softly volunteered, and my cousin nodded, frowning.
“You should see someone about your wing—” I began, but he cut me off.
“No. We’re going back up top. I want to know who would do such a thing.”
I glanced at the others, feeling cold and scared, but none of them met my eyes. Something evil walked the earth in the Faerie Realm, and I had no confidence it left any tracks.
* * *
I awoke with a start, for noise had erupted on the street. I rubbed my eyes, then stiffly stood and hefted my pack. I was cold, grumpy, hungry, still tired, and not in the mood for more trouble. Nonetheless, I hobbled to the end of the alley to survey the scene. People were dashing every which way, handing out some sort of announcement, while others had gathered in groups, excitedly talking.
“What’s going on?” I called to a man hustling by.
“Execution! One hour’s time. Better hurry or you’ll miss it.”
“Whose?” I demanded, but he had already moved out of earshot.
Not knowing what else to do, I fell in with the stream of foot traffic heading toward the execution plank, fear filling my empty stomach. Desperate for information, I grabbed the arm of the woman next to me.
“Do you know who?” I asked.
“Pyrite,” she gleefully answered. “They finally caught him!”
My heart seized, and I halted, wanting to process this information, wanting the flow of time to stop, wanting fate to justify itself to me. But I was pushed onward by the swell of people behind me. Still, none of this made sense. Why would the government rush into an execution when they’d already been holding Pyrite for a week? Maybe it was some other pirate. The woman, the fliers, they had to be wrong.
A tremendous crowd had formed by the time I arrived at the ravine where death sentences were carried out, and the prisoner had already been led to the scaffolding. I pushed my way forward, wanting to get a better look, unable to believe they would be executing such an important criminal on such little notice. On the verge of panic, I climbed on top of a waiting carriage to get a better view, squinting against the morning sun. I swore under my breath in frustration, for there was a black bag over the prisoner’s head. But he was Fae, with wings the color of Zabriel’s—black, rimmed turquoise, extending from his back at a proud but resigned angle, any chance they might have saved him from the plank negated by the weights that bound his wrists and ankles.
Feeling as if I’d been kicked in the gut, I jumped to the ground, clawing my way closer, wanting to disprove what my eyes told me was true. But the haphazard stitching over the wound in the prisoner’s left wing allowed no room for doubt. Zabriel had been shot at the time of his arrest by a brute of a man named Hastings. The bullet had passed through his shoulder before damaging the wing. I had been there, I had seen it, and I knew without doubt who stood on the plank. I shuddered, besieged by memories of the drop taken by the Faerie hunter Alexander Eskander a short time ago. Eskander had soiled his pants before meeting his unceremonious death. Would Zabriel wet himself, too? Or would the hood that covered his eyes help preserve his dignity? He was a prince facing his end—he deserved to keep his dignity.
The crush of people in whose midst I stood jostled me, their jawing and laughter churning my gut while their sheer numbers impeded my movement. I felt sick with fear, for I had miscalculated—the Queen wouldn’t arrive in time to demand her son’s life be spared. And Zabriel himself must have refused to reveal his parentage.
But did I have to honor his stubborn and prideful decision to go to his grave with his secrets intact? He was only seventeen, a year older than me, and his life was too important to let him forfeit it so foolishly. Maybe, just maybe, if I could reach the Governor before the plank dropped, I could stop this madness. If Ivanova were told that the convict Pyrite was his grandchild, he would surely stay the execution.
“...not a boy as he appears. Pyrite, who has refused all appeals for his birth name, despite the fact that it might grant some closure to his family, is a man. And like all men, he is responsible for his actions, his choices. This is his day of judgment, the day when he will pay for every life he has directly or indirectly taken.”
Governor Ivanova, attired in full military regalia, was addressing the crowd from the forefront of the viewing box near the ravine that was designed to give him and his guests a perfect view. A half-grown pup paced on the ledge in front of him, seemingly caught up in the crowd’s eagerness to see the prisoner die. But I hardly registered the Governor’s speech; I only hoped it would last long enough for me to break into the open.
“The deaths of fifty-three good and honest men rest on his shoulders, including that of Ilia Krylov, who was not only Executor of the Territory, but was close in my employ and in my heart. It is my hope that Ilia’s family, along with the families of Pyrite’s other victims, will find peace in the knowledge that by virtue of his deeds, his own life will be taken.”
At mention of the name Krylov, a young woman seated beside Luka Ivanova in the viewing box curled her lip into a snarl that was lupine in its savagery. It appeared the death of the aforementioned government official was significant to her—and so, therefore, was my cousin’s death.
The Governor, husky and menacing like a bear despite his advanced years, raised his hand as I ducked elbows and curses to push my way to the front of the spectators. I was close—perhaps close enough to distract him before he could signal the guards at the scaffold to drop the plank.
I gulped in air and screamed so loudly my throat burned. My wail echoed above the din, prompting those closest to me to give way, hands clamped over their ears. Scores of eyes bore into me, but I stared at the only face that mattered, my chest heaving. At last, the dark gaze of Wolfram Ivanova, so evocative of my cousin’s, fell on me. His brows drew together, and the pup at his elbow growled out what seemed to be its master’s reply.
Now was my chance. I launched myself toward the seating box, the rush of adrenaline enough to make me believe I could still fly. Then my head detonated with pain, my vision narrowing to black, my knees buckling. I pitched forward, my palms smacking on the cobblestones, the weight of my pack grinding into my shoulder blades. Forcing my eyes open against the amplified pulse in my temples, I looked into the scowling face of Constable Marcus Farrier, one of the Lieutenant Governor’s hand-picked officers. His broad build was enough to block out the spring sun, but it was the pistol he gripped in his right hand that told me what had happened—he’d struck me in the face with the butt of the gun and stopped me cold. He took hold of my cloak, and I cowered, but no sign of recognition flickered in his eyes. His purpose was simply to dispose of me, which he accomplished by thrusting me back into the sea of bodies. Disturbance handled, he turned on his heel and nodded to the Governor, who let the blade of his hand slice the air.
Through the blood in my eyes, I didn’t see my cousin fall, didn’t see his limbs flail in a vain effort to slow his momentum and land feet first, didn’t see him struggle against the handcuffs that bound him. But I heard the plank snap flat against the scaffolding and the people erupt with joy, their hunger for violence sated—the murderer William Wolfram Pyrite was no more. Then I doubled over, heaving again and again.
The crowd started to disperse, and I stumbled away from the scene and into an alley, collapsing against one of its walls. I pounded my fist against the stone until it bled, then sank to the ground, guilt, sorrow, and despair pressing down on me. I felt like a broken, wounded animal, unable to defend itself and in need of a quick end to its suffering. And like that wounded animal,
