“Two are entering the lane now,” Cynwrig murmured. “The other two are hanging back.”

“They’re being cautious.”

“As they should be. Only a fool would dare track a Myrkálfar without taking all possible precautions.” He paused, his gaze narrowing a little. “They’re close to the lane now. We attack once all four have passed us. Okay?”

I nodded and swallowed heavily, but it did little to ease the sudden dryness in my throat. Cynwrig’s hand wrapped around mine and briefly squeezed. I glanced at him. His smoky silver eyes glittered dangerously in the darkness, and an air of anticipation hovered around him.

I smiled, feigning a confidence I didn’t exactly feel. He nodded and released me. The seconds stretched into minutes, and the frustration of waiting clawed at my insides. I tried to keep my breathing soft and even, but it was a hard task.

Then Cynwrig raised two fingers and motioned toward the metal bins on the other side of the wall, indicating where the first half of our targets were. I tightened my grip on the knife hilts, my breath caught somewhere in my throat. For several seconds, there was nothing, then came a sound that was little more than a piece of grit skittering across the cobblestones.

They were close. Damnably close.

Cynwrig touched my leg, making me jump slightly. He silently indicated that he’d go up and over the wall then motioned me toward the plastic bins. When I nodded, he raised three fingers and, after a second, dropped the first one.

Tension slithered through me and my grip on the knife hilts was so tight I’m surprised the two people on the other side of the wall couldn’t see the glow of my knuckles.

The second finger dropped.

I slightly shifted, reading to thrust up and run around the bins.

The third finger never dropped.

My phone rang, the sound sharp in the tense silence.

Cynwrig swore and surged up and over the wall. I raced out of the nook, saw the flash of movement, and hit the last plastic bin hard, sending it tumbling into the path of the man running straight at me. He did an awkward half leap and landed heavily, stumbling for several steps before turning to come at me again.

I flicked the knives from their sheaths, dodged his fist, and then slashed sideways and back with the blade in my right hand. He swore and leapt back. The knife point skimmed the front of his coat, slicing open the leather but not skin.

Movement, behind me.

I instinctively ducked, then swung around, sweeping with one foot, knocking my second assailant off-balance and tearing open the side seam in my dress. Saw this assailant throw out a hand, as if to stop himself falling. I quickly sheathed one knife then grabbed his fingers. “Don’t move, don’t attack, don’t say anything.”

As my magic surged between us, something hit me from behind and sent me sprawling. I hit the ground on hands and knees, managing to keep grip of both knives at the cost of skinning my knuckles on the old cobblestones. The air stirred lightly around me, but it wasn’t a breeze; it was movement. I swore and half swung around, lashing out with one knife. Felt the shudder of it connecting echoing back through my arm as I followed through with the movement, slicing through muscle and bone as easily as butter. As the stench of burning skin stung the air, my assailant’s severed hand dropped to the pavement, and his warm blood spurted across my face.