Safire jumped to her feet as a loud thump! resounded, followed by the crack of breaking wood. The board between her boots splintered and lifted, letting light shine through the slit and into the crawl space.
The man barked an order. But Safire didn’t hear what it was—she was already running.
Through cobwebs, kicking up dust, tripping over things in the dark, Safire did not care that her racket could likely be heard throughout the entire inn. Quickly, she lowered herself into the storage room and jumped down from the stacked crates.
The moment her boots hit the floor, she swung open the door . . .
And ran straight into the person standing beyond it.
“Oof.”
Nimble hands grabbed her arms. Safire flinched, glancing up into two green eyes flecked with gold.
The air shifted around her.
Illuminated by the glow of the lamps was a small, slender girl. Her pale, messy hair was knotted at her neck and she smelled like the sea.
“Now where are you running off to?” The Death Dancer smiled as her fingers reached to pull down the sandskarf hiding Safire’s face. Before she could, Safire flicked out the hidden folding knife in the toe of her boot and kicked her in the shin, embedding the sharpened metal point deep into her flesh.
That smile vanished as the girl cursed, reaching for her leg.
Safire rammed into her shoulder, knocking her off balance. The girl stumbled backward into the wall. But as Safire whirled and moved for the locked door leading out into the hall, the girl was suddenly before her again, blocking her way.
She moved so fast. It was impossible. . . .
Safire stepped back, drawing two knives.
The girl’s green eyes flashed. She stood like a wild cat now: lithe and dangerous. But she carried no weapons. At least none Safire could detect.
Safire’s sandskarf obscured her voice as she said, “Get out of my way.”
“Show your face and I’ll think about it.”
Safire threw the first knife. It thunked into the door next to the girl’s head.
“That’s your first and only warning.”
The girl touched her ear, where the blade had grazed the lobe. Her pale brow folded into a bewildered frown.
Safire readied the second knife, keeping her eyes on her opponent.
“You’re trapped, sweetheart,” the girl said as footsteps rang out down the hall. Jemsin’s pirates were on their way. “There’s nowhere to go.”
Safire spun, looking to the window. It was small, not to mention two stories off the ground. But she’d rather take her chances with the window than the pirates outside the door.
She needed to warn Asha. Needed to get to her before Jemsin did.
As soon as she started for the window, though, the Death Dancer was there. Blocking her way. Again.
Safire growled, then aimed the second knife—trying for a blow that would immobilize, but not kill—and threw it.
In a blink, the girl was gone. The steel thunked into the plaster.
She reappeared a heartbeat later, standing once more before Safire.
It was unnatural. No one could move like that.
“Demon,” she murmured, stepping back.
Was this why she carried no weapons? Because she could dodge any blow?
“There’s no need to be unkind.” The Death Dancer’s mouth bent up at the side as she moved toward Safire. “Now what’s behind that scarf you don’t want me to see?”
Safire took another step back, but those quick fingers snagged her sandskarf. The girl tugged it free, revealing Safire’s face.
Those green eyes went wide. “You.” Her voice became a whisper. “What are you doing here?”
Putting a stop to this, thought Safire. She drew a third knife and pressed its honed tip into the hollow of the girl’s throat. Those nimble hands went palm up as Safire backed her into the wall beneath the window, her knee pinned between the girl’s legs, ensuring she couldn’t escape again.
Safire was just about to rap the hilt hard against her temple and watch her drop when there was a sharp prick of pain in her neck. Like a scorpion sting.
Safire blinked.
She saw the thorn of the scarp thistle dart—gripped in the girl’s hand—too late.
A heartbeat later, the room rocked. The Death Dancer’s mouth—twisting into a cruel smile now—blurred before her.
Safire’s legs started to tremble. Her fingers—suddenly unable to grip—slipped from her knife, which fell to the floor. Before her legs gave out completely, an arm came around her waist, holding her upright.
The room spun. The Death Dancer ducked beneath Safire’s arm, looping it around her shoulder.
“You drugged me,” Safire realized, the sentence fuzzy in her mouth.
The last words she heard before the world faded were, “Aye, princess.”
A Becoming
One morning, Crow found the fisherman’s daughter high up the cliffs, far from the footpaths, picking berries. He watched her gather handful after handful of the small dark orbs, dropping them into her basket—except for when she dropped them into her mouth.
Crow had never known hunger. Watching her made him curious.
“What does it taste like?”
Her eyes snapped to him. “You’ve never eaten one?”
He’d never eaten anything. Why would he need to?
He didn’t tell her this.
She picked a plump dark berry and held it up. “Open your mouth.”
He did. As she slid the berry in, her fingers brushed his lips. The juice of the berry, the touch of her skin . . . it was like a spell. Changing him. Where he’d once been content, an aching need now gnawed at his insides.
He tried to banish it. But this new feeling persisted, snapping and growling like a wolf cub. Getting louder and fiercer inside him.
Was this hunger?
It unsettled him. He left her there in the cliffs, with her basketful of berries, wanting to escape it. But weeks later—or was it months?—the need drove him back.
He found her in a tiny one room house overlooking the cove. It was hot inside. Crammed with people dressed not for fishing or farming, but for celebrating. Families had gathered here for a binding.
Skye sat on a rotting pine bench at the back of the room. Her spindle and wool were gripped tight in her hands and her gaze was fixed so intently ahead, she didn’t feel him sit down.
Crow looked where she looked—to the young couple at the front. The young man had Skye’s raven-dark hair and stubborn chin. He reached tenderly for his new wife, sealing their union with a kiss.
He remembered the dark, plump berry.
What would it be like?
He looked to Skye. Saw the same curiosity in her eyes.
What would she be like?
That question scared him most of all.
Here is danger, he thought. And so he fled.
Eight
Safire woke on the deck of a ship. Though the world blurred around her, she knew it was a ship because the wood beneath her cheek was damp, she could hear the squawk of gulls, and she felt the gentle rock of what could only be the sea.
A pair of black boots came into sudden focus. At the sight of them, Safire pushed herself to a sitting position and was surprised to find her hands weren’t bound.
She immediately reached for her knives—all of which were gone. Even the one she kept hidden inside her shirt, strapped to her torso.