Ranka turned away. Fabric rustled behind her. When she turned, Aramis was dressed in the woman’s shirt and breeches, dark curls pulled away from her face and stowed beneath the collar of her shirt. It was surprising to see her in something other than the loose, free flowing dresses she loved. In dark, form fitting clothes, she looked a different kind of dangerous. They fit her a little too well.

Aramis pulled at the leg of the breeches. “How do I look?”

“Like a drunk peasant,” Ranka lied.

“So a Skra, then?”

“I think you’re the one spending too much time with Percy.”

Aramis’s face lit up with a grin, and there came that odd little flip of Ranka’s heart again. Was she ill or something?

Someone roared with laughter within the tavern. Ranka turned, narrowing her focus on the guard posted outside. She inhaled, sorting through rot, sewage, and hatred festering in the air. Dread built in her chest, a weight Ranka could barely breathe around, lining her lungs and filling her veins with lead.

Something is coming, the mist writhing in the streets sang. And it’s coming for you.

“We need to find a way around him,” Aramis murmured.

Ranka raised an eyebrow at her, straightened, and crossed the street at a stroll. The guard stiffened as she approached, his hand flicking to the instant-click torch at his hip. It took everything in her not to draw her weapon. She moved languidly, counting on the reek of ale coming off him. “Evening.”

“Hands,” the guard intoned.

“Right, of course.” She drew closer and lifted her hands. The guard waved his torch over them. His eyes bugged. He looked up at Ranka—and she wrapped an arm around his throat.

“Good night,” she murmured, tightening her grip until he could utter no more than a squeak, her other hand firmly clapped over his mouth and nose. He thrashed for a few minutes and went limp. She dragged him behind the tavern, stowed him against the wall, and tied his legs together with his bootlaces for good measure. He’d wake up with a headache and little more.

Aramis stared at her from across the street. “That was… aggressive.”

“You told me to be the muscle. I’m being the muscle.”

“Fair enough.” Her eyes darted to the tavern door. “Ready?”

“If I say no, do we get to go home?”

Aramis smiled. “Nope.”

They linked arms and stepped inside.

36

HEAT, LIGHT, AND LAUGHTER HIT Ranka, mingled with the reek of sweat and ale. There were two levels to the tavern, and the main floor was so packed there was barely room to move. Humans milled everywhere, dancing under soft white mage-light, gold pins flashing as they twirled. A few guards bearing instant-click torches wove through the crowd, separating drunks and inspecting people at random. If they checked Ranka’s hands, she was dead.