The Shadow of Theron, page 17
Signing her name to a letter that was more like a novel, Sera stuffed it all into an envelope and sealed it, then turned again to the puzzle laid out in cotton on her wall. The raw material had been heaped upon her in bulk, along with measures of lace, colored ribbons, and other finishings by her mother, who had been shocked to learn that Seraphine had returned home without having made her trousseau.
“How is it possible that such a fine school sent you home without enough dresses to get you through your season, or the necessities of becoming a bride?! I have a mind to write them a strongly worded letter and demand they tell me exactly what my money was spent on,” she had said.
Sera laughed at the thought. She lacked a great many things her parents had paid for, but in Fabien’s court, she had wanted for nothing.
As far as a trousseau was concerned, she had been expected not to know how to make her own bedclothes—she had learned fashion, not production, at the doge’s hand, as well as witticism, playacting, stage fighting, how to win at cards, how to sing like an angel and drink like a devil.
Sera did love to sing; she wanted so very much to sing. She also wanted to drink. She wanted to sing while drunk, but she was fairly certain her parents would not approve and anyway that was an activity best enjoyed among similarly soused individuals.
No: knitting, sewing, or anything truly practical did not become a member of the doge’s court. So now she used the string to collate all she knew and hoped for an epiphany to jump off the pages affixed to her wall by intersecting lines of ivory gossamer thread.
So many uncertainties danced in circles round her head. The only answer glaring back at her was that she needed a walk to clear her mind. The northern coast lay just beyond the edge of her parents’ property, and Sera remembered it fondly as a quiet spot where she could sit and read for hours, though now she was fresh out of reading material. The gardener had confessed, the heroine’s good name was restored, and all the family ghosts had been laid to rest within the leather-bound confines of her latest book. It was one more thing she wished she had packed more of, if only she’d known she was going away for real.
The sun’s heat cooled as Sera approached the shore and the burning orb began its descent into the horizon. It dyed the clouds in fiery yellows and intense purples that reflected off the long blades of grass. Sera found a familiar spot at the edge of the cliff and fanned her skirt out in front of her in a wide arc. The air was cool, and the wind sprayed her cheeks with a fine mist as it carried seawater up from the shore on its back. Seraphine breathed deep of the fresh air, and let her worries drift away.
The weather turned brisk as the sun dipped beneath the waves. But what made Sera stir was the sound of male voices drifting up to her from below.
“Spread out. I don’t want any mistakes like the last time.”
She opened her eyes and inched toward the edge of the cliff. Her feet dangled out in front of her and she clutched at the high sturdy grass as she slid, very slowly, down the slope of the hill. The muddy surf came up to her ankles as she dropped the final distance from the cliff’s overhang to the beach, and she instantly retreated, pushing her back up against the stone underbelly of the bluff. The growing shadows that overtook the day as the moon ascended in the sky acted as her refuge.
“If the Shadow dares to meddle with me again, he will not escape his death a second time.”
The voice was clearer now, closer. And it was unmistakably Marek’s.
Before Sera could kick herself for not adhering to Lysandro’s plea that she not venture out alone, the ground trembled above her and sent a sprinkling of gravel into her hair. One of Marek’s men crossed the spot where she had sat only minutes before. Even if she had turned and run at the sound of Marek’s men, rather than descending the slope, they would have noticed her. And now the path back to the safety of her house was cut off. To her right was a small incision in the rock wall. It was just big enough. She wormed herself into the tight space and tucked her skirts under her feet as she willed the niche to swallow up the bright fabric of her dress and make her invisible. Seraphine wrapped her arms around her knees and prayed that Marek was right—that the Shadow would come.
* * *
Tracking the path of the moon as it made its way across the sky did little to inform Sera of how much time she had passed huddled in a small hole in the cliffside wall. All she knew for certain was that it was a lot.
The tide was higher now, and it rushed at the base of the cliff and into her hiding space in brisk, foamy waves. Her bottom lip was bitten raw; she swallowed her cries every time the icy surf broke upon her, climbing the hem of her skirts up to her collarbone, and leaving her soaked and shivering by degrees.
The gaggle of voices that kept her trapped there crescendoed. She gathered from their exultations that they were expecting a ship and had just caught sight of it. Sera’s heart hammered louder in her chest. She didn’t know how much longer her hiding place would protect her if more men poured onto the beach. Or if the tide continued to climb and turned her refuge into a tomb. Drowning was one of the most painful ways to die—or so she had heard—and she wondered half-heartedly if the frigid temperature of the water would numb her to the worst of it.
Without warning, the soil of the overhang shook and released a cloud of dirt down on top of her head. It was too much of a disturbance to be caused by only one pair of feet; some sort of scuffle was happening above her.
It was over quickly. Sera curled herself into an even tighter ball as the victor descended silently down the slope, much as she had. Her heart gave a little leap as she recognized Lysandro’s lithe figure. But it occurred to her that she had no clue how to get his attention without gaining the notice of anyone else, and possibly dooming them both.
