As Inaya approached, she saw that no one had lit candles at the saint’s feet, and the restaurant opposite was already closed and dark. She hesitated in the alley, watching the shadows for movement. Seeing no one, she approached the saint and knelt. Sometimes Michel left notes beneath the feet of the saint, though she felt that Isabet’s whereabouts would be too sensitive to leave to writing. Meeting in person made more sense. She closed her eyes and left a prayer with Affia, saint of travelers and wayward souls. She prayed for Isabet’s safety. And Eshe’s. She was not so callous that she did not think of him.

She heard the sound of a vehicle approaching, and started. The streets here were narrow, generally only traveled by sleds. But the sound she heard was distinctively that of a popping and hissing bakkie rolling across the cobbles.

Inaya stood. Turned.

Six men were leaping from a still-rolling bakkie. They wore black cowls.

Fear knotted her stomach. She turned and ran in the opposite direction, up the street and past the restaurant.

She turned down the first alley she saw. But another bakkie was barreling toward her, seeking to cut her off. She doubled back. The alley didn’t go through to the other side of the street.

The six men behind her were gaining. She saw more leap out of the second bakkie.

Inaya looked up. Her skin rippled. She prepared to unmake herself.

Something pounded into her gut. She flew backward, landed hard on her seat, and knocked her head against the paving. Her vision swam. She clutched at her gut, thinking she’d been shot. But no, she was still whole. Instead, her hands came away coated in some sticky substance that smelled distinctly of saffron.

Oh, God.

Inaya clawed her way up. Her head spun. She heard their boots on the cobbles. She released her hold on her body’s form, set it free.

Her skin prickled. She shivered. But she remained in her form. Imprisoned.

The stink of the saffron filled her senses. Saffron prevented shifters from making the change. She had known that, but never experienced it herself. It was terrifying. She scrambled forward, searching for a way out.

Another bakkie popped toward her, this time coming from the road ahead. The forward lights blinded her. She covered her eyes.

The men put their hands on her. She screamed. Screamed and screamed.

She carried no weapons. Why would she? She was a shifter, a mutant shifter, with the ability to be and become whatever she wanted. Unless someone knew what she was—unless they brought saffron with them, and incapacitated her with it before she could shift—she was untouchable.

But now—she was nothing. Just this. Just another woman. Another thing.

They slipped the bag over her head.

She could not stop screaming.

18.