Page 77 of The Artist and the Dragon

AsMaliklayinwait, crouched on a catwalk just to the side of the stage, he used Drystan’s clever spell to tug more shadows to him. From this position, he could see the stage proper, as well as much of what went on behind it. Thus far, it was all activity one would expect—performers changing costumes, stage hands moving pieces into position for quick set changes.

No matter how he wanted to enjoy the show, he tried to stay sharp. He even took to pressing the tip of his hidden blade against his finger, enough to sting but not to cause real damage. That little bit of pain centered him and helped him focus. Kept his thoughts from wandering back to Bronwyn and the gift she’d received. Her color, yes, but the style was all wrong, far too large for her delicate fingers. Jealousy burned through him, though he supposed it shouldn’t. Bronwyn wasn’t really interested in Lord Griffith … though she hadn’t offered her heart to Malik, either, since the night of the party.

The stagehands moved some of the castle set pieces into position.Fuck.The scene was coming up, and he’d yet to find a way to stop it. He shoved his blade back into its hidden sheath.

His thighs burned from crouching, and he adjusted his position. Across the way, he spied Wynni. She carried a bright red handkerchief. He sucked in a breath. Their signal. She’d found something, or Bronwyn had.

He couldn’t see their box from this angle, but he had to know, to assure himself she was out of harm’s way. He crept down the catwalk as quietly as possible, easing along until he could see the box.

She wasn’t there.

Damn it!His nails dug into his palm as fiercely as his blade. He crept back into the shadows far more quickly than he’d left. Finally, he spotted her approaching Wynni, who still displayed the sign.

A little of the tension slipped from his shoulders. Wynni would keep her safe, but still, he’d rather they both be far away from whatever was to come.

The women stopped mid-conversation as a stagehand ran up to them, saying something. Even from a distance, the sudden change in their posture gave them away. Malik leaned in, trying in vain to hear, but they were too far and the singers on stage were too loud, projecting their voices to the audience.

Wynni waved over several others, and they hurried out of sight.

“Fuck. Where—”

Something struck him hard across the back of the head.

Stars burst in his vision. The boards of the catwalk below rushed to meet him, slamming into his cheek. With one arm, he reached out instinctively, only to touch air; with the other, he tried to push himself up. He rolled over, then the attacker was on him, pinning him down and jerking the collar of his tailcoat.

A grinning mouth full of bright white teeth greeted him. He recognized the face only vaguely. He struggled to place the name. Lord Something-or-other. Not one of the men he’d been watching.

“A prince for my troubles.” The lord raised his hand, and a dagger glinted in the low light. “He’ll reward me for you.”

Then the blade was slicing through the air, straight for Malik’s throat.

Malik lashed out, grabbing the man’s wrist and halting the blade inches from his face. Close. Too close. He pushed back with all his might, squeezing his attacker’s bones with his Goddess-touched strength. But the man was not fragile like a commoner. He was made stronger for the legacy of his blood.

The stranger clawed at Malik’s other hand and groaned in agony, trying to hold on to the blade and press. He only carried one? Fool. Malik always had a few at hand, even while wearing something as restrictive and uncomfortable as his tailcoat. He reached inside his coat pocket, grabbed the little blade he used to draw blood for magic, pulled it free, and thrust the sharp point into the man’s side.

A howl ripped from the man’s throat as he scrambled off Malik, nearly falling to his doom in the process. But the prince wasn’t that lucky. The bastard didn’t even drop his knife.

“You bloody stabbed me!” The man looked genuinely shocked. A fool, indeed—one he now recalled from a party at the castle over a year ago. Lord Lewis. What was it Rhion had called him?A mewling pup begging for scraps?

He begged still. To another master.

Malik snorted. “I’ll do much worse than that.” But first, he’d get answers.

The young lord turned and ran across the catwalk. The opera went on below, the soprano hitting a high note as the façade of a castle was pushed to the edge of the stage. The heroine arrived…

And the dragons were right on time.

With an impressive leap, Lord Lewis clawed his way onto a higher catwalk, his legs failing for the briefest moment before he managed to haul himself up. From the corner of his eye, Malik could just make out someone down below pointing at them, but there was no time to call for help, for him or Lord Lewis. Malik climbed, too, gaining precious inches as his adversary hurtled across the upper catwalk running perpendicular to the stage.

In moments, Lewis would be out of space. Unless he leapt onto the stage below, a move that would break bones even for someone Goddess-blessed. The man could die outright. But as he turned, the dagger in his hand outstretched toward a wide rope, the gleam in his eyes was not that of a man preparing for his own death.

“Stop!” he warned, holding up his bloody hand. “Surrender to me or I drop it.” He gestured with his blade beyond the top curtain ahead, to where the bottom crystals of the chandelier were just visible.

“You don’t have time to cut the rope before I gut you.”

Lewis smirked. “I don’t need to.”

Malik noticed it then, a strange sheen on the blade. It was coated in something. Was that how they planned to trigger the spell?

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