Page 23 of Between Smoke and Shadow
“Hand it over,” Malek says. “Resist and you will be punished.”
I’m on the other side of Malek now, hand landing heavy on his shoulder.
“Stop this,” I hiss into his ear. “Right now, Malek. It’s too far.”
“It will stop. As soon as this wench surrenders what it’s stolen.”
“I haven’t stolenanything, my prince,” the woman says. Only it’s not Rune. It’s Viana’s handmaiden, a red-haired woman with a chipped front tooth. She raises her chin, as if in defiance, buther fingers are shaking. She’s terrified, and Malek can sense fear better than anyone. He leers at the redhead like she’s his newest toy.
“You’ve taken the capsule,” he says. “And if you want to live, I suggest you return it. Now.”
“This should be handled in the interrogation room,” I say. My words are so snarled they don’t sound like mine. “Let the people return to their party.”
The guard doesn’t glance at me, but Malek does, his mouth twitching with a smirk.
“I don’t know of any capsule, my prince,” the woman says. She spits each word and straightens her shoulder as she leans toward the guard. She doesn’t have pockets, but she’s carrying a small basket of blue-toned tulle. “Search if you must. You won’t find anything.”
My stomach clenches. She has to realize her basket is the perfect place to hide something. Or, in this case, for Malek to plant it. This wench must be as new as Rune—she’s certainly skinny enough to be from the basement. She doesn’t know the rules here…or the lack of them.
The redhead extends her basket, and the guard snatches it. He digs through the ribbons of fabric, hand moving like a hungry animal off its chain. The crowd leans toward him, and I’m ashamed that I do too. I’m desperate for him to find nothing, for Malek to look like a fool.
I know better than that. Malek is many things, but he is not stupid. He wouldn’t put on this performance unless…
The guard pauses. He drops the woman’s basket, spilling her collection of tulle across the marble. Everyone leans close, staring at the clear vial in the guard’s hand. Within it, a thin spool of red magic swirls, glowing bright against the guard’s dark glove.
“A capsule,” he says. His voice is quiet, almost like he’s speaking to himself. But then he shoves his fist into the air, holding the vial for all to see. “The wench has stolen magic!”
“No!” she shrieks. She cranes her neck to see the bottle in his hand. “That isnotmine. I am not a?—”
“A thief?” interrupts Malek. His voice is barely a whisper, but he may as well have screamed for the way the crowd gasps. “Unfortunately, creature, the evidence suggests otherwise.”
“Give me your hands,” the guard demands. The woman shakes her head and steps backward.
“I did not steal that,” she says. “I didnot. My prince, you can’t?—”
The guard lunges, grabbing the woman with his magicked gloves. All low military wear them, each pair holding enough magic to incapacitate several criminals—or to kill one. The woman writhes against the man’s touch, screaming as his magic, borrowed from our bunker, crawls up her arms. Nearly a minute of blistering red, until finally, she loses consciousness.
As she falls, Rune steps forward. I can see it on her face, her trembling lips. She’s going to try to help. It’s too late for the redhead though. If Rune tries anything, she’s going to get herself killed too. And this time, I won’t be able to save her.
I move through the crowd, twisting to block her with my back. I remain there, shifting every time she does, until the guard has taken the redhead away. In a few hours, she will wake in a prison cell, and she will cry her innocence. She will beg them not to kill her.
But she will lose.
The servantsalwayslose.
EIGHT
HARRICK
“Crocodile,” Tora hisses. She drops into the metal chair to my right and taps her fingernails against the table. She’s wearing a floor length dress, almost too dark to be considered red and tight enough she might suffocate before dinner.
Without acknowledging my sister, I settle my elbows on the black table’s edge. Even as she shifts and sighs, I stare down at my reflection, at the angled sides of my crown.
“Crocodile,” she repeats, voice hard. “Did you see it? They’re serving crocodile.”
“I saw it, Tora. I saw it, and I know what it means.” My words are a growl, but Tora only leans back into her chair, sharp nails tapping again.
A pair of servants enter the gaping room. We’re in the royal dining hall, a lavish room with red satin walls and marble floors, a mix of red and violet and black. Scarlet curtains hang over the windows, hiding the bulky shields from view.
