Page 20 of Harbinger

We remain frozen for a moment, no longer sure which is predator and which is prey. Then, slowly—as if his life depends on it—he opens his hand. The locket drops into my waiting palm, still warm from his grip.

“Pleasure doing business with you.” I spit his words back at him. Stepping away, I keep the blade angled between us.

He spins toward me, a small snarl curling his lip as his eyes narrow on the dagger. I thrust it in his direction. But he jumps back, the knife slashing only air. His hand captures my wrist, twisting it until my bones protest. “I’m not a pig.”

“Could have fooled me,” I say, the words as strained as the joint he’s pinned. My heart is hammering so hard it might crack my ribs.

He tightens his grip, and I whimper.

“But you are a bitch,” he mutters, “so be a good dog and drop your toys.”

It’s the only sensible thing to do. It’s also definitely the stupidest. But I’m out of options. I relax both my fists, the dagger and the locket clattering to the stone. He doesn’t so much as look down at them, and he doesn’t release me. Darkness glints in his eyes, and he yanks me close, breathing heavily into my face. I thrash against his hold, sweeping a knee toward his groin as I scream, but he shoves me to the ground like I’m little more than a rag doll.

“Worthless necklace.” He stomps on the locket, crushing it under the heel of his boot. Then he bends down and picks up the dagger. He flips it between his hands with alarming dexterity. “Nearly as worthless as you.”

The malice on his face sends me scuttling back, my breath seizing in my throat. My palms scrape against the slippery stone. I’m dimly aware of dirt and grit and snow, but they fade, instinct taking over. Blood pounds in my head as my eyes dart around us, looking for a way out.

A cobble shifts under my hand, and I dig my fingers beneath it. It comes free with a grinding squelch of brick and mud. I heave it at him.

And miss.

He waves the dagger in admonishment. “Stop fighting. You’ve already lost.”

No fucking way. My fingers dig for another loose stone.

He flips the dagger one more time, its hilt landing neatly in his palm, and lifts it to strike. I don’t look away. I won’t give him the fucking satisfaction. A shadow falls over us, long and dark despite the afternoon sun barely peeking over the top of the buildings.

A sliver of hope cracks through my bleating terror when the thief turns toward the newcomer, giving me a window of opportunity. I seize it, flipping over and pushing myself up. My feet tangle in my skirt, and I trip forward. At the last second, I throw myself in the opposite direction, collapsing to the side of him and the stranger.

A sob wrenches out of me, my shoulders caving into a protective hunch, my hands flying up to cradle my head.

“What do we have here?”

My heart recognizes the low, raspy voice and skips a beat.

“Bishop.” The thief addresses him like he’s saying a prayer, and I wonder which one of us he’s here to save.

I squint up in time to see my attacker backing toward the dead end, color draining from his face.

“She was lost,” he says, eyes skittering like a trapped animal. No hint of the predator now.

Bishop strides toward him with lethal calm. His red cloak stirs on a gust of wind, lifting like a billowing stream of blood. Two long swords peek over his shoulders. Hidden but within reach.

He pushes his hood back, revealing the kind of beauty the old stories warn about. Dazzling and cruel and made for vengeance. Winter-blue eyes, slightly gray and stormy like the sky overhead, are set above high cheekbones as sharp as the blades at his back. His nose is long and straight save for a crook that suggests it’s been broken more than once. And that full mouth …

“And you were offering your assistance?” Bishop says coldly. He points to the dagger in the thief’s hand, and the man drops it.

“My lord.” The thief’s voice cracks, and he continues to back away like he’s afraid of being so much as within the reach of Bishop’s shadow. “This is a misunderstanding. If you allow me a moment, I can explain—”

“Are you harmed, Lady Icaros?” Bishop’s question cuts through the man’s pleading, but the warrior’s gaze doesn’t leave the thief.

“Ic-ar-os,” the thief stammers. His eyes widen as it hits him, and he begins to shake. He falls to his knees. “Please. I didn’t know who she was.”

Bishop’s glare softens at the edges, but his tone remains steely. “Do you honestly believe her rank is what matters?”

The thief understands at the same moment I do. It’s not mercy softening Bishop. It’s comprehension. Like he sees the man in front of him for the scum that he is and knows exactly what to do.

Bishop towers over the thief, who’s been reduced to blubbering and wringing hands. The man bends forward, reaching for Bishop’s boots as the air begins to shimmer in the space around him—just like when he stole the necklace right off me.