Lysandro kept his eyes focused on the cluster of villains before him as he trod softly on the beach. True to his name, he sidled along the edge of the cliff’s base, keeping to the shadows as he made his advance. If he would just step a little closer to her…
He snuck right by without noticing her. When he completely obscured her from view of the others, Sera saw her chance. She darted out at him before he stepped out of reach. Her fingers just caught the edge of his pants near his calves. She gripped the coarse fabric for dear life and pulled him backward with all the force she could muster.
The Shadow of Theron wheeled around and took in the miserable sight of her at his heels. His eyes looked ready to pop out of his skull. He tossed a quick glance over his shoulder to see if anyone had noticed him, then ducked down before her.
Sera pulled on his sleeves, drawing him closer. He felt so warm, and she was so terribly cold. She wanted to curl up inside his embrace and not emerge until the shivering ceased—and even then. But the Shadow pulled away from her, mouthing furiously without making a sound.
“Signorina! What are you doing here? Go home right now!”
She stared at him, incredulous. Her voice came out as a raspy whisper against the crashing waves.
“How? I was already here before they came—I’ve been here for hours!”
From behind his linen mask, Lysandro’s eyelids peeled all the way back in horror as his gaze raked over the ruined condition of her dress. Her skin had taken on an unearthly blue tint.
“I’ll distract them, and you run. My horse is at the top of the hill,” he whispered.
“They’ll kill you!”
“I can protect myself, Signorina, but not if my mind is on you. I need to know that you are safe and far away from here.”
“There’s too many of them,” she protested.
“The magistrate’s goons are no match for me.”
“There’s more coming—look!”
She pointed behind them at the unassuming merchant ship making its way ashore.
“Then you must go—now!”
“No!”
Seraphine clapped her hand over her mouth. Her protest hadn’t been a shout, but it wasn’t a whisper, and enough of her voice carried to make the sentinel nearest them turn his head.
In a shorter time than it took Sera to blink, Lysandro twisted around, putting his back up against her and pressing her deeper into the rocky recess, blocking her body from view with his.
Panic rose in Sera’s throat. She tried to swallow it and pressed her fingertips to the back of his shoulders to brace herself. She felt Lysandro’s muscles tense under his shirt as his form coiled, ready to pounce if the lookout should stray too close. Lysandro cloaked the gleam from his dagger, now drawn, in the crook of his forearm. As the wary stranger approached, Lysandro dipped his head, shielding his face with the dark, wide brim of his hat. Sera pressed her forehead against him and closed her eyes as the man’s footsteps drew nearer, nearer, and then finally turned and faded away again as the man returned to his post further up the beach.
Sera finally allowed herself to breathe. A rush of water at their feet sent another shock through her, but she gnawed her lip again and kept her silence.
Lysandro tucked in his chin and turned his head just enough that she could see the edge of his sleek profile. His face was sublime in the moonlight, but now was not the time to moon over him. The steely look he shot her made her wince.
The Shadow remained with her, using himself as Sera’s shield when the incoming vessel shoved its prow into the surf. She could no longer hear Marek’s voice, now that he wasn’t barking orders, so Sera tried to catch a glimpse of the men disembarking. There was a tiny opening between the curve of Lysandro’s shoulder and the brim of his hat. Through that little window she spied two stout, well-muscled men descending from the ship, carrying a heavy wooden chest between them. Marek stood at a distance with his arms folded as their leader made a big show of presenting their wares. They were too far away for her to make out what passed between them, but both parties went about their business without suspecting they were being spied on.
Sera was relieved that the transaction was going smoothly. She hoped that meant they would leave soon, and Theron’s Shadow could escort her home. It took her completely by surprise when Marek grabbed the man he’d been speaking with by the scruff of his neck and plunged a glowing red knife into his throat. She muffled her gasps in the dip between Lysandro’s shoulder blades. He flinched, caught just as much by surprise as she. The merchant’s skin grew black, sucking in the darkness of the night until it swallowed him whole. The rest of the ship’s crew cried out; there was nothing left of their captain as his clothes fell to the ground.
The air became soaked with the tang of blood, and Sera had to hold her breath to calm her stomach as chaos erupted mere feet from them.
Lothan knew the key was a fake before the merchant captain even opened his trunk. The true Cerulean Key was near—near enough to produce an acute buzzing between his ears like a swarm of locusts. But it was not in the chest the captain laid at his feet. It had to be aboard the ship still. But here the captain was, boasting in great detail about the pains he had taken to steal the relic, gesticulating at the trunk as he turned the opening of the chest into a dramatic performance. The more he went on, the more enraged Lothan became.
“Stealing into the temple of Morgasse takes meticulous planning, an insider’s knowledge, and, most of all—someone clever enough to do it. We have faced great peril to bring you such a prize, which is worth twice as much as my humble crew and I have agreed to take. Ten times more, even.”
He finished with a flourish and placed a key in Lothan’s hand. It was cheap tin, painted to effect a mysterious glow where the moonlight struck it. The design was intricate, impertinent, overwrought. The key that opened nothing was light in his palm, as dead and devoid of sorcery as the pebbles littering the beach.
