The Orphan Queen (The Orphan Queen #1)(2)

“Unseal the lid,” I murmured. A faint, fleeting wave of dizziness clouded my head.

The lid popped up, loose now. I bade the crate sleep again before I opened it. I needed only a handful of pages.

“Find what we’re looking for?” Melanie’s whisper came from behind me, and I stiffened. She was quiet.

“It’s right here.” I pulled several pages from the top and handed them to my friend. “Hold this while I put the lid on. You got the ink?”

“Easily.” She lifted the jar so the glass gleamed in the weak light, then shoved it into her bag. The papers followed. “Let’s fetch the others and get back.”

I lowered the lid, but didn’t dare seal it and move the crate up again. Not with Melanie here.

Together, we found a door and headed outside.

Quinn, who was supposed to be the lookout, wasn’t at the door. Brittle leaves skittered down the cobblestones; the autumn wind blew from the west, and a sharp, acrid stench rode the air.

Melanie and I looked at each other, our noses wrinkled from the smell. Wraith. It was strong tonight.

A small, guilty part of me twisted. If I hadn’t used magic on that crate . . .

No, magic that simple wouldn’t bring a gust of wraith. The stink and creatures that blew into the valley, like the heavy winds before a storm, were normal these days.

I whistled for the Ospreys and waited for the reply.

Nothing.

I whistled again. There should have been four lookouts: two at the street-level warehouse doors and two at the nearby intersections. Someone should have answered.

Still nothing.

I rested my hands on my daggers as wariness prickled over my skin.

What if the police had caught them? Or worse, Black Knife? He liked capturing all kinds of criminals, not only flashers: magic users. We’d run across him during three of our last five jobs, and once he’d come close to capturing Melanie.

The acrid stink grew stronger.

“Help!” A shout came from down the street.

I drew my daggers, sprinting toward the shout and terrified screams, and then the thud of a body slamming into a wooden fence.

Ezra, one of our youngest boys, dropped to the ground. His sister, Quinn, shrieked and ran for him. Connor and Theresa stood in the street, blades drawn as they backed away from looming shadows.

I skidded to a halt. Five huge men bore down on the Ospreys.

Connor’s round-eyed gaze darted from the attackers to me. “Wil! Mel!”

“Oh, saints.”

The strangers turned toward me. They were grotesque, with bulging shoulders and arms, the muscles bursting through the fabric of their clothing. Two were enormously tall, practically giants, while the others were as wide as doorways. All of them were revolting with red-veined eyes, cheekbones like shelves, and fat lips. They stank of wraith and shine.

They were glowmen: men turned into monsters.

I rushed at them. They swung at me with heavy fists, but I kicked and slashed with my daggers, my limbs but blurs of movement. I went for their knees and groins; their throats were out of my reach.

Melanie and Theresa fought with fiery quickness, making their way toward Quinn, who guarded Connor and Ezra near a crumbling wall.

A length of chain whipped through the air and caught my shoulder. Pain cracked through me. I tried to pull away, but the glowmen had me surrounded. Three on one didn’t seem very fair. Thankfully, they were stupid.

The first glowman, wrapping the chain around his fist again, didn’t notice as I stomped on the bottom links, jerking his whole body forward and into the giant closing in on the other side of me. I ducked beneath them, away from the third.

While they untangled themselves, I crouched and slashed my blade across one’s heel, slicing through the leather of his boot to the heavy tendon.

The glowman dropped immediately, dragging one of the others with him.

I jumped toward my friends, but the third glowman shoved me hard against a building, knocking both my daggers from my hands. As he lumbered closer, I groped along the brick wall, and a windowsill came loose. I swung with all my strength. The rotting wood clapped wetly against his head, but did no damage. He jeered and lunged for my throat.

I reached for my daggers, and his hands mashed against the brick.

The glowman reared back. I brought my heel down on the arch of his foot, making bone crack. When I drove my dagger into his thigh, blood poured, hot over my hand. I stepped away.

Melanie, Quinn, and Theresa were dispatching the two glowmen who’d been bearing down on an unconscious Ezra. The glowman with the cut tendon was limping toward them, but they could take care of him.

The fifth glowman . . .

Down the street, he held a dagger to Connor’s throat. Blood caught moonlight as it trickled down Connor’s brown skin.

“No!” I lunged for him, but the glowman I’d just stabbed caught my ankle and I fell, both daggers skittering out of my reach. Magic stirred on my tongue. I could make the ground bring the daggers to me.

No. Not yet. Magic was a last resort.

I struggled, twisting and yanking my foot, but the glowman’s grip tightened.

I slammed my heel against his face. His nose cracked and blood spewed, and he released me.

Daggers in hand again, I scrambled to my feet and ran to help Connor.

But Connor was free. A sword-bearing figure sliced and stabbed at the fifth glowman. Long and slender, he moved like a dancer when he twisted and ducked and disarmed his opponent.