She killed the next person with a twist of his neck, the second a slash to her throat. Their lives flashed through her too—the melody of a wife’s laugh, a sister’s weary sigh, a ringed hand offering a gold pin, a ticket to Seaswept, and a promise. Her magic devoured it all. Blood sprayed the walls, coating her skin, painting her hair rust. The morgue was a museum of death; Ranka was its curator.

Lightning arced toward her.

Ranka threw herself sideways. She leapt, seized the Yaris woman’s tunic, and slammed her to the ground. “Who are you?” Ranka knelt on her chest and pressed the knife to her throat. “Where is Yeva?”

The Yaris woman looked at Ranka with hateful eyes as blood dripped from her nose. “We are Solomei’s light. We are her Hand in the night. From the poison, we bring the cure.”

She seized the knife from Ranka—and drove it into her own heart.

“No!” Ranka cried, but the woman was dead by her own hand. Her secrets vanished with her. Ranka knelt there, heart pounding, grief and rage whiplashing through her as blood cooled on her skin; she had been so close. And she’d failed.

Slowly the colors returned—the red on her hands, the silver of the knife, the lilacs someone had once set on an end table, now dust-covered and withered by time. Ranka’s blood-magic hummed pleasantly, sated and calm. But all Ranka could hear were those words.

From the poison, we bring the cure.

Ranka turned.

Aramis pointed a knife at her. “Don’t move.”

Behind her, the wooden hatch in the floor stood open. Percy and the corpse were gone.

Ranka swayed. It was as though she’d chugged an entire bottle of wine and her skin were two sizes too small. She held up her bloody hands. “It’s okay. I won’t hurt you.”

She waited for the horror, the screams. But instead, Aramis moved across the room toward Ranka, her steps deliberate. Silent. Her eyes never left Ranka’s face. Ranka didn’t dare move. Finally, Aramis Sunra came to stand over her, lashes casting shadows over her cheeks—and offered her hand.

“Get up.”

Ranka took her hand, and the princess jerked her upright. When Ranka staggered, Aramis caught her arm, her fingers surprisingly warm against Ranka’s skin.

Ranka swayed, head spinning, blood-magic still roiling in her veins.

Even Ongrum had shown fear when Ranka was in the throes of her power. Even Yeva had balked. She’d grown so used to the hatred that came after, the disgust that she’d more than earned. But Aramis looked at her like she was familiar.

Aramis looked at Ranka like she was the beginning of something.