The flow of blood across the jagged blade at Lothan’s hip quickened, mirroring his rising ire. Lothan shivered with its impatience.
“Ten times as much?” he asked. “When you’ve already doubled your price?”
“Easily, Magistrate. No one can deny the dangers of procuring such a treasure. Don’t forget, this is the second time I’ve come to this shore to do business. Last time was anything but orderly. And, forever after, I’ll be unable to tell a soul about my exploits. You must admit, that is a great cost to bear for a reputation such as mine. A little indulgence is all I ask for.”
“Is it worth your life?”
The hard lines of Lothan’s face glowed in the lantern light.
The captain’s smile vanished. Before his expression could shift entirely, Lothan plunged the dagger into his neck and severed his vocal cords.
“That’s what your lies have cost you.”
Lothan withdrew his blade, causing the wound to spray blood on his face. He didn’t mind. This time, he was not robbed of the satisfaction of dealing death. He reveled in watching one who would cheat him turn to ash. If only his true enemy was here now. There would be no escape.
His lieutenants took this as their cue. Outnumbering the merchant’s crew by at least half, and positioned so well they hadn’t even noticed, the rest of the crew didn’t have time to run. In a matter of moments, the beach was littered with corpses. Lothan was pleased.
“It’s here,” he said as his bloodied brothers gathered around him. “Search the ship, and get this place cleaned up.”
A low growl escaped Lysandro’s lips, but he stayed where he was. Sera knew that if it hadn’t been for her, he would have tried to stop it. Guilt roiled the meager contents of her stomach. If not for her, and her flippant ignorance of Lysandro’s warning, some of those men might have lived.
Or Lysandro would be dead.
She didn’t think he’d see it that way. Men had died because he had chosen not to act, all to save her—and it was her fault.
Marek and his crew kept their heads to their work as they raided the boat and loaded the bodies of the slain back onto its deck. Lysandro turned his face to Sera and whispered low in her ear.
“You’re going to climb, nice and slow, back up the ridge. Now, while their attention is elsewhere.”
“I’m not leaving—”
“I’ll be right behind you. Now come on.”
He shifted his weight so she could pass by him, and yanked her out of the crevice with a firm grip on her wrist. The wind was merciless; her soaked clothes presented no obstacle. But she crept, steady and silent, back the way she had come.
Lysandro drew his sword and stayed so close he was almost on top of her.
There was a shuffle of movement beneath them, accompanied by angry whispers. A shaft of light came soaring up from below, sweeping the cliffside.
Lysandro lunged, caging Sera under his body and pressing her down into the dirt. Though they had not been spotted, the lighted remained focused on the top of the hill, unsatisfied.
The top of Sera’s head butted against Lysandro’s chest, and her hands were crushed underneath her. Lysandro lay still as a stone, save for his labored breathing, but her thumb grazed the handle of the dagger at his belt. Not exactly a small or light knife, but she would only get one shot, so it would have to do.
The beam of light made another sweep across the grass. From its arc, Sera estimated the man holding the lantern was almost directly beneath them. In the split second when the beam went as far out to the east as it could before coming back again, Sera slipped the dagger free from Lysandro’s belt, ignoring his frantic protests as she flipped the blade in her hand and threw it.
The sound of shattered glass went up, and shouts were followed by angry footsteps—heading in the wrong direction.
“Go, go!” she hissed.
They scrambled to their feet and broke into a wild run across the field under the returned cover of darkness. Lysandro kept his fierce grip on her hand until a black stallion came into view. He hoisted her up by the waist into the saddle without stopping and jumped on behind.
He kicked the beast hard, and it flew across the open ground at a dizzying pace. Sera struggled to keep her balance, and groped for something to hold on to before she was jolted violently out of her seat. Lysandro’s thigh muscles tightened around her, and his arm wrapped around her waist. He bent forward, pushing her low until her nose was almost pressed up to the saddle. The position stopped her from flailing at this breakneck speed. She clung to the saddle, and didn’t dare to look as the ground whizzed past beneath her in a blur.
They had crossed onto the Alvaró estate when Lysandro finally slowed his horse’s pace to a canter and Sera felt steady enough to sit up. When her house came into sight, she let out a sigh of relief. The sensation of calm was replaced in an instant by a flood of questions aimed at the man sitting behind her, in between whose thighs she was nestled.
“What was that knife Marek was holding? Did he destroy the temple? Why would he—”
Lysandro pulled up on the reigns, hopped down from his stallion, and brought her down gently from the saddle before clapping her by the arms and shaking her silly.
“What were you thinking?! Did you see what Marek did to those men? What he could have done to you?!”
She blinked back tears.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t know…”
A high wind whipped at her, slicing her right to the bone. This time, she cried out as the cold damp of her dress battered her skin.
Lysandro released her and ripped the blanket out from underneath his horse’s saddle. He grimaced at the sight of it and tried to brush it clean of horsehair and dirt. It was useless. He wrapped it around Sera’s shoulders with an expression akin to shame.
“Forgive me, angel, I have nothing better to offer you at the moment.”
It was heavy and coarse, and absolutely perfect against her chilled body.
