Her lips touched Winter’s. The kiss was sweet, as sweet as it had ever been, as sweet as the first time. Then Winter felt something rising within her, the demon that lived in the pit of her soul, rushing forth and flooding into Jane. She screamed at it, swore at it, but it went on unbidden. As it had when she’d used it on Jen Alhundt, the thing spread, transforming Jane into more of itself, down to her feet and the tips of her fingers. Then, hunger satisfied at last, the demon dove back inside Winter, leaving nothing behind but the fading image of a crooked smile and green eyes full of pain.

I did this to her. I drove her away.

“I’m sorry,” Winter said into the darkness. There was no answer.

Chapter Twenty-two

MARCUS

The wagon, pulled by a quartet of straining, panting mules, rattled slowly down one of the innumerable alleys that branched off the Green Road north of the Lower Market. The buildings on either side were two or three stories high, not the towering tenements of Newtown but the more modest, ramshackle brick-and-timber architecture of the Docks. Overhead, clotheslines ran between upper-story windows, with a few lonely sheets flapping in the chilly breeze.

Two Patriot Guards, wearing their blue-and-black sashes, escorted the wagon, one on the box beside the driver and the other perched uncomfortably on the roof. Both had muskets, with bayonets fixed. A half dozen big men walked beside the vehicle, too, with the ragged blue armbands that had been adopted by the Civic Defense militia. Seedies, the Leatherbacks called them, and as far as Marcus could see the name fit. They looked like ordinary street toughs, dressed in leather and homespun, with cudgels and long knives at their belts. No pistols, though. That was a blessing. I don’t want to kill any more of them than we have to.

He waited until they’d passed his position, behind the rag curtain of a second-story window. Once he was satisfied none of them were paying particular attention, he leveled Lieutenant Uhlan’s long rifle, the barrel poking through the gap in the curtain. It was heavier than a musket, and the balance was different, but Marcus had spent an evening practicing and felt he grasped the basics. He was no marksman, but the target was barely ten yards off.