Page 35 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

A platinum-blond man with a huge bloody tear down the back of his leathers charged at the newcomer.

Emmeline couldn’t look away as he nimbly dodged the blade and swung back around with his own, meeting the next strike. He found his footing, moving around the dirt in an elegant dance. As if he’d spent many long years training with a variety of fighting methods and weapons, surefooted and silent.

The newcomer drove his sword into his opponent’s chest on a sweeping slash, ripping it free and swiveling to face the next as if on instinct. And with the grace of that movement, Emmeline’s breath caught in her throat.

No.

That body. She recognized it.

The breadth of his shoulders, the way he flipped the sword around his hand, every move precise and analytical. She’d never seen him fight like this, but she’d memorized every facet of him without trying, and the flow of his movements was exactly as she remembered.

The flex of his arms were the same as when he’d held her each time she’d broken.

The grip on the hilt of his sword the same that had reached for her at the end.

She could feel it all now, phantom touches slipping between her fingers.

He fought with the same ease as he twirled a pen around his hand or a wooden puzzle piece. The small ones he always carried in his pocket. A habit. The kind you memorize about a person you care for.

It couldn’t be, though. It was impossible.

After the second kill, he hung back from the group and waited for the perfect opportunity. Because he may be reckless, but he wasn’t stupid. It was cautious calculation.

Run, she wanted to yell, the voice in her head ragged with terror.

Her eyes stung as she tried to breathe over the lump in her throat.

“No,” she whispered aloud this time.

No, what was he doing here?

No, he couldn’t be part of this.

She wanted to scream. To rage at the Chancellor, the Angel, the Fates, whoever would listen because what in any Fateforsaken realm was happening?

Tears gathered on her lashes, a slow drop escaping as she tried to blink them away. The thing in her chest that twined their souls together tugged and tugged, desperation clawing through her as she watched him unknowingly fight for her hand.

And she nearly did scream as a dagger went soaring for his heart.

Chapter Thirteen

Roremar

What in the Fates’ starry-eyed fuck was going on?

After a quick stop to eat at the docks and being shoved into different clothes, Roremar had been thrown into a cart, no starsdamned clue where he was being taken as they raced down uneven cobbled and dirt roads. Dipping over hills and wheels splashing in puddles from the recent rain, he’d simply tried not to vomit up what little food he’d been given.

Now, as he called on the remnants of strength the meal provided to narrowly dodge a dagger soaring toward him, Roremar was pretty fucking grateful he’d kept it down. Luckily, his instincts had reacted as soon as a blade was put in his hand.

The man who had thrown the knife charged at Roremar from his left, the dagger a poor distraction. The helmet they’d slammed over his head provided way less visibility than Roremar liked, but he let his other senses take over, relying on the quick-footedness and keen hearing he’d spent years honing in the jungles on Lyra.

And when his attacker got closer, Roremar didn’t hesitate to slam his sword through the man’s gut—straight to the hilt—the third and most brutal life he’d claimed in a few short minutes.

Blood poured over his hands—unchained for some Fatesdamned reason—and the sticky sensation dragged him back in time.

No, no, not again. Not again.

The blood turned the blade slippery. Roremar’s grip loosened. His steps staggered backward.