Roman couldn’t breathe.
They had him in a line with the soldiers. His typewriter case banged against his knee every time he took a step, and the pack strapped to his back made him feel unbalanced and slow. There was no option but to move forward, as if he were in a river and its current was dragging him to a waterfall. Dragging him to his death. A battle was imminent, and he was going to be caught in the middle of it with nothing more than a typewriter in hand.
He tried to draw a deep breath to steady his heart, but stars danced at the corners of his eyes. The line slowed when they left the cavernous chamber, feeding into a winding corridor again that was studded with shards of emerald. Blue lightning flickered through the stone overhead, lighting the way. Roman could taste it, a weird medley of ozone and damp rock, and he briefly wondered if it was magic crackling on his tongue.
“Eyes forward, guns ready.” Lieutenant Shane was passing by, walking against the flow of their progress. He repeated the phrase, again and again, his gaze moving over every soldier in line. The moment he brushed Roman’s shoulder, Roman frantically reached out and snagged his sleeve.
“Please,” Roman panted. “I don’t think I’m supposed to be here.”
Shane paused. “You’re exactly where you need to be, correspondent.”
“I have no weapon, no training. I … I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be doing!”
“You’re part of the press. No one will shoot you,” the lieutenant said, indicating the badge on Roman’s jumpsuit. The badge that proclaimed Roman was far from neutral but an UNDERLING CORRESPONDENT.
Before Roman could form a reply, Shane slipped from his grip and continued on his way repeating his phrase.
Eyes forward, guns ready.
Numb, Roman resumed walking. But then a whisper came in his ear, a hiss to get his attention.
“Pssst. You’re with the greens,” said the soldier behind him. “Don’t worry, they have us entering the city on the outskirts, away from the worst of the battle. We’ll be arriving through a door on the edge.”
That revelation did nothing to ease Roman’s fears, and he gritted his teeth together. He had once thought that he would want to be here. To be an eyewitness to fate unfolding. But now that he was seconds away from it, he couldn’t help but feel how unprepared he was.
The floor was rising, forming into a stairwell. Roman began to ascend, step by step, feeling his muscles burn from the exertion. Cold sweat beaded along his skin. His stomach churned and he swallowed a surge of acid.
This is it, he thought, his eyes on the blue veins that shone in the rock around him, on the doorway that loomed in the distance, marked by a crown of emeralds. I will die far from home, with words I wanted to say but never did.
He finally reached the top of the stairs, sensing the air shift from the underworld’s to that of the realm above. Fresh and cool with a hint of sweetness. He gasped mouthfuls of it, as if he had been underwater, drowning. His skin flushed. He was embarrassed by how weak he appeared, and he stumbled off to the side to gain his bearings.
He stretched out his hand, touching the wall. Soldiers continued to pour through the door behind him, but Roman studied his surroundings—the scuffed hardwood, the speckled mirror above the mantel, a hearth full of ashes.
He was standing in a parlor.
His knees went weak, and he was sliding to the floor when Lieutenant Shane appeared and took hold of his arm, hauling him back up.
“Breathe,” Shane said briskly. “You’re going to be fine, correspondent.”
Roman nodded, but sweat had soaked through his clothes. He fought a wave of nausea.
“Look, take a moment to compose yourself,” the lieutenant said. “And then I want you to search the upper floor of this house. Use this torch to see. Check under every bed and every wardrobe. Report back to me here when you’re done.” He handed Roman a small rectangular box with a lens and bulb. “Turn it on with this switch.”
He demonstrated, and the torch emitted a soft beam of light, limning the parlor and the soldiers who had gathered within the room.
Roman stared at the incandescent box, shifting it so that the beam pointed downward. “What should I do if I find someone upstairs?”
“Take them captive.”
How? Roman wanted to demand. His hands were occupied by a typewriter and a torch, but Shane had turned and was rattling off an order to another private. It occurred to Roman that the lieutenant had given him a harmless task. This house felt empty, abandoned. Shane was simply getting Roman—who had proven himself quite useless as a soldier—out of their way.
Roman cracked his neck before he stepped out of the parlor. He felt stiff and strange, as if his bones had become iron, weighing him down. Or maybe it was only his fear, which continued to spread like ice, making him feel cold and clumsy. But he reached the foot of the stairwell and stared into the shadows, the torch’s light cutting through the darkness.
With a shiver, Roman took the first step upward.
Iris set the extinguished lantern and wrench on the floor.
She listened as Dacre’s soldiers moved through the main story of the house, her eyes adjusting to the swell of darkness, her breaths rapid. The front door was now inaccessible; she would have to flee through the window, and she began to heave it upward. The frame opened a hand’s width, welcoming in a current of cool night air, but then caught and stuck.
Iris clenched her teeth, straining to push it higher.
“Come on, you bloody window!” she whispered, adjusting her stance. She heaved again, feeling the taut cords of her muscles, and the window began to rise with shuddering resistance. It wasn’t enough, though, and Iris remembered the wrench, wondering if she could use it as a lever.
Her palm was slick as she grabbed the tool, but she never had a chance to use it. From the corner of her eye, she saw a beam of light. Someone was in the corridor with a torch, coming her way. She could hear their footsteps draw near.
Within a span of breaths, the soldier would be at the threshold. Their light would pour into the room, exposing her.
Hide! Iris’s mind railed.
It was either beneath the bed or into the wardrobe.
She darted across the room for the closet, thinking it would grant her the stronger position if she had to fight. Wrench still in hand, she slid into the wardrobe’s small space, closing the door behind her. It didn’t latch, stubbornly popping back open a sliver. Iris almost reached for the handle again but froze when the beam illuminated the room.
She held her position.
She could hear the intruder breathe, a pattern of unsteady breaths that mirrored her own. She could hear the floor creak beneath their feet as they moved toward the bed, searching beneath it.
It would come down to a fight, then, and Iris raised the wrench. She would strike as hard as she could. She would aim for their head, for their eyes. She needed to either render them unconscious or kill them, quiet and quick.
I’ve never killed someone, she thought.
Iris waited, watching as the beam moved across the room, touching the wardrobe. The light splintered around her, seeping through the cracks, but she kept to the shadows. The soldier’s steps approached and then halted until there was only silence and a door between them.
Strike fast, Iris told herself, even as her arm shook. Don’t hesitate.
She waited for the door to open.
Roman stood before the wardrobe, the hair rising on his arms. Static danced in his blood; he could scarcely understand why until he set down his typewriter and opened the door, the torch light melting the shadows.
He saw the shine of the wrench first, then the slender arm that held it. Even then, he was so shocked that he merely stared at her. In that tense moment, she could have bludgeoned him. She could have split him open to the bone and, by the fierce expression on her face, it seemed she wanted to. But she was just as frozen as he was.
He wondered if he was dreaming, if he was asleep, because it was her. She was here, gazing up at him with those bewitching hazel eyes, her lips parted, her long brown hair tangled around her shoulders.
The recognition tore through him like a bullet, and Roman knew he was awake and lucid, even as he stood face-to-face with a dream.
He was looking at Iris Winnow.
