Tell the Wind and Fire(58)

The door led to a flight of marble stairs. I could not lift my skirts, not when Carwyn would not let go of my hand and I could not let go of my sword. I ran up the stairs anyway. Carwyn ran with me, and above the rioting crowd it was cooler, moonlight filtering onto the marble under our feet.

When I reached the second floor, I ran down the corridor of the hotel. It was empty, but there was a long, thick streak of blood painted across the saffron-colored carpet, a red road that passed under a door that was not quite closed. I crushed the impulse to push the door open. I could not afford to alert anyone to my presence, I could not help anyone, and I did not want to see what was in that room.

I ran down the corridor instead, as if at the end of the bright stretch of carpet there would be a finish line.

Instead there were large glass double doors, and I rushed to them, rushed into them, and they opened under the impact of my body.

They led to a large balcony, the kind shaped like a huge china cup, attached to the wall. I ran outside, and the night air hit my hot face, the chill of the wind welcome, and I saw the elaborate gardens of the Plaza Hotel stretch before me. They were no longer lit by magic streamers; all I could see between the carefully tended hedges were shadows.

I could jump and use magic to save myself, but I did not know what waited below. And I had used so much magic already. I drew in my first deep breath since I had seen Jim die, a desperate draft of cool night air, and tried to think. The sans-merci were not only within the walls of the Light city but within the walls of a stronghold. They had killed countless numbers of our most powerful leaders already. I did not know how I could get out of this alive.

It was dark, dark as though it would never be bright again. This balcony should have been lit, but the only light was the pale, faltering rays coming from my own hands. I pulled my hand out of Carwyn’s. I tried to, at least, but he was still holding on.

“Let go!” I said, patience snapping like a rope forced to bear a hundred times more weight than it could. “Do you think it’s funny to touch me without my permission, when you know I don’t want you to? Does it make you feel good about yourself?”

Carwyn stared at me. “Nothing makes me feel good about myself.”

He bit his lip after he had said that, as if he had not meant to say it or at least had not meant it to sound the way it did: like a confession.

“Okay, here’s the thing,” I said after a startled moment. “I don’t care about your feelings because you don’t care about mine. And when you touch what you’re not meant to touch, it looks about as powerful and rebellious as someone walking on the grass when they’re not supposed to. It looks as stupid as a kid putting his sticky fingers on art. You look even stupider than that, because you’re treating a person like a piece of grass or a painting. But how stupid you are is not my main concern right now, because people are dying. Don’t waste my time by touching me or taunting me, or I’ll leave you to die as well.”

The sans-merci were in the Light city. I had known that much. But I had never thought they could possibly lay waste to the Light magicians and the rich and the powerful. I had always thought their violent discontent would remain on the edges of my life.

I remembered standing under the cages in Green-Wood Cemetery years ago, and felt as I had felt then: there would never be an escape from this, not really.

I pulled my hand out of Carwyn’s, and he finally let me do it.

Blood stained the back of my hand. I did not know whose it was—the first guard’s or Jim’s or some helpless stranger’s—but I covered my face with my newly freed hand and felt the cold press of rings against my closed eyelids, and for a moment I could not breathe.

“So, since you seem to know everything,” Carwyn said, “what’s the plan?”

I laughed. The laugh exploded from my lips, sick and sharp, the same way a sound of pain would have if I had been punched. I stepped in toward Carwyn and grabbed the too-tight collar of his shirt, twisting the material even tighter.

“Going to do whatever I say, doppelganger?”

The edges of his broken bottle rested against my bare arm, pricking against the flesh, uneven and promising pain. His smile looked just like the broken glass felt.

“Sure.”

I let go of his collar, pushing him with unnecessary force as I did so. He went backwards easily, leaning with one arm up against the marble balcony rail.

I looked at my open hand, at my palms and my fingers, each circled and weighted with magic. I closed my fingers so tightly around the hilt of my sword that my rings cut into my hand. Metal on metal, and my flesh felt almost incidental, pressed between them and bound to be hurt.

I lifted my sword, and Carwyn’s eyes widened briefly. It caused an abrupt and stunning sense of satisfaction within me. I was so scared, scaring someone else seemed like the only possible power in the world.

I said slowly, “Do you think that anyone will notice another body on the floor tonight, Carwyn? Remember what I said when we were dancing? You’re going to tell me what you know. And you’re going to do it now.”

I stepped forward, the point of my blade touching Carwyn’s shirt. The moonlight shimmered, turning the sword into a shining path that led to his heart.

I continued softly, “The only value your life has to me is that you might lead me to him.”

Carwyn gave a short laugh. “Ethan, Ethan. Always Ethan. I am so sick of hearing about Ethan.”