In most cases, anyway.
If any last pair of skin gloves still existed, they would be on Nightshade. She had promised herself she would never return, but—
Isla drew her puddle of stars, then it was done.
With mastery, one day, she might be able to portal anywhere she wanted. For now, she could only return to places she’d been before. The moment she landed in Grim’s castle, she imagined he might step out of a wall and put his broadsword to her chin. But the hall was empty.
She didn’t linger or explore—that was what had gotten her found out last time. With quiet steps, she made her way out of the palace and into the busy streets. Women wore clothes she had never seen in other realms’ lands—boots that reached their thighs, dresses with chain mail woven through, pants that were glossy and shimmering. Compared to them, Isla was wearing far too much clothing. She kept her head down and her hood—a black one she had procured in another market—buttoned at its front, so as not to show what she wore beneath, the only other dark-colored clothing she owned, a deep-plum silk dress meant for sleeping.
Get the gloves and get out, she told herself.
The night market smelled of rotting flesh and boiled blood. Her black hood dropped so low it almost obstructed her vision as she wove through the crowds. No one paid any attention to her. She was the least interesting thing in the market.
One stand exclusively sold teeth. There were barrels of them—most looking distinctly human.
Another had skulls tied on strings. Some were small as fingernails, others as large as boulders—what creature could possibly have such a large head?
“Nightbane,” someone whispered from a stall. She slowed in front of it, curious. There were small vials of something dark. The seller’s face lit up at her attention. “Takes away all troubles and pain ...”
Nightbane.She had never heard of it.
The seller reached for her, as if to place the vial in her hand, eyeing the gems she wore on her fingers, and she kept moving.
Crimson wine filled a cauldron a woman with fingers that looked suspiciously like claws stirred with what looked even more suspiciously like a femur. Poison. It had to be poison. The woman met her eyes, and Isla quickly looked away.
Gloves, gloves.
She looked for flesh, and—gulp—found it rather quickly.
A stand had skin spread out across racks, some still in need of more thorough cleaning. Isla nearly gagged. She parted the curtains of the shop and entered, sinking her face into the folds of her cape to try to mute the smell of decay. Disgusting. She couldn’t fathom the type of people who could regularly visit the night market, let alone work here.
Gloves. Gloves. She searched, hoping to find them. If no shop sold them, she would have to find someone she could pay tomakethem for her. That possibility made bile crawl up her throat. No, the best thing would be to find some already made, preferably from the skin of a child murderer, or someone equally as deserving of such a cruel, torturous death.
She parted another wall of curtains. The shop was like a labyrinth, and some of its sweeping walls felt too thick—skin?—and she was suddenly sweating beneath her cloak. She tried to hold her breath as much as she could as she scoured the shelves and racks for something resembling human hands ...
Until she did find human hands.
Or, rather, they found her.
Before Isla could scream, someone placed their fingers over her mouth and pulled her backward, straight through another set of curtains.
Into an alleyway.
She was shoved against a wall, her hood falling, the back of her head colliding with wet bricks. Something dripped against her forehead from far above and slid down her cheek.
A man whose flesh hung off his bones like the skins in the shop towered before her. He looked old, which meant he either had generations of children or had been alive more than a millennium.
Or ... by the crazed look in his eyes and the faint yellowing of his skin, he had dabbled in something dark enough to have leeched away his life.
With a motion quicker than his appearance suggested he would be capable of making, he wrapped her hair around his other wrist and pulled.
Isla cried out behind his filthy palm. The man ignored her, inspecting her hair like it was a treasure.
“Yes ...” he said, eyes sparkling. “This would fetch a pretty price ... Wildling hair. Shiny temptress locks. Must get the root ... that’s the best part. The whole scalp, that will do nicely.” He pulled a long, curved knife from his pocket.
Isla had a blade through his chest before he could point it in her direction.
It shocked her. The only other person she had stabbed was Grim.
