Page 14 of A City of Smoke and Demons
‘Don’t be ridiculous, and it isn’t a club.’ Jem glanced around surreptitiously. The sun had risen, and activity on the dock was stirring. ‘When you find the death witch, take her back to the Canem Club. I’ll come to you,’ he said.
‘Are you going to hand her over to Blackwood?’ Ezra trusted Jem with his life, but had doubts about the Church and their agenda. A death witch had a bigger target on her back than Ezra did. If he did what Blackwood—and now Jem—were asking, what would happen to her? He knew nothing about this Orderof the Dawn. And he’d made a vow that he would never hunt witches again.
A man carrying a crate gave them a suspicious glance as he passed; Ezra waited until he moved away before he spoke again. ‘Exactly how long am I expected to hold her prisoner? What should I tell her?’
Jem’s smile was sly. ‘I’m sure you, of all people, can think of something to do with your mouth that doesn’t involve talking.’
‘And if she’s as old as my mother would be?’ Ezra folded his arms.
Jem laughed. ‘I’m sure you’ll come up with something.’ He sobered. ‘The Order have been looking for a death witch for some time.’
‘Why do you need one?’
‘That’s on a need-to-know basis. Will you do this for me?’
Ezra sighed. ‘As if I can say no.’
It was Jem who had gotten him out of the Gendarme’s office before he could be hauled off to a cell. Jem who found him, weeks later, in an opium den, then tracked him down after that, stealing into the Canem Club as Ezra was staggering out of the ring. He owed Jem his life. If there was one thing Ezra could be proud of, it was that he didn’t let his friends down, even if they belonged to a mysterious group devoted to ridding the world of demons.
‘When you say you hunt demons, what does that mean, exactly?’
‘It means exactly what it sounds like. We track them, we kill them, we burn their remains, and the people of this shitty city go on to live their shitty lives with one less demon wandering around,’ Jem said. ‘That’s what the Order does, Ez. We protect people.’
Morgan had sent another note.
Frowning, Analise flopped into the armchair.
No work. What did that mean?
She stared at the note until the words blurred on the page. Sighing, she scrunched it up and tossed it away, reaching for the bottle resting at her feet. She hadn’t eaten all day, so the wine was it and hopefully, dreamless sleep would follow.
One dream in particular had lived in her head for as long as she could remember. A graveyard under a pale moon. Hands thrusting through the earth, clawing their way free. And a man with a smile belonging to a face she’d never seen anywhere else, a face both beguiling and harrowing in its beauty. He always spoke to her, always the same words—‘use it.’
He would curl a length of her hair around his slender finger. Honey, she’d decided the first morning she’d woken, sweaty and shaken. That was what his voice sounded like. Smooth and rich and decadent. The most frightening thing about the dream was the man knew what she was. Sometimes he called her ‘my beautiful death witch.’
The first time he called her that she’d been thirteen, her magic newly awoken. Then, at fifteen, Analise discovered the wine, and once she realised it numbed her senses and kept the dreams from her head, she continued to drink. The nuns must have known, but they turned a blind eye, perhaps realising, like Analise did, that there was no other way to stop what was happening. The girl who once devoured books and spent hours watching butterflies in the garden became a slave to a bottle to avoid being a slave to a magic she didn’t understand.
It was late when Analise finally peeled herself out of the armchair, the wine bottle drained.
She yanked her boots on and found her coat, shoving her arms into the sleeves angrily. Morgan would have gone home, so she could snoop around a bit. Maybe take another look at the man with the mark on his skin, the woman as well. There was something about that mark that was vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. And if Morgan was there … if he was going to fire her, he’d have to do it to her face.
Analise hurried out. Noise from the pubs on Blackcoln Road filtered through the darkness. She paused, then headed in the opposite direction, towards the morgue. There was no sign of the Familiar, but she kept glancing over her shoulder, wondering where he was. On one such glance, her heartbeat surged.
Two men, walking quickly. Analise darted across the street, passing beneath a stuttering street lamp wreathed in fog. The men stayed on her heels, her skin puckering as dread lodged itself in her throat. She patted her hip, realising too late she’d left her blade behind. Her magic stirred, as if it could sense the threat. Analise hurried into the alley, flinging herself into the shadows and pressing her body against a wall. She was drunk, weaponless, and fucking terrified.
When the men entered the alley, Analise didn’t dare move. She didn’t even breathe, but somehow, they knew where shewas. One of them wrapped thick fingers around her throat and hauled her away from the wall.
‘I don’t have any money,’ she managed.
A flash of teeth in the darkness. ‘We ain’t after money, sweetheart.’
‘Of course you’re not,’ she muttered. The man gave her a small shake, laughing when she gasped. Every muscle in her body was screaming, and she was suddenly sober. Against one of them, she might have stood a chance, but against two men much bigger and stronger than her—she could only hope they didn’t kill her.
Her magic pushed against her skin, a living thing wanting to escape its cage. The men mistook her gasp for distress and laughed again.
‘Pretty,’ the one holding her said. ‘Drunk, as well.’
‘Look at those lips,’ murmured the other. ‘She looks fresh enough to eat.’
