She shouts, and I turn away from my own foe to find her locked in a vicious hold with hers. His arm is pressing against her neck as he pins her against the wall. Her face is beginning to redden as she grapples with him, but he’s simply too strong for her to outmaneuver in this instance.

Fuck it.

I grab the hilt of the blade protruding from the first man’s boot and, with all my might, I pull.

His scream accompanies me as I throw myself bodily across the hallway, bloodied blade splashing droplets of crimson against the walls.

My hand snakes around the man’s throat, yanking his chin up. The dagger flies up toward his throat, right under his generous growth of stubble. The blade is sharp. All my blades are sharp. It’s a point of pride how sharp I keep them. But right now, I’m not considering that. The only thing that exists is his hold on Ana and my blade at his neck.

I don’t think.

I don’t hesitate.

I just pull.

Blood spurts from the wound, spattering the side of Ana’s face. Her hair gets the worst of it. He slumps to the ground, his hands flying up toward his throat as if they alone can stem the bleeding. But it’s too late for him.

Ana slides down the wall, gasping for air. She kicks at the man, but weakly, like her limbs aren’t quite up to the task of cooperating just yet.

“Ana, are you all right?” I fall to my knees, reaching for her. She grabs my hand with one of her own while the other massages her neck.

Her breath comes in harsh, belabored pants. “That … son of a … bitch…”

The first man is moaning on the floor, but he’s pushing himself to stand. Slowly, but he’ll get there. One stab wound isn’t enough to keep a gargoyle like that down. I loop my arm around Ana’s waist and help her stumble to her feet.

“Come on. We have to get out of here.”

It isn’t easy, but I manage to get us to the top of the stairs. But then, when I see what’s waiting for us below, I stop.

Two members of the city guard, wearing the viceroy’s colors, glare at us from the landing. The feathers in their hats bob gently, as if in tutting disapproval of our little brawl.

“You won’t be going anywhere.”

Ana coughs once. Twice. Then, she manages a faint, but still clearly audible, “Shit.”

“Unhand me, you lout!”

The guard merely laughs in response as he half tugs, half drags me out of the brothel. My feet tangle with each other as he propels me down the short flight of stairs by the entryway, but he keeps me upright with an unkind, steel grip on my upper arm.