have been shorter than me, but he was stocky and well muscled—it would take little effort for him to crush me. I swallowed hard. If he saw me before I had the chance to restrain him, I was ruined. Briefly closing my eyes, I gathered my courage. Then I smoothed the sash in my hands, wrapped it once around each palm, and eased the closet door farther open.
The guard still lingered a few steps from me, and I sprang forward, throwing my hands over his head and snapping the sash tightly around his neck. He made a desperate grunting, wheezing sound that might have been a shout had I not pulled the sash tighter. He clawed at the strip of fabric cutting off his breath but never thought to attack me instead. He lurched, knocking over a chair and a plate of spoiled food. I struggled to keep a fast hold, almost climbing onto his back. He spun, then wobbled on his feet, finally dropping to the ground. I released the pressure of the sash, not wanting to kill him, and checked for a pulse. The steady rhythm of his heart confirmed I had only rendered him unconscious.
I picked up the chair he’d toppled, and, panting, hauled him into it. The sash was still about his neck, and I tied it to the spokes of the chair back. My eyes glued to the man, I hastened to the closet for my supplies, and yanked free my rope. He still hadn’t moved, and I wasted no time in better securing his arms and legs.
The guard’s breath was ragged, but his eyelids were flickering—he would come around soon enough. What else should I do before he woke? Spotting the napkins on the table, I picked one up, folded it lengthwise, then tied it tightly over his eyes and around his head. I didn’t want him to be able to describe me tomorrow.
I shifted restlessly from foot to foot, counting the seconds, imagining every one brought his mother closer to home, brought me closer to discovery. This was the most reckless, flagrantly wrong thing I’d ever done. I’d attacked a relatively innocent man in the sanctity of his own home. Had my attack on the guard been politically motivated, there was no question the Anti-Unification League, as the human-haters in Chrior had dubbed their group, would have lauded me a hero. Was retrieving the Anlace worth the risk of becoming like them?
It was a bit late to ask myself that question.
My prisoner coughed and wheezed, and I instinctively moved behind him. His respiration was fast and painful, making me feel all the more guilty. Still, I had no intention of hurting him further—though I wasn’t about to let him in on that secret.
“Who the hell are you?” he rasped, his body stiffening. “What the hell do you want?”
I’d terrified him. As sick and nonplussed as this made me feel, it was a boon to achieving my goal. If I could keep him scared, he was more likely to talk.
The guard turned his head from side to side, trying to sense my presence. The loss of my wings and magic had made me clunky by Fae standards, but I was still stealthy compared with most humans, and he had no idea where I was. I leaned forward and put my lips to his ear.
“You stole something from me,” I muttered, deepening my voice.
He jumped so violently he almost tipped the chair for a second time, and I felt a rush of power unlike anything I’d ever experienced. I smiled, not from enjoyment but from incredulity—I was a slender sixteen-year-old female, and he could have snapped me in half given the chance. Surprise, stealth, and pain had given me a tremendous advantage over him.
“You’ve got the wrong guy,” he sputtered. “I...I never stole anything, not my whole life.”
He twisted his wrists against the rope that bound him, his wince telling me it was tight enough to burn his skin. Another thing I’d done well.
“Don’t lie,” I snarled, grabbing his hair and yanking his head back. My sash strained against his Adam’s apple, and he coughed. “You like shiny things, don’t you? You took a liking to a shiny little dagger with a ruby pommel. Probably thought it was worth a small fortune, but you underestimated its value. That knife is worth your life. Tell me where it is or I’ll prove its worth to you.”
“I don’t bloody know where that bloody knife is, bitch!”
I ripped my knife from the scabbard at my hip with a shink of metal, unexpectedly inflamed that he would dare to demean me for my gender. I should leave him a scar to remind him forever and always what bitches can do. But before I could decide whether to put the blade to him as a threat or as an act of violence, he wailed and whimpered, struggling to lean away from the sound he had heard. His bravery was gone.
“I sold it. I sold the damn thing.” His voice cracked at nearly an octave higher than its normal pitch. “I’m sorry for what I done, but I don’t have it no more. No need to hurt me. Oh, God, just let me go. I never meant no harm.”
“Who bought it?”
“Someone, someone...”
“A name!” I shouted, heedless of who might hear outside.
“A collector! A collector on the south side, his name is—is Sandrovich. Kodiak Sandrovich. He’ll still have it. I promise he will. Now let me go. My mother, she needs me. Let me go, for the love of...”
On impulse, I grabbed the money pouch that hung on his belt and pulled it free.
“For my troubles,” I sneered, heading toward the door.
“You can’t leave me like this!”
“Your mother might appreciate it.”
I went out into the night, glancing to my left and right before hurrying in the direction of the marