Among Rory’s people—a pride of saber-toothed cats who roamed in the spirit world—a male trusted his mother and aunts and sisters absolutely. He watched me with eyes as amber as my own, for we had inherited golden eyes and black hair from the creature who had sired us. Luce crept to my side as the prince inspected the wounded leg. He wiped up a dab of the colorless blood, sniffed it, and glanced at me but asked no questions. A man of his education no doubt could draw his own conclusions. After assuring himself the shot had gone clear through flesh, he placed a hand on either side of the thigh.

Caonabo’s two catch-fires lit as if they were gas lamps touched to flame.

I gasped. Luce’s grip on my arm tightened.

A skin of fire radiated from the prince’s hands. Four days ago, on Hallows’ Eve, standing under the veil of my sire’s terrifying power, I had seen Prince Caonabo’s mother casting off the backlash of her magic into a net of catch-fires. The lines drawn between the cacica and her catch-fires had spanned the island of Kiskeya. She had created a woven web through which the backwash of fire magic was drained out of her, through the catch-fires, and into the seemingly bottomless well that was the spirit world. Shimmering threads spun out of Caonabo and into his catch-fires. One catch-fire alone would have burst into flame and died; two could split the backlash between them and pour it harmlessly away.

Rory exhaled sharply. His eyes rolled up, and he passed out.

“Blessed Tanit!” I touched his throat.

His pulse stirred, weak but steady, as pale blood leaked along the curve of his neck. Unthinkingly, I licked his blood off my fingers. It was so sweet, not harsh at all.

Prince Caonabo draped linen over Rory’s genitals to give him a scrap of dignity. An elderly woman with feathers and beads woven into her white hair approached, carrying a basket. She produced a pair of tweezers. He probed Rory’s shoulder and pulled out a bloody bullet. He then pressed a hand over the wound and cauterized it as well.

Luce sat beside me, clutching my other arm. I scrubbed at my lips but the taste of Rory’s blood lingered. I began to shake.

Caonabo rose. “Now we go to Council Hall.”

“Yee shall not go with them, Cat!” Luce cried. “They shan’t kill yee!”

“Hush, Luce.” I grabbed her. “Help Kofi bring our gear. Quickly! Now go!”

She kissed Rory’s cheek in a way that brought tears to my eyes. She was free to choose what pleasure and affection she desired. If he died, who was I or anyone to say it would have been better if they had not shared love?