The Orphan Queen (The Orphan Queen #1)(26)

His movements were slow, both of us waiting to see if I’d slice his neck open, but when the dagger came into view, he’d shifted his hold so the weapon hung between his first two fingers; it would be impossible to get a good grip on it before I attacked.

“That’s my dagger.”

“I know. In your haste to escape our last pleasant meeting, you abandoned it in a glowman’s hand.” His eyes never left mine. “Take it.”

I snatched the hilt and took several strides backward, keeping the edge of the roof to my left.

But before I could decide to run or attack or anything, Black Knife drew a miniature crossbow from his belt and leapt off the roof.

I reached the edge of the roof just in time to see him hit the ground, crouched and balanced on the balls of his feet and one hand. Like the jump didn’t faze him, he lifted the crossbow and shot a bolt into the darkness across the street.

The darkness roared and reared up, assembling itself into the shape of a huge black cat, all pale scars and sinewy muscle. Crates and beams clattered aside as the beast charged Black Knife, who reloaded his crossbow and shot again. The bolt struck the cat’s throat, making the cat stumble, but it didn’t halt.

With another yowl, the beast pounced. Black Knife rolled away as immense paws thudded on the ground, making even the building shudder under me. The cat seemed to be growing as it prowled around Black Knife, who shot it again and again.

Small black bolts protruded from the beast like whiskers. It let out another bone-shaking roar as it closed in on Black Knife, trapping him against the wall.

That hardly seemed to concern him. From a sheath along his back, he produced a black-handled sword and pressed his attack.

The cat swiped at Black Knife, who raised his sword and blocked the fan of claws. A fine spray of blood coated the ground between them, and the cat roared again.

In the nearby houses, candles and lamps were doused. A child’s scream rose up and was hushed. The clatter and shouts and roars of a boy fighting a beast were the only sounds on the dark street, and they were piercing.

This creature was a nightmare from the wraithland in the west. It had been normal once, but wraith seeped into its body and mind, reshaping it into this horror. When the wraith reached the Indigo Kingdom, these creatures would be everywhere, not just here and there, blown in on storms.

Black Knife ducked another swipe of the cat’s claws and deep gashes appeared in the wooden fence, just behind where his head had been. He leapt onto a stack of crates, lithe and limber as he climbed upward.

The cat pounced, and Black Knife’s sword flashed in the gleam of a gas lamp. The cat jerked back and out of the way. Black Knife let out a rough, frustrated sound and pursued the cat without apparent distress.

A pungent, wraithy stench filled the street, wafting up as the cat growled and lashed its tail. With a ripple of muscle, the beast struck. Black Knife blocked, but his wrist wrenched sideways, and the sword went spinning beneath the creature. The crossbow was nowhere I could see. Black Knife drew a pair of knives, but they had no reach. The wraith beast crouched and growled.

“Hey, cat!” My voice sounded shrill and strange against the night, and the wraith beast looked up and yowled.

Black Knife lunged for his sword.

I fixed my grip on my daggers, jumped, and slammed onto the cat’s back. The beast screamed as I drove my blades into the back of its neck and dragged them across its spine. Another thump, this one from below. Black Knife plunged his sword into the cat’s throat, and the tip of the blade pierced the back of its neck, shining wet with blood.

The creature shuddered as Black Knife withdrew his sword, and I yanked out my blades. As the wraith cat fell to the street with a heavy thud, I hopped to safety.

The neighborhood remained utterly silent as the dying beast lay between Black Knife and me.

His sword point rested on the ground. His breath came in hard gasps. “Thank you.”

“For what you did in Greenstone. For saving the boy.”

He wiped his bloodied sword on the cat’s fur before sheathing it, but when he started around the beast, I took a step backward and he stopped.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“No one.” I glanced between the black-clad boy and the shallowly breathing cat. It groaned and gurgled, and the stench of blood and wraith flooded the street. I swallowed until the urge to gag passed.

“Your group is called the Ospreys, right? What does that mean?”

“It’s just a name.”

“You’ll admit to that name, but you won’t tell me yours?” He tilted his head. “I suppose you’d just give me a false name.”

He was definitely right about that.

“I like the way you fight.”

Was that a compliment?

“It’s very efficient. Who taught you?”

“Your grandmother.” Patrick Lien had taught us, as well as men he’d brought back from Aecor. Those men hadn’t known my identity—it was too much of a risk—but they’d been well-compensated.

“That seems unlikely. My grandmother preferred sewing to fighting.” He stepped closer, all stealth and dancer’s grace. His hands stayed at his sides, not touching weapons, and if his wrist hurt from the fight, he didn’t show it.

My daggers were still clutched at my sides, the hilts digging into my skin. “Why were you following me?”