The Orphan Queen (The Orphan Queen #1)(44)

Patrick had been wrong to send them.

He was wrong to think I’d allow him to be king alongside me.

And if he was wrong about those things, what did that mean about our method for taking back Aecor, or even my ability to be queen?

The uncertainty was a fog, heavy and blinding. I wanted to do what was best for my friends and kingdom, but what was best?

If only my parents were alive to help me.

Wearily, I climbed to the highest point in White Flag and listened to the faint notes of a fiddle somewhere below. Quinn had always wanted to learn to play. Thunder rumbled in the west, and a fast, cool wind tugged at my clothes. I closed my eyes and breathed in the scent of the oncoming storm. A thread of wraith wove through the air, enough to mask the putrid odors of White Flag.

The fiddle strings screeched, and a scream cut through my fog.

I stumbled, barely catching myself as a gust of wind almost tore me from the roof, and the scream came again from the street. A high-pitched girl’s scream.

Desperately, I threw myself downward, into the almost empty streets. A fiddle bow went skidding across the cracked cobbles, just in front of where my feet hit the ground. Some of the hairs had been sliced apart, but the stick was still intact.

I snatched up the bow and ran toward the screams.

A wiry man bore down on a girl—a young woman not much older than Quinn had been. “We agreed to thirty. If you give me twenty-five, you still owe me.” He sneered when she staggered backward and her back hit a shop wall.

“I don’t have more.”

“What about that?” He nodded at her fiddle, lying on the ground like a discarded toy.

“But then I can’t work—”

He slapped her hard across the face. Red welts had already formed from previous blows.

My footsteps were silent from years of training, so they noticed me only when I peeled from the shadows, fiddle bow in hand like a weapon. I slowed my steps as I came within striking distance. “Leave her alone.” Mine was a stranger’s voice, all deadly calm in the spaces between peals of thunder.

“What are you going to do?” The man didn’t even look amused, just angry at the intrusion as he glanced from my face to the bow and back. “Another fiddler?”

“I’ve never tried the fiddle, but I think I’d be good at it.” I smacked the bow across the man’s neck. Wood stung skin with a loud clap. “That was a nice sound. Let me try again.”

He swore and staggered back a step.

With long, steady strides, I advanced on the man, striking his cheeks and throat and shoulders in quick succession. He grimaced each time until his hand shot out and he gripped the bow before it hit him again. The wood snapped.

I tried to jerk back, but he was stronger and yanked the bow out of my grasp.

“Who are you?”

I didn’t want to talk. I wanted to fight.

Wraithy wind gusted through the dark streets, and I pushed aside all thought of consequence and let instinct take over. I punched him hard in the jaw. Kicked him in the gut. Shoved him against a building like he’d done to the girl, and brought the heel of my palm against his teeth. Something cracked in his mouth, and blood oozed down his chin.

He grunted and drew back to hit me, but I grabbed his wrist and shoulder and kneed him between the legs. With a shout, he doubled over, clutching his groin.

I smirked and scooped up the broken fiddle bow on my way back to the girl. “You’re going to need a new one.” I tossed her the bow parts and the silver bracelet I’d lifted earlier, and she caught everything in fumbling hands. “Now run.”

“Thank you!” She stopped only to collect her instrument before racing down the street.

Pain flared across the back of my head, and white flashed in my vision as the man hit me.

I drew my daggers and spun to face him. Nothing could stop me now.

The sharp odor of his blood dripped through the street, a contrast to the putrid stench of waste and rot and decay. I left thin slices in his hands and forearms, anywhere I could quickly reach as he struggled to block his throat and face.

The man had no proper training; he was just a thug who liked intimidating people with the palm of his hand. He didn’t back off, though, even when I laid a gash in his chest. His shirt hung in tatters.

Harder and harder, I kicked him and sliced him, driving him back against the stone wall of a shop. He was wearing down, gasping and gulping for air. He wouldn’t last much longer. Already he slumped, and blood smeared across his face and soaked his clothes. The copper stink of it filled my nose.

“Hold him,” I whispered to the wall. “Wake up and hold him.”

The surface of the stone heated and liquefied. The man howled wordlessly as the wall grew hotter, boiling against his body. The reek of scalding cloth and flesh made my eyes water, but I swallowed the faint nausea as the rock cooled again and became solid, holding him by his shirt and the outer layers of his skin. He groaned, and was unconscious.

“Sleep,” I told the wall.

Thunder rattled the street as I drew back my dagger and steeled myself. The tip pointed to his abdomen. All I had to do was thrust.

A black-gloved hand caught my wrist.

“Don’t.” It was a man’s voice, low and dangerous.

I spun and kicked, connecting with a lean figure all in black. He stumbled backward and drew his sword from his back; he was but an outline in the darkness. I lunged for him, and metal clashed against metal as he blocked. My dagger slid down the length of his sword as I reached around to stab with the other. He caught my wrist again and heaved me away.