So the abuse continued. Tonight was just one more occurrence.
And what are you going to do about it?
Gideon closed his eyes and turned his face into the steaming hot water.
A problem for tomorrow.
Right now, he was too tired to think. Too tired to move from this spot. It had taken him nearly a year to track down the high-profile witch he’d brought in tonight, and he’d ridden hard to get her.
He’d prefer not to see a saddle for another week at least.
But he’d agreed to meet Harrow, one of his sources, at the opera tonight. It was Harrow who’d tipped him off to Seraphine’s whereabouts, and she had news of the Crimson Moth—that perpetual thorn in Gideon’s side. Gideon was desperate to hear it.
The thought gave him renewed motivation. Rubbing the bar of soap between his hands, he scrubbed his weary body with suds, washing all over until he came to the brand seared into his left pectoral: a rose with knifelike thorns half enclosed inside a crescent moon.
Her brand.
Despite the heat of the shower, Gideon shivered.
The youngest Sister Queen might be dead, but she’d marked him forever.
Gideon often thought about cutting it out, just to be rid of every last fucking trace of her. But digging the brand out of his skin wouldn’t carve the memories from his mind. Or rid him of the flashbacks. Or soften the nightmares.
It didn’t matter. Every time he got out the knife and put the honed edge to his skin, his hands shook too much to do the job right. So, for now, it stayed.
The thought of her made him wonder if the spirits of particularly evil witches could live on past their deaths, returning to haunt those they’d tormented while alive. He immediately wished he could unthink it. Gideon turned off the water, eying the steamy room around him as the cold air rushed in, raising the hairs on his arms and legs.
She’s dead, you fool. And there’s no such thing as ghosts.
Cressida might be dead, but there were equally dangerous witches out there. Three nights ago, another mutilated body had been found dragged under a bridge. Chest ripped open. Blood drained out. Gideon wasn’t surprised when he learned it belonged to a Blood Guard officer. They always did. It was the third one this month.
Gideon couldn’t prove the Crimson Moth was committing the heinous acts, but he had a strong hunch. The murders usually took place right before she struck, breaking his charges out of their prison cells and escaping his ever-tightening security. To do that, the Moth needed spells, and spells required blood. Fresh blood.
Which of us is next?
Running his hands over his face, Gideon shook the water from his hair, grabbed a towel, and dried himself off, directing his thoughts somewhere else. Anywhere else.
The opera.
Yes. Good. He would go over tonight in his mind, and the preparation would banish the eerie chill in his bathroom.
First, Gideon would button his tired body into a uniform and drag himself to the opera house. There, while some useless story played itself out across the stage, Harrow would tell him what she’d learned about the Moth. And finally, Gideon would come home, devise a plan while falling into bed, sleep dreamlessly—or so he hoped—and resume his hunt for the fiend upon waking, armed with new information.
And this time, he would catch her.
But first Gideon needed to get through a night at the opera. An activity even less tolerable than trudging through mud and rain on horseback, hunting down a witch.
The only good news was, he was going to miss the first half.
FOUR
RUNE
HERE IN THE FOYER, the Blood Guard stood out like red poppies in a meadow. Their uniforms were impossible to miss, even in the brightly dressed crowd. But not a single one was Gideon.
Maybe he’s not here tonight.
If Alex’s elder brother had indeed brought Seraphine in, he might still be processing her. Or possibly taking the rest of the night off.
Rune couldn’t stop herself from wondering if it was Gideon who’d ripped the dress off Seraphine and forced her to stand naked in the rain while he and his soldiers raked their eyes over her body, searching it for scars.
Her teeth clenched at the thought.
Gideon Sharpe.
She loathed him.
As Rune’s rage simmered like a red-hot coal, she moved skillfully through the crowd, presenting a smiling, happy face, commenting on new fashions and hairstyles, or the delightful dinners of the New Republic’s well-to-do that she’d attended last week, never lingering long, all while constantly looking for the next scarlet uniform.
She passed her usual marks: Blood Guard affiliates, daughters and sons of Tribunal members, people who not only were well connected, but enjoyed flaunting those connections and, in doing so, unwittingly giving information away. Their conversations droned in the air like bees drunk on pollen.
The chandeliers overhead lit the ceiling, which was painted with a blue-black sky full of stars—a rendering that had been allowed to remain untouched in the revolution’s aftermath. There were two salons on either side of the foyer and along the wall, behind the columns lining the room, were several small alcoves for more … illicit meetings.
Rune was headed toward the salon, where Blood Guard members often gathered, when a hand grabbed her wrist, pulling her out of the crowd and into one of the shadowed alcoves.
Spinning to face her assailant she found golden-brown eyes peering at her from beneath tawny brows.
The tension bled out of her.
It was only Alex.
“Rune.” His fingertips pressed against the sensitive skin of her wrist as he drew her deeper into the darkness. “You look like you’re prepared to walk into hell itself.”
Rune had the sudden urge to rest here with him awhile, where it was safe, before throwing herself back into danger.
“What happened tonight?” he asked.
Rune shook off the urge, remembering her mission.
“Did you hear Noah? Your brother happened tonight,” she said, annoyed at the thought. “Gideon got to Seraphine before I did.”
Alex frowned. “So you—”
A chorus of voices—one of them Laila Creed’s—echoed nearby. On instinct, Rune drew Alex deeper into the shadows, until they were nearly chest to chest. She wasn’t worried about someone seeing them in here together. They’d simply assume it was exactly what Verity had pretended to accuse Rune of having earlier: a tryst.
What she worried about was being overheard.
They both fell silent, waiting for the voices to pass. The tip of Rune’s nose was less than an inch from Alex’s chin, and the smell of him—like leather and oak—filled the air. The small space seemed to shrink around them, and for a moment, Rune remembered the night she turned Nan in. Alex had raced to Wintersea, then held her through the night while she wept.
“You worry me,” he whispered, close to her ear.
His voice was careful, soft. As if Rune were made of glass and he needed to handle her with caution.
“You spend your days looking out for everyone else, but who’s looking out for you?”
“You’re looking out for me,” she whispered to his double-breasted lapel. “Not to mention Verity. And Lady.”
“Lady is a horse,” he countered. “And Verity throws herself into as much danger as you do.”
He seemed about to say something else when the bells signaling the end of intermission chimed throughout the foyer. Rune stepped away from his familiar, steady frame and glanced out of the alcove. A column blocked most of her view, but she could see Laila’s black hair, braided into that fashionable crown, heading toward the doors of the auditorium. The drone of conversation was already dwindling. In a few minutes, the foyer would be empty and silent.
And Rune had yet to find Gideon.
She refused to let tonight be a waste. She needed Seraphine’s whereabouts.
“Is your brother here?” she whispered, scanning the emptying foyer like a hawk searching for the plumpest field mouse.
“I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to him all week. Why?”