“The Venteran capital, Orline, is a well-situated port city on the southeastern coast. Despite the sweltering heat and the occasional stench from the swamplands on the western border, I am forced to admit it boasts a certain unique beauty—a luxurious city of stone terraces, hidden courtyards, and hanging moss, hugged by a broad, brown river that begins two thousand miles north in the Venteran highlands.”
—Initial report of Lord Arkelion to His Holy Majesty, the Emperor of the Undying, upon successful seizure of Orline
February 13, Year 1010 of the Third Age
On the first night of the full moon, Eliana did not sleep. She donned her new mask, painted her lips crimson, and flung her favorite cloak about her shoulders—a little theatricality never hurt anyone—and disappeared into the night.
She took to the rooftops, to the hop shops that reeked of lachryma, to the red rooms owned by friendly madams. She spent a night drifting through the Barrens.
She watched, and she listened.
She sought out her usual informants—frightened rebels willing to betray Red Crown or useful opportunists who would play double agent for coin.
She asked questions and demanded answers. She threatened and coaxed.
Mostly, she threatened.
But she found nothing of the Wolf. Not a glimpse, not a whisper.
• • •
On the second night of the full moon, Eliana came home with a fist-size knot in her stomach and a dozen frantic questions in her mind.
Did the Wolf know she was tracking him? Was that why everything had gone quiet?
Was this some sort of test?
Was she failing?
She sat on the terrace outside her room and watched the sunrise bleed the world red. Part of her longed to cross the gap between rooftops, sneak into Harkan’s room, wake him up with her mouth, and let him love her into oblivion.
But instead she sat still as a gargoyle, hood up and gloves on, and waited—and wondered.
If she didn’t find the Wolf, what would Rahzavel do?
And if she was hunting the Wolf, was he in turn hunting her?
• • •
On the last night of the full moon, Eliana came home with panic humming beneath her skin to find that someone had broken into her house.
When working, Eliana preferred to enter and exit the house via the tiny stone terrace outside her third-floor window. That way, the front entrance on the road remained undisturbed.
Tonight, though, her window was open. A thin strip of wood marked where the paint had been scraped off; someone had forced open the lock. There was a crack in the pane of glass.
As she stood frozen, she caught a scent on the air, just as she had the night of Quill’s capture—that same unbalanced sensation that had left her feeling thrown out of alignment with the world around her. A sour pressure sat heavy against her tongue and shoulders.
Someone was here. They were here, those masked girl-snatchers from the docks. She knew it with a gut certainty. The only times she had ever felt such a sensation were that night and this one.
Which mean that now her mother…
And Remy?
They only take women, Eliana told herself, her heart kicking frantically. They only take girls.
Sweat beaded along her hairline. She could get Harkan to help her, but by then it might be too late.
She dropped down to the second-floor terrace outside her mother’s room. The flowers of Rozen’s rooftop garden perfumed the air and turned Eliana’s stomach.
She found the window unlocked, which was odd. Her mother always locked the window before bed. She eased open the pane and slipped inside…and stopped.
Her mother was gone.
The room reeked with the trail of whatever phantom thing the abductors carried with them. The sheets had been pulled half off the mattress. A shattered teacup lay in pieces on the floor.
And her mother’s prosthetic leg stood propped in the corner.
Terror rooted Eliana to the spot.
You’re afraid we might be next, Remy had said the night of Quill’s execution.
No. No. Not her mother. It wasn’t possible.
Whoever was behind the abductions did not take women from the Garden Quarter. They were protected in this neighborhood.
But if the abductions were part of something bigger than Lord Arkelion’s whims, maybe beyond his control altogether—
Footsteps sounded from the third floor. Her own room. Nearly silent but not quite. Their house was old; the floors creaked.
Remy, she thought, please stay asleep. Please still be safe in your bed.
She unsheathed her dagger, slipped out the door to her mother’s bedroom. She crept past Remy’s closed door and up the stairs to the third-floor landing.
Pressed flat against the wall beside her bedroom door, she waited. The door opened, and a tall figure stepped out into the shadows. Paused. Moved toward the stairs.
A man.
In the moonlight spilling out from her bedroom, she saw his mask of mesh and metal.
Fear punched through her.
The Wolf.
Supposedly, he never showed his face, choosing to always wear a mask. But a madam Eliana knew swore she had once seen the Wolf take it off. He was scarred, she said, as if from the rake of claws.
She said he had eyes like winter—icy cold and pitiless.
Well, then, Eliana thought. We’ll be well matched.
She ran at him, kicked him hard in the small of his back. She expected him to fall down the stairs.
He did not.
He turned, caught her leg, flung her to the landing floor. With her free leg, she kicked his shin, twisted free, and jumped to her feet. He let his gloved fist fly; she ducked, and he hit the wall instead.
That slowed him a bit. She kicked the back of his knee. His leg buckled, but he was fast. He turned and shoved her, hard. She lost her footing and fell down the stairs to the second-floor landing.
The Wolf followed, seized her upper arms, and pushed her over the banister.
She fell two floors to the foyer, landing hard on her back. Her head cracked against the tiled floor, and for a fleeting moment she saw stars. But then she gritted her teeth and jumped to her feet.
The Wolf had hurried down after her, still poised to strike. He’d known that such a fall wouldn’t seriously hurt her—or even kill her—as it might have someone else.
Fresh terror fluttered at the back of her throat. Her skin suddenly felt ill-fitting over her unbreakable bones.
He’d been following her, then. He’d seen her work. Or he had at least heard the rumors of the invincible Dread of Orline and believed them—no matter how ridiculous they seemed. Either way, he was here. He’d caught her out.
Interesting. And worrying.
She dodged his punch at the base of the stairs, whirled and kicked. He grabbed her cloak and yanked her back against him. She elbowed him in the gut, heard him grunt. Pulled Arabeth from her hip, turned, aimed for his heart—
But he was too quick; her dagger hit nothing but air. She staggered, thrown off-balance. He shoved her back against the wall beside the kitchen door. Her head hit brick, and the room dipped and swayed around her.
He grabbed her wrist and twisted, forcing her to drop Arabeth. He kicked the blade down the hallway, shoved his arm against her neck, pinned her. She grabbed Whistler from her thigh and swiped at him. Not a fatal cut, but he still cursed and released her.
She ripped Tempest from her boot and looked up, ready to strike—
The Wolf held a revolver, its muzzle pointed at her face.
“Drop the knives.” His voice was low, refined, and cut like ice. “Against the wall. Slowly.”
“That’s cheating,” she fumed. “You brought a gun.” But she obeyed, backing away from him until her shoulders brushed the wooden boards of the wall.
The Wolf followed, his body towering over her. He ripped Nox and Tuora from her belt and pressed Tuora’s blade against her throat, then dropped his gun and kicked it away.
She stared at the blank metal face looming over her, searching for eyes beyond the mesh and finding none.
“Take off your mask,” he ordered.
She did, then fixed him with the hardest smile she could muster.
“Dread,” he murmured, his breath caressing her cheek, “is only a feeling, easily squashed. But wolves, my dear, have teeth.”
