The Ship Beyond Time (The Girl from Everywhere #2)(40)

Blake was turning the gun over and over in his hands. The silver barrel gleamed in the low flame of the dying torches. In the shadows, pigeons cooed, as though to comfort him. “Where did you find this?”

“I took it from . . .” I swallowed. “It was in your jacket. When you came aboard. I just . . . I thought you wouldn’t want it back.”

He held it out, between thumb and forefinger, as though it were filthy. “I don’t.”

I took it gingerly—the barrel was hot—and dropped it back in my pocket. Then I looked at the wolf, dead on the floor. Blood and gore clotted on the animal’s muzzle. The single remaining eye was starting to glaze; the empty socket was a dark red hole. “Where did you learn to shoot like that?”

“My father.” His voice was flat, and his hand crept to his side, where the bullet had hit him, back in Hawaii. “I was always the better shot. That night, I aimed to wound. He meant to kill.”

I shifted my weight, the gun heavy against my side. “I’m sorry, Blake.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Really?” I looked for the truth in his eyes; they were like stars, far and cold. “You think that?”

“I made a choice that night too, Miss Song.” His voice was soft. “I could have aimed differently.”

At the look on his face, a current ran through my chest—was he talking about his father, or me? But then he straightened his jacket and stepped toward the body, kneeling down carefully to avoid the mess. I swallowed again; a sour scum coated the back of my tongue. “Leave him, Blake. He’s dead.”

“I know. But . . .”

“But what?” I approached slowly, at an angle, not wanting to look. I could see enough out of the corner of my eye: the crater of the abdomen, white and pink and purple, like a strange orchid. I had seen death before, but never in such vivid, violent color.

Blake stood then, slowly; his face was troubled, and he drummed his fingers against his thigh. “I don’t think it was the wolf that killed him.”

“What?” My eyes were wide, darting around the room. “What then?”

“You said he wore a key?”

I nodded. “Around his neck.”

“It’s gone. And someone slit his throat.” He chewed his lip. “Quite a clean cut. A razor, perhaps. Or a very sharp knife.”

“A knife?” A fresh burst of energy sped from my heart to my limbs to the tips of my fingers. I did look at the man then, at the red welted skin of his throat, obscenely parted, like hungry lips. The room seemed to tilt like the deck in rough weather. The smell in the room was nauseating—wet fur and cold flesh and the metallic tang of blood. The echo of the shot was rattling in my skull. “We should go.”

“I think you’re right.” He took my arm. “Likely we can find the winch by the gatehouse to open the portcullis.”

“Yeah.” I followed along toward the arched doorway at the far end of the great room. When we opened the door and stepped out into the wide cobbled courtyard, I drank great lungfuls of the cold, sweet air.

The sun sparkled on the frosty stones, and the sky was a cool, cloudless blue—the weather so incongruous with the tableau we’d just witnessed. Escape was close; by the time we reached the gatehouse, I was practically running, but I stopped just under the arch, staring at the open passage through the barbican. “Someone already raised the portcullis.”

Blake stiffened. “Let’s get out while the front door is open.” He dropped my arm and stepped in front of me, into the dark tunnel. Just then, a figure strolled out of the shadows under the archway. “Who’s there?” Blake demanded, but I pulled him back.

The man was silhouetted by the sunlight behind him; I couldn’t see his face but I knew his cocky stance. “Is that a gun in your pocket, amira, or are you just happy to see me?”

A golden light appeared in his hand as Kashmir drew a small lamp from the breast pocket of his coat: one of the sky herring in a bottle. His white teeth gleamed as he grinned. Annoyed, I pushed him; he moved like water, twisting to the right and elbowing my tender shoulder. “Ow!”

Shock registered on his face. “Are you hurt?”

“No, I . . . no.” I shrugged him off, still irritated; I wasn’t about to admit to my bumps and bruises, not now. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.” We passed through the gatehouse and into the square. It was more crowded now, with people running errands, hurrying to and fro. In the bright sunlight, and surrounded by other living souls, I felt a weight lift; it made me light-headed. “Thanks for scaring me half to death.”

“It wasn’t my intention, amira. I hate half measures.” His answer was glib, but I could see him eyeing me as he tucked the lamp back into his coat. “But I heard the shots. What were you two doing?”

Where to start? I licked my lips. “It’s a long story. Where have you been?”

“Here and there.” He patted his pocket; it jingled. Then he raised an eyebrow. “There’s dirt on your back.”

“What? Oh. Oh! Jesus, Kashmir. I fell.” I put my hand on my temple; my head was starting to ache. “But we found a way into the castle and there’s a man . . . there was a man . . . and now he’s dead—”

“Likely murdered,” Blake added. Then he glanced down at Kashmir’s belt, where the long dagger hung. “With a knife.”