Page 104 of Harbinger

“Not of going, exactly.” I search for words that explain the churning dread I can’t shake. “But what I’m leaving behind.”

Our family. Everything I’ve ever known. Maybe even Bishop. What if war does come? Or our siblings still pay the price after we’ve fled?

Kieren considers before he nods, and I know he’s thinking about Isidore.

When I fall silent, he does the talking again. He speaks about the Lost Continent like it’s a promise—a place without orders or marks or Stars weighing every choice. I remind him there won’t be magic there. He only laughs again. “That’s why it’s an adventure.”

By the time we reach Wolf’s Keep, he’s distracted me. But as we cross the city’s threshold, I can’t help turning to look back at the road.

“He won’t know you’re gone until morning,” Kieren reminds me, catching my nervous glance.

“Unless he finds my note,” I murmur absently.

Kieren stops dead in his tracks.

“You left a note.” It’s not a question, but his voice pitches up like it should be. “Do you want him to chase after you?”

I roll my eyes, but he waits like he actually expects me to answer him. “Of course not,” I say, pulling my hood tighter as a group of soldiers passes us. “That’s why I left him a note, so he would know that I left Antares.”

My best friend’s mouth falls open. “You told him where we’re going.”

“No,” I say quickly.

“There is really only one way to leave the kingdom.” Kieren rakes a hand through his hair, glancing around like he expects to be ambushed momentarily.

“And we’ll be sailing on the Baron Sea before dawn, right?”

He nods, but his face remains uneasy.

“Trust me, he’ll be glad to be rid of me.” It’s not like Bishop will waste his dwindling resources chasing after us.

Kieren grumbles like he doubts this but doesn’t say anything else.

Thinking of Bishop finding my note makes the knot in my stomach clench with each step, my gaze finding the ground like if I don’t look up I won’t have to face my own feelings—or what I might have discovered about him.

Bishop is a heart collector. He was present when three of the murders took place. Leaving helps me see it in a way I couldn’t with him always near me. That’s why he took me in. When the rest of the patrons debated whether or not I was responsible for King Ophelian’s death, he brought me to his home. He’s never been afraid of me—not even for a second.

And there’s only one way he could have been sure I wasn’t the assassin.

The pieces all fit. Mostly. But the picture is still clear enough to see.

The trouble is that I’ll never know why.

It’s well past midnight, and most of Wolf’s Keep is quiet. Windows are shuttered and doors are barred, but The Last Drop’s lights still blaze like it’s daring someone to look at it too closely. The smell of stale ale and smoke hits me the moment we step inside, but it’s the sight of the man behind the bar that raises the hair on the back of my neck.

“Kitchen’s closed, but we have beer,” he calls to us, giving me a glimpse of his gold tooth—the one I saw when he spat at my feet yesterday, right before Vessica held a sword to his nose.

Kieren waves that he’s heard him, and I let him take the lead. A wolf’s head hangs above the hearth, its horns polished smooth by whoever mounted it, its glass eyes dull and watchful.

I tug my hood lower, my pulse skittering every time someone shifts in their seat. I do my best to avoid eye contact with anyone, looking at the floorboards scarred by too many passing boots.

We make our way to a table in the back corner. The man sitting there looks like trouble wrapped in charm—contagious smile and watchful eyes—with sun-worn brown skin and dark hair threaded with silver at the temples. His grin widens as we approach, and a thin scar pulls at the corner of his mouth like it learned the shape the hard way. He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms behind his neck. “You came back,” he greets Kieren, his eyes sharpening on me too quickly for someone lounging so casually.

“I told you that I would.”

“And she came with you.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.” Kieren pulls out a stool for me before he claims one for himself. “Jude”—he greets him by name—“this is—”