her uncle drawled, “What an adventure you’ve had, Elide.”

50

“How did you find me?” Elide breathed, the reek of the ilken nearly enough to make her vomit.

Her uncle rose to his feet in a fluid, unhurried movement, straightening his green tunic. “Asking questions to buy yourself time? Clever, but expected.” He jerked his chin to the creature. It loosed a low, guttural clicking sound.

The door opened behind it, revealing two other ilken now crowding the hall with their wings and hideous faces. Oh gods. Oh, gods.

Think think think think think.

“Your companion, last we heard, was putting supplies on his boat and unmooring it. You probably should have paid him more.”

“He’s my husband,” she hissed. “You have no right to take me from him—none.” Because once she was married, Vernon’s wardenship over her life ended.

Vernon let out a low laugh. “Lorcan Salvaterre, Maeve’s second-in-command, is your husband? Really, Elide.” He waved a lazy hand to the ilken. “We depart now.”

Fight now—now, before they had the chance to move her, to get her away.

But where to run? The innkeeper had sold her out, someone had betrayed their location on this river—

The ilken tugged at her. She planted her heels onto the wooden slats, little good it would do.

It let out a low laugh and brought its mouth to her ear. “Your blood smells clean.”

She recoiled, but it gripped her hard, its grayish tongue tickling the side of her neck. Thrashing, she still could do nothing as it twisted them into the hall and toward the two waiting ilken in it. To the back door, not ten feet away, already open to the night beyond.

“You see what I shielded you from at Morath, Elide?” Vernon crooned, falling into step behind them. She slammed her feet into the wooden floor, over and over, straining for the wall, for anything to have leverage to push and fight against it—

No.

No.

No.

Lorcan had left—he’d gotten everything he needed from her and left. She’d slowed him down, had brought enemy after enemy after him.

“And whatever will you do back at Morath,” Vernon mused, “now that Manon Blackbeak is dead?”

Elide’s chest cracked open at the words. Manon—

“Gutted by her own grandmother and thrown off the side of the Keep for her disobedience. Of course, I’ll shield you from your relatives, but … Erawan will be interested to learn what you’ve been up to. What you … took from Kaltain.”

The stone in her jacket’s breast pocket.

It thrummed and whispered, awakening as she bucked.

No one in the now-silent inn at the opposite end of the hall bothered to come around the corner and investigate her wordless shouting. Another ilken stepped into view just beyond the open back door.

Four of them. And Lorcan had left—

The stone at her breast began to seethe.

But a voice that was young and old, wise and sweet, whispered, Do not touch it. Do not use it. Do not acknowledge it.

It had been inside Kaltain—had driven her mad. Had made her into that … shell.

A shell for something else to fill.

The open door loomed.

Think think think.

She couldn’t breathe enough to think, the ilken reek around her promising the sort of horrors she’d endure when they got her back to Morath—

No, she wouldn’t go. She wouldn’t let them take her, break and use her—

One shot. She’d have one shot.

No, whispered the voice in her head. No—

But there was a knife at her uncle’s side as he strolled ahead and out the door. It was all she’d need. She’d seen Lorcan do it enough while hunting.

Vernon paused in the back courtyard, a large, rectangular iron box waiting before him.

There was a small window in it.

And handles on two of its edges.

She knew what the ilken were for as the three others fell into place around it.

They’d shove her inside, lock the door, and fly her back to Morath.

The box was little bigger than a coffin standing upright.

Its door was already open.

The ilken would have to release her to throw her inside. For a heartbeat, they’d let go. She’d have to use it to her advantage.

Vernon loitered beside the box. She didn’t dare look at his knife.

A sob broke from her throat. She’d die here—in this filthy courtyard, with these awful things around her. She’d never see the sun again, or laugh, or hear music—

The ilken stirred around the box, wings rustling.

Five feet. Four. Three.

No, no, no, the wise voice begged her.

She would not be taken back to Morath. She would not let them touch her and corrupt her—

The ilken shoved her forward, a violent thrust meant to send her staggering into the box.

Elide twisted, slamming face-first into the edge instead, her nose crunching, but she whirled on her uncle. Her ankle roared as she set her weight on it to lunge for the knife at his side.

Vernon didn’t have time to realize what she intended as she whipped the knife free from its sheath at his hip. As she flipped the knife in her fingers, her other hand wrapping around the hilt.

As her shoulders curved inward, her chest caving, and she drove the blade home.

Lorcan had the kill shot.

Hidden in the fog, the four ilken couldn’t detect him as the man he was certain was Elide’s uncle had that ilken haul her toward that prison-box.

It was on him that Lorcan had trained his hatchet.