Page 53 of Cursed Shadows 5

A warning from Eamon draws in my gaze.

He flicks his frown between me and the stranger, once, twice, then he shakes his head, a slight gesture—

But one that the stranger notices. “The message,” he starts, then reaches behind his back, “is from Lord Braxis.”

A flicker of surprise steals me, and it holds me long enough that I’m utterly frozen as the stranger draws out a knife from his belt.

Eamon’s growl is suddenly distant, “He is dead.”

The male does not waver his stare from mine. “His promises are not.”

Before he can do a damn thing with that blade, Eamon has dropped the paintbrush and jumped off the bar. He lands with a thud, a weapon of his own glinting in his fist, the knife he keeps tucked up his sleeve.

But Eamon is no warrior. And neither am I.

I happen to be more of a lucky survivalist.

Right now, with Lord Braxis coming back from the dead to get me, I think I need a lot of luck.

I am plenty a fool, but not enough to be without a weapon.

The litalf chucks the knife right at me.

I drop, scrambling for the hem of my boot.

My knees skid over the soapy floorboards, drawing me closer to the edge of stacked chairs, and I fish out the blade.

I fist it in my grip, arching my arm back—just as Eamon rushes at the litalf. He doesn’t reach him, not before the light warrior has swivelled with a kick to his head.

Eamon crumples. Blood streams down his dazed face. He is awake, blinking, stunned, but awake—and that means he is alive.

The litalf turns on me, but the kick and the turn knocked him off balance. The floorboards are soaked with water and soap.

His boots are slipping, as are mine as I scramble to stand, the blade fisted in my uneasy grip.

I keep my narrowed gaze on him as I make to throw the blade—but then he staggers, not forward, not unbalanced, but rather a stunned slackness stealing his face as he staggers to the side.

His head tilts to the side, his lashes fluttering, a frown aimed at me as though I have baffled him, stirred his curiosities somehow.

Still, my arm is tense, arched, the knife aimed at him.

I know the moment I throw it, my whole body will be knocked off balance like his, and that will distort the aim of the blade. I need this right, I need this perfect.

Before I can do anything at all, the fae blinks at me, frowns—then crumples.

He hits the floor, hard. Then he slides a little, his blank gaze fixed upwards at the ceiling, his leathers gently gliding over soapy floorboards.

And I realise I am watching a corpse glide.

I stare at the body, so obviously a corpse.

One heartbeat, two, three, four—five…

I lift my gaze to the female standing in the doorway.

Tar for eyes, just as she has tar for blood, and perhaps stone for a heart, Melantha considers me for a long moment. Her weight is leaned forward onto one leg, as if ready to pounce, her fingers pinched around the blade of a second throwing knife—the first one plunged into the back of the stranger’s head.

It takes me too long to catch up.

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