It had been a month since Grim had pushed her through the portal, along with her starstick. He hadn’t followed her into her room, so she assumed he had portaled himself back to the castle after taking the thief’s memories of their meeting away.
She had been left feverish, wanting, consumed by need—
Now she just felt empty.
Why had he left? At a time when she had most wanted him to stay?
Isla might have assumed he had gone off to find the sword without her—if he hadn’t left before she could tell him where the sword was. She knew exactly where to find it now. He knew she knew.
So why had he gone weeks without seeking her out?
Her confusion and anger soon turned to dread. What if Grim had . . . died? Word wouldn’t reach the Wildlings of Nightshade’s demise for weeks. Months, maybe.
It was this thought that made her do something careless. That night, she finally reached for her starstick, intent on finding Grim herself.
His room was empty and just the way she remembered it.
Part of her itched to draw her puddle of stars and leave again, but she decided to wait. It had been a month. She was tired of staying up late at night, wondering about his absence.
An hour became two. Then three.
Finally, the door to his room opened.
It was not Grim.
Isla stood from the chair she had been lounging in, and the woman froze. Then, her eyes narrowed. “Who are you?” she demanded.
Who was she?
The woman, mercifully, closed the door, as if she had walked in on something private, and Isla portaled away.
Isla felt inexplicable rage. Had he decided to start looking for the sword with someone else? Had he cut her out of his plan? No. She wouldn’t let him. She needed him to fulfill his side of their deal.
She knew where the sword was. She would find it herself, and he would be forced to help her at the Centennial.
Isla put on the only black clothing she had—the unfortunately flimsy dress from Creetan’s Crag, with her black cape atop it, which conveniently covered the sword strapped to her back—and portaled away.
Grim’s lessons had been useful. She needed a map to find the Caves of Irida. Then she could work on trying to portal there.
That was how she ended up in the night market.
It was less than an hour to sunset, and the place was still surprisingly busy. A few carts began packing up for the night. Some people ventured inside large buildings that looked mostly abandoned.
They made a good vantage point. All she needed to do was spot a map shop from above and wait until sunset to sneak inside and find what she was looking for. That way, she wouldn’t risk running into trouble again.
She left the market and entered the closest building. The ground floor seemed to be an extension of the shops, a place to trade when the sun went down. It was bustling with the sounds of carts being pushed inside from out, haggling, and whispers.
No maps sold, though. Higher. She needed to go higher and get a better view of the market outside.
The stairs creaked but were empty. So was the second floor. There were just a few boxes and barrels lining the large room, all the way to windows caked in dust. She rubbed her cape against one and peered outside. Shops were folding closed.
In the corner of her vision, she spotted it. A stall with elixirs sold at the front and parchment in the back. A large map took up its entire back wall—
Footsteps sounded behind her.
Then, “What do we have here?”
Isla turned to see the room was now quite occupied. A dozen Nightshades stood around. Had they been invisible when she walked in? Or had they soundlessly followed her?
She drew her sword. One of them laughed. Her own shadow behind her whipped like a viper and knocked her blade away.
Shadow-wielders. Her chest filled with dread.
Isla quickly turned, deciding to take her chance on the window. She was only on the second floor—
Before she could break through the glass, shadows wrapped around her ankle and dragged her across the room.
Her cheek hit a snag on the floor and tore open. Broken glass stabbed through her hands and her thin dress.
When she was forced to her knees, blood dripped down her chin and chest. She couldn’t even move her fingers.
Her cape was ripped away from her by invisible hands, and she gasped at the cold. The man was circling now, a predator leering at his prey.
“Who are you?” he asked.
She spat at his feet, and one of his shadows slapped her in the face. Blood trickled down the corner of her mouth.
“I’ll ask again,” the man said. “Who. Are. You.”
Why did he care? Why was he doing this to her?
She didn’t say a word and cried out as another shadow struck her. It was sharp as a blade. Blood dripped down her shoulder. If she didn’t heal her cheek soon, it would scar. Another hit sent her crashing to her glass-filled hands in front of her. She screamed as the glass embedded itself deeper. Another flash of shadows, and she gasped for air.
The man bent down and grabbed her face roughly in one of his hands. Her entire body was shaking. She was going to die. She was such a fool. Hadn’t she learned her lesson with the Wildlings who’d tried to carve out her heart? Why had she believed that she could do this herself?
Tears blurred his face in front of her. “You shouldn’t have been able to cross the threshold,” he said very carefully. “You’re going to tell me who you are, or I’m going to skin you alive.”
