Page 62 of The King's Man 2

They rush forward, magic swirling in their raised hands; I drop the paper with a yelp and throw my arms over my head, too terrified to—

Something whizzes past my ear to the right, then to the left. Through the thin gap between my arms, I see the charging men freeze and plunk backwards to the grass like boulders.

I unwrap my arms from my face and stare at their motionless bodies. Were they...? I hop towards them, fighting the instinct to flee, and check their pulses.Not dead. Unconscious. I find stiffened grass blades piercing the knockout acupoint.

Insane accuracy—the depth is precisely enough to keep them under for a whole day.

I judge the angle the blades hit them according to their height, and trace the trajectory back to a giant oak sprawling over the back fence.

Quin is perched on a branch at the origin, his hood thrown back, moonlight bathing his face through the leaves. He meets my eyes with a calm that has me swallowing.

“I asked you to collect evidence, not audition for martyrdom.”

“I couldn’t let someone die.”

Quin’s gaze drills into mine. “So you threw yourself towards them without so much as a crude weapon?”

I glance towards the blank sheets of paper I abandoned.

Gusts surge up under me, his magic a steady force that cradles me mid-air. Quin’s hand twitches at his side, as if he wants to grab me, but he chooses to lock his eyes on mine instead. “Foolish,” he murmurs and yanks me closer, until I can see a flicker of softness. “Brave.”

For a fleeting moment, the air around me feels brighter, warmer, gentler. Then the magic vanishes and I plummet, the ground smacking me to my senses. “Don’t try that again.”

I pick myself up off the grass, rubbing my banged-up elbow. “I won’t accept anyone dying—”

“I never intended to let them kill anyone.”

“They were near the door!”

“There’s not a soul in this manor, save that drunken porter.”

Now that he mentions it, the housedoesseem quiet. And dark, at barely nine-thirty in the evening. Compared to other lantern-lit manors along this canal, the lifelessness here should have been immediately telling.

And it was telling, to Quin.

“You mean I risked my life for an empty room?”

Quin’s laugh rumbles and a startling snore interrupts my returning glare. I whirl around to the drunken porter bolting up in a stupor.

“Who’s there? This is my drink, get your own.”

Like he did with me, Quin uses his magic to lift the man to his feet, and the porter gasps into instant sobriety.

“Who sleeps there?” Quin demands.

The porter squirms and stutters, “The second master, Petros Tornikes. My master’s younger brother.”

“Where is he?”

“The family spent the spring in Hinsard. They were due back yesterday but bad weather slowed their return.”

“When will he arrive?”

“Tomorrow evening, all going well.”

Quin sets the porter on his feet. “You’ll strip the uniforms off those two redcloaks and hire a boatman to send them south.” Quin plucks a chunk of gold from a pouch and tosses it to the porter. “Don’t tell anyone about this evening.” He eyes me. “Take their passes and head back to the boat.”

When I slide down the bank to the boat we arrived in, Quin is already perched on the seat, oar in hand.

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