Page 100 of Silvercloak

The crackle, the spark, the scintilla, arightness,a slotting together of two fated pieces, two equals, two halves of one whole.

Kissing him was a … test, of sorts. She knew it was destined to happen eventually, and she wanted to see if she’d feel the urge to digher wand into his stomach and cast a killing spell, to see if they were nearing their awful, inevitable end.

But all she felt washim.

His palm at the small of her back, pushing her even more firmly into him, both cold and warm and sharp and sweet and rich, euphoria unspooling in her heart. She wantedmore,all of him, everywhere. His teeth grazed her lower lip and—

Wrong,her brain hissed, and filled with self-loathing.This is wrong, he’s a murderer, he’s a torturer, he’s—

—the man you’re fated to kill.

So why did kissing him feel so Saints-damnedgood?

But she couldn’t dishonor her parents’ memories like this. She pictured herself at six years old, grumpily playing Flight of the Raven with a twinkle-eyed father and honeywine-scented mother who adored the bones of her, and then she pictured herself watching through a keyhole as two scarlet cloaks slayed them where they stood, and she knew that she could not do this. To herself, or to them.

She tore herself away, shaking her head.

Rejection, or something similar, passed over Levan’s face as she withdrew. As though he knew exactly what was going through her head. As though he was picturing the very same scenes. Remorse pressed his lips together in a sad, straight line, and she could almost hear his heart sink in his chest.

The silence between them was endless and aching.

“We have to go,” he muttered eventually, running a hand through his hair, not meeting her eye.

And then they were walking again, leading each other to mutual ruin, neither of them breathing in quite the same way they had before.

THEY MET LYRIAN IN A NARROW ALLEY, SCARLET CLOAK PINNEDat his throat, garnet wand gripped tightly in his palm. With him was a milky-eyed Segal and a mage Saff didn’t recognize.

“Evening,” said Lyrian, gesturing to the unfamiliar mage. “This is Aviruna Castian, the strongest Wielder I’ve ever known.” A pointed look at Levan, who did not react to the words. “She’ll be accompanying us this evening, should we need to bend the river to our will.”

Aviruna was a coltish woman with short white-blond hair sticking up in clumsy tufts, pale skin with acne scarring, and earthen brown eyes lined with thick black kohl. Three stars were tattooed below each waterline. Crow’s-feet deepened at the corners; she looked to be in her forties.

“Evening,” she said, her expression a little glazed, a little imprecise, as though she had recently slammed back a blackcherry sour. Sure enough, her lips were stained dark, and her limbs hung too loose from her body. She did not ask Saffron’s name, and nobody introduced her.

They set off for the docks, and it felt like walking to the gallows.

It was around half an hour to darknight, and Atherin was flecked with rain so fine it blurred the streetlamps, a silvery mist drifting down the streets in thin whorls. Aviruna waved her wand and muttered a fewincantations, and the drizzle began to flow around them instead of onto them. Saffron’s hair stayed dry, her cloak warm against the brisk night air. This was how it felt to be a Bloodmoon in general—everyone, everything, even the elements, gave you a wide berth. Fear was a powerful repellent, and its wielders could move through the world with ease.

Still, Saffron thought it was a risky endeavor to move so many valuable players at once. What would happen if Lyrian and Levan both perished on this routine mission? Perhaps they had grown complacent in recent years, assuming nobody would try to take on a band of Bloodmoons, assuming the Silvercloaks were forced to keep a safe distance, thanks to the corrupt Grand Arbiter.

While they walked, Saffron was painfully aware of Levan’s every movement, his every breath. Her lips still tingled with the imprint of his kiss, and her tongue still tasted the clove tea. She loathed herself for losing control, for falling into the arms of everything she hated. Although such was the nature of dangerous things: gambling, loxlure, whiteroot, flamebrandy. The wrongness was the entirety of the appeal.

Yet, part of her wished the circumstances were different. That they had met at university and bonded over their scholarship, their shared grief, their love ofLost Dragonborn.That his potent magic could be something fierce and bright, not sinister and terrifying.

But fate was rarely so kind. Saffron knew that better than anyone.

As they neared the quay, Saffron spotted several familiar faces in plain cloaks. Detectives Alcabal and Jebat sat on a marble bench, laughing uproariously and passing a flask between them, pretending to be drunk as dormice. Detectives Qubayan, Dallar, and Ronnow stood on various street corners, checking their pocketwatches and reading pulp magazines as though waiting for a friend to arrive.

Too many,Saff thought.They’ve sent too many. It’s too obvious.

But Levan wasn’t looking at the undercover Silvercloaks. He was looking ather.Their eyes met, and something sharp and bright and complex passed between them.

He was about to suffer so immensely at her hands.

The cluster of Bloodmoons reached the quay and strolled along the paved dock. The Wielder crew who’d worked the Port Ouran missionsat with their legs dangling over the edge, passing a poorly rolled achullah between them.

Aspar’s familiar, Bones, perched atop a mooring bollard, innocently licking her paw.

The sight of the cat brought it home.

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