Page 53 of Silvercloak

A white-cloaked assailant with raven-black hair stood above Saffron, jabbing her pine wand as her lips formed the wordsen.

Before Saff could throw up a mattermantic shield, Rasso leapt onto the assailant’s chest and ripped the vocal cords clean out of her neck, both tumbling backward into the gutter.

Saffron stared at the throatless corpse in horror, trying to make sense of the scene.

White cloaks usually meant Silvercloak cadets, but these faces were unfamiliar.

A new cohort, perhaps? Unless—

Levan straddled the third assailant, who’d lost his wand in the skirmish. He was a pale-skinned, redheaded mage with a purple scar carved from forehead to jaw, bisecting an empty eye socket.

“You slaughtered my uncles, youvock!” the scarred mage spat.

“They tried to rob us,” Levan said quietly, coldly. “It’s not personal.”

“It’s always personal.” There was a hateful gleam in the assailant’s remaining eye, something that shone with grim satisfaction, even in the face of imminent death. “You of all people should know that.”

Levan’s hand gripped his wand so hard that his veins bulged dark and angry. “Sen ammorten.”

The killing spell forked into the assailant’s chest, and the scarred mage sagged limply to the ground.

Levan climbed off him, smoothing down his scarlet cloak, then resumed his long, quick strides down Dubias Row as though nothing had happened. Rasso cantered beside him, silver-white fur stained dark red around the jowls. His tail wagged merrily, as though grateful for a good feed and a chance to stretch his legs.

Saffron gave the white-clad corpses a final glance and then rushed to catch up with Levan, her heart hammering.

“What just happened?” she asked, studying the firm set of Levan’s jaw, the defiant square of his shoulders. The way his fist still clenched his wand.

He grunted his distaste. “Whitewings made an attempt on the gamehouse earlier tonight.”

Of course. The bodies she’d seen hurled from the roof.

And they hadn’t just been killed. They’d been maimed beyond recognition.

“They’ve upgraded their cloaks since I was on the streetwatch,” Saffron muttered, swallowing the acrid saliva pooling in her mouth. “Must be moving up in the world.”

Rounding a final corner onto Beakpeck Place, they reached Zamollan’s, an abandoned apothecary that had once specialized in dragon scales. Inside the old shop lay an entrance to the Bloodmoons’ warded tunnels, entirely unguarded and yet nonetheless impossible to penetrate.

The Silvercloaks had known of the entrance’s existence for years. Did they have eyes on it right now? Were they watching as Saffron and Levan ducked beneath the saggy green awning, bloody-mouthed fallowwolf at their heels? Did they spot Saffron’s stark silver-blond curls and recoil at the sight of her in scarlet?

She lifted her hood over her hair, just in case.

Inside the apothecary, the air was stale and musty. Old, damp wood and brittle sawdust, dried feathers and something distinctly leathery. Levan pushed a large barrel to one side and lifted the trapdoor disguised beneath it. The steps below were pitch dark, but they shimmered with a strange translucent film—the wards themselves.

The wards the Silvercloaks had never been able to breach, until now.

Saffron paused before descending, studying the kingpin’s son for any sign that he was rattled by the Whitewings’ assault. For any sign of dismay that he’d just murdered twice in cold blood.

She found none.

But there wassomething.

Something tense and brittle in the hard line of his jaw. Something too straight in the steel of his spine.

“What did he mean, you of all people should know it’s always personal?” Saff asked, voice echoey and loud in the derelict shop.

But Levan only shot Saffron a closed stare—one she’d been on the receiving end of once before, back in Captain Aspar’s office.

One that told her the answer was above her pay grade.

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