Page 22 of Harbinger

Somehow, he turns the command into two words. A warning meant only for me.

Like he behaves? Sneaking around in back-alley bookstores? I clamp my mouth shut and brush my filthy hands over my equally filthy skirt. “I should be going.”

“You need to see a healer.” He nods toward the street beyond. “I’ll escort you to the palace.”

An entire walk of broody judgmentalism? I’d rather take my chances with the thief. “What about him?” I hitch a thumb toward the barrel. “Shouldn’t you inform his family or …”

The words die on my lips as I look over my shoulder and discover he’s in human form again, blood puddling on the stone street. His back is split open, and bits of pearly spine bulge through like the wound transformed along with him. My hand flies to my mouth in an effort to keep this afternoon’s meal in my belly.

“He’s dead.” Bishop shrugs. “Men like that don’t have families.”

“All men have families,” I say quietly. I don’t care that he’s dead. Not after what he planned to do to me. But no one needs to be left waiting for someone to come home. A mother or a friend. Maybe even a child … left waiting.

A shadow dims Bishop’s shrewd eyes, but it’s gone in an instant, like a cloud passing over the moon. “You can’t let them all go, Arden.”

Surprise that he remembers my given name bolts through me, but I smother it. “I have a long walk back to the palace. Thank you for your assistance.”

But he takes my elbow. “I have no idea why you’re this far from … civilization—”

Says the man just as far from civilization as me.

“—but you aren’t leaving palace grounds unattended again.”

“I didn’t. I had an escort,” I huff, jerking away from him.

His forehead jumps an inch. “And what befell him?” He glances around mockingly. “I have no idea why you’re out here alone, but I will speak to your brother—”

“And then maybe you can spank me?” The words leap out before I can swallow them. Seven hells, why can’t I keep my head around this man?

He simply stares back, eyes lingering on my mouth without comment. Between the blood and daggers, I didn’t take him for a gentleman.

“Perhaps, if I thought it would be effective, I would,” he says dryly, flourishing his arm toward the street. “Shall we go, Lady Icaros? You need to clean yourself up. King Ophelian is eager to meet you.”

Okay, not a gentleman. Naturally. But the mention of the king is a dagger to my own chest. So, Bishop told him what he observed during my Petition. I lift my chin and dare to hold his gaze longer. “I suppose you’ll tell him about this, too.”

And probably my brother, who will yell at Kieren, who won’t let me out of his sight until we’ve safely returned to Damalis. But Bishop’s eyes skim down me, his gaze lighting a trail of fire in its wake. He pauses when he’s reached the torn hemline of my dress where my freshly scratched boots peek out.

“It is my job.” He doesn’t even blink. “We can’t have nobles being murdered in the streets. It would be twice the mess to clean up for me.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to cause you trouble.” I summon my most withering glare and march forward, pausing only to drop the mangled locket in a street cart piled with rubbish. I don’t dare look at the actual mess behind me. Last night, I freed a bird. Today, I watched a man die. So much for exploring the city. The Kindling can’t be over soon enough. Not even the pastries could cage me here.

Bishop catches up in two long strides and glowers down at me from his self-righteous pedestal. “Maybe I’ll just keep an eye on you myself.”

And then he falls back a step, already making good on his threat.

FIVE

Isidore’s fingers work through my hair with methodical proficiency. Although she tugs harder than necessary as she hits a tangle.

“Sorry,” she says too sweetly when I wince.

“I didn’t mean to ruin the dress.” I’ve apologized a dozen times since I returned with my clothing in tatters this afternoon. I don’t give a shit about the gown, but I can’t stop thinking about the locket. Isidore didn’t even notice it was gone.

My family bought my fib—that I’d fallen on an icy patch on my trek back from the Grand Arcade. Isidore did not accept my apology for wrecking my new outfit, which, clearly, she’d planned to steal as soon as we returned home.

“I know it was an accident,” she says while pushing a pin into my hair so hard that it nearly impales my skull.

Yes, she’s not upset at all.