Her blade was on the other side of the room. She hadn’t brought any of her daggers or throwing stars with her. The man’s shadows were creeping toward her again, across the floor.
She remembered what Grim had said—go for the nose—and head-butted him in the face with her forehead.
He staggered back and called her an awful word, but Isla didn’t look to see if she had broken his nose.
She pulled her starstick from her leg holster and drew the puddle of stars. It formed.
Just before she could dive through, the man dragged her away by her hair. She cried out. He ripped her portaling device from her hand and shoved her against the back wall.
The puddle sat there, rippling, in the center of the room. A few of the other Nightshades inched closer to it, murmuring.
“It’s . . . a portal,” one of them said in awe. More of them rushed to get closer.
The man frowned. Blood got into his mouth. She had broken his nose. “Go see where she was running off to,” he ordered.
One of the Nightshades fell through her puddle. It closed after him.
Her only escape, gone.
The only relief was that she hadn’t been trying to portal back to the Wildling newland. No . . . she had been trying to portal somewhere else entirely.
“The rest of you,” the man yelled, “get out your blades. Let’s see how quickly we can skin her. Make sure she stays alive. I want her to feel every inch of this.”
She tried to run, but the shadows behind her became restraints around her legs and ankles. One tied around her mouth, muting her screams.
Some of the Nightshades laughed at the sight of her struggling. She heard the scrape of metal as they took their daggers out of their holsters. Some were caked in rust. Others in dried blood.
The man in front of her plucked even more shadows from the room. They inched up her neck, then sharpened into knives.
“Let’s start with your face, shall we?” he asked.
Isla winced. Braced herself for the first strike of pain.
His shadows fell away.
The man frowned. He tried his shadows again, but they didn’t cooperate. The Nightshades went suddenly quiet.
They slowly turned around. Isla looked through the gaps between them.
Grim stood there, holding the Nightshade who had gone through her puddle by the neck, high above the ground. Her portal had led to Grim’s room. There was a crack, and he released him. The man fell in a heap at his feet, dead.
He looked murderous.
In front of her, the man’s trousers turned dark, dripping down his leg.
Grim wore his crown and armor. He looked like a demon come to life, spikes on his metal-covered shoulders. Shadows leaked from his very form, snaking through the room. Some of the Nightshades scrambled to kneel. Others tried to flee.
At once, they all jerked high into the air, feet dangling, clawing at their throats.
Grim’s eyes never left hers as he stalked over to her. He scanned her body. The cuts across her chest. Her ripped-open cheek. The long marks across her shoulders. Her hands covered in glass.
Grim’s voice was lethally calm as he said, “Which one?”
She opened her mouth, but no words came out. Her eyes darted around the room. With them all floating at this angle, she couldn’t see their faces clearly. Which body was he? Tears blurred her vision.
“Isla,” he said carefully, like he was trying very hard to keep all of himself reined in. He had used her first name. “Which one did this to you?”
She didn’t know what he would do, or if she wanted to be the one responsible—
“Fine,” he said. “All of them, then.”
There was a chorus of cracks as all their necks were broken in tandem. They all fell to the floor. Grim opened his hand, and her starstick flew into his grip.
“You idiot,” he said before reaching down and taking her into his arms.
He was furious. He had portaled them into his room. He set her down on a couch and growled, “I’ll be back,” before vanishing.
Her head fell against the back of the chaise, and she groaned. She had truly believed she could find the sword herself. How wrong she had been.
He reappeared, holding about a dozen different types of bandages and a bowl. He motioned for her to lie down, then went to work, placing the gauze over her shoulders, where she had been injured. They were cold as ice. At their contact, she bucked, cursing.
Grim kept her down with a firm hand on her lower stomach that made her feel shockingly feverish.
“These are Moonling,” he said. “They’re good at healing cuts.”
She was right. Cleo was helping him. Or, at the very least, he was stealing from the Moonlings. “Do you . . . trade with them?”
Grim didn’t answer.
His brows were drawn in focus as he plucked pieces of glass from her chest. She closed her eyes tightly against the pricks of pain.
“Let me see your hands.”
They were a wreck. She didn’t even want to look at the damage. She held still.
He snatched one himself and cursed under his breath. “This will take a while,” he said. She imagined there were dozens of pieces buried deep beneath her palm and fingers.
Without warning, he lifted her in his arms again. And set her on his lap.
Isla tensed. She was still in her far-too-revealing Nightshade dress. “What are you doing?”
“You need to keep still,” he said. “Or the glass is going to move while I’m working and make removing all of it almost impossible. I can make you pass out if you prefer.”
Isla balked. “I most certainly do not prefer that.”
He looked down at her, waiting for approval to continue. She gritted her teeth and said, “Fine.”
“So charming,” he said coolly. Then he snaked his arms around her, pinning her in place, while he gently opened her fingers.
She wasn’t breathing. She was engulfed by him. He was cold as bone. She shivered.
He plucked the first piece of glass from her hand, and she bucked again. This time, though, his arms were around her, hard as iron, keeping her in place. She breathed too quickly, pain shooting up her arm. She watched him expertly remove piece after piece.
She gasped at an especially deep incision. He was tall enough that he rested his chin against the top of her head, and said, “There are about a dozen more on this hand alone, so I would find a way around the pain.”
She peered up at him. He glanced down at her for half a second before focusing back on her hand.
“Where were you?” she demanded.
A muscle feathered in his jaw. It had been a month since she had seen him. “I was preoccupied,” he finally said.
“With what?”
He said nothing.
She scoffed. Unbelievable. “What could be more important than finding the sword?”
“Not more important, simply more . . . pressing.” He had hinted at trouble in his realm. Was that what he was referring to?
“You could have told me. You could have visited at least once . . . allowed me to tell you what I had learned.”
He raised an eyebrow at her. “Miss me, Hearteater?”
She huffed. “No. Every time I see you, I get injured, or insulted.”
Grim frowned, just the smallest bit. He focused solely on her hand. “What were you thinking?” he said harshly.
She sighed, wincing at another shot of pain. “I was thinking I could find the sword without you,” she said honestly.
Isla leaned against his chest, gritting her teeth against the pulling of the glass. Some shards were small, but others felt like knives being plucked from her palms. She tried to breathe past it. The same pain, over and over, she could almost get used to. She had learned that during the hours she had spent preparing for specific Centennial ceremonies.
“I went looking for you, before,” she said, voice just a rasp.
“I know.”
The woman must have told him. Her cheeks suddenly heated with embarrassment. And . . . something else. Her next question bubbled out of her. “Who was that woman?”
“She’s my general,” he said.
His general. “Does she suspect . . . ?”
“I told her you were someone I had found to bed from another realm.”
Isla swallowed. He said the words so simply . . . was that what she was to him? A girl from another realm he had clearly, at Creetan’s Crag, wanted to bed?
Inside, she felt like shattered glass, but she closed her eyes and said as smoothly as she could manage, “I know where the sword is. The thief in Creetan’s Crag told me.”
“Where?”
“The Caves of Irida.”
“I know it.”
She expected him to look happier about this development; they were so much closer to finding the sword, but his focus was still pinned on her hand. The last piece of glass on that hand clinked against the bowl. He leaned down and whispered right near her ear, “This is going to hurt,” before he poured alcohol over her hand.
Grim pressed his palm against her scream. She was grateful. It was an anchor in the sea of pain.
It was blinding. She writhed against him, and he cleared his throat. One of his hands pressed against her hip, holding her still.
“If you can help it,” he ground out, “please stop that.”
Oh.
She froze.
She was suddenly far too conscious of his body pressed against her as he reached for her other hand and began again.
Underneath her, Grim had tensed completely. His eyes were trained on her palm. He looked intent on his task.
She was not. What was wrong with her? The pain slowly muted as she focused on every graze of his callused fingers against hers. Every part of her was too sensitive. She was now very aware of every place they were touching. The chin against the crown of her head. The muscled torso behind her, hard as rock. Beneath her . . .
Grim seemed to rush, because just a few moments later, he said, “Done.” This time, he easily lifted her off him before pouring the alcohol on her hand. She closed her eyes tightly and didn’t open them again until the Moonling remedies began to reduce the pain.
He was staring at her.
“Thank you,” she said.
He said nothing.
“When can we go to the caves?”
“Once you can properly hold a sword again.” It wouldn’t be long. By morning, with her Wildling elixirs, most of her wounds would be healed. They would still hurt, but not enough for her to want to delay their search.
“Tomorrow,” she said.
He nodded. He reached to portal her back to her room, when she said, “Wait. There’s one problem.”
“Problem?”
She told him about the monster supposedly guarding the sword.
His eyes narrowed. “What kind of monster?”
“I’m not sure.”
Grim didn’t look too worried. Monsters weren’t scared of other monsters, were they? He offered his hand again to portal her back to her room. “Then I guess we’ll have to find out.”
