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As Vikter took the torch, the Maiden continued looking at me. Was she wondering why I had stepped forward? Or did she worry that I recognized her? Had she believed me when I’d told Vikter that she was safe with me?
She shouldn’t have, not when the only reason she was standing here was because of me. A stone sank to the pit of my stomach. It felt like guilt. That muscle in my jaw ticked more.
The Maiden’s attention shifted away from me then, just as I turned to look down at her. The veil rippled in the breeze, giving me just a glimpse of one nostril. My gaze lowered, fixating on the corner of her mouth. My hand closed into a fist at my side. The reddish-blue bruise marring her skin wasn’t so faint to me now, not when I stood so close.
I didn’t feel an ounce of guilt for chopping off Jericho’s hand. Not a damn bit.
At the pyre, Vikter lowered the torch. I’d expected the Maiden to look away, but she didn’t. She breathed in deeply, watched, and…
Right then and there, I stopped expecting. Stopped assuming. Kieran had said we might’ve underestimated the Maiden, and I’d agreed, but it didn’t hit me until right now that we truly had. It was clear I had no clue about who was beneath that veil. I only had the scant knowledge of her I’d gained, and now what I had learned.
The Maiden was adept at sneaking out. She clearly didn’t want to remain all that untouched. She carried a wolven-bone and bloodstone dagger and had either gotten lucky with it when Jericho attacked or knew the basics. She clearly wasn’t like the Ascended here, at least not when it came to showing the guards the most basic respect.
The Maiden drew in a shaky breath as fire ignited on the pyre, quickly sweeping over the linen-wrapped body.
Did she know what it probably meant to the other guards that she was here? Even the Royal Guards? If not, she should know.
“You do him a great honor by being here,” I told her as Vikter knelt at the pyre. Her attention cut to me, and she tilted her head back. The edge of the veil danced above her mouth. “You do us all a great honor by being here.”
Her lips parted, and…fuck me, I held my breath, waiting to hear if her voice was as smoky and warm as I remembered it being at the Red Pearl.
But she didn’t speak.
She wasn’t allowed.
Her mouth closed, once more drawing my attention to the mark my orders had inadvertently left behind. “You were hurt,” I said, tamping down the fury that was far too easy to ignite. “You can be assured that will never happen again.”
WHAT WAS NECESSARY
Muffled conversations echoed from the rows of closed doors as I followed Kieran through the narrow, cramped hall of the low-rise building near the warehouse district. The cloying scent of sandalwood was heavy in the air, smothering the stench of too many people crammed into one spot. It was the best the people of the tenement housing could do.
Word had gotten to Jansen that something had gone down in the housing building—something they hadn’t seen before. And based on the telltale scent of death that no incense could cover, I knew it was something bad.
At the back of the dark hall, Lev Barron waited, a brown cap pulled low. The mortal Descenter pushed off the wall upon our approach. Although Kieran and I both wore cloaks hiding our garb of guard and patrol, he recognized us at once.
“What’s going on?” Kieran asked.
“It’s something you have to see,” Lev answered, his gaze darting between us. The mortal, who’d lost one brother to a fever and another to the Rite, reeked of anxiety. “I can’t…” He cleared his throat. “I can’t put it into words.”
Kieran exchanged a look with me. I stepped forward, keeping my voice low. “Show us.”
Nodding, Lev dragged the back of his hand over his chin and then crossed the hall, reaching for the handle. The door beside him inched open. “There’s nothing to see here, Maddie,” Lev said to the small figure who appeared in the crack of the door. “Go back to your momma.”
Lev waited until the child closed the door and then opened the one we stood in front of. The smell of death about knocked me over.
“Gods,” Kieran muttered, lowering a hand to the hilt of his short sword.
Lev stepped inside, stopping to turn on a nearby gas lamp. Dull yellow light flickered to life, casting a faint glow across the front room. A body lay on the floor, wrapped in white linen.
“Who is that?” I asked, eyeing the pool of red that had coagulated on the wood floor beneath the head.
“Werner Argus,” Lev said, his hand pressed to his nostrils. “He turned Craven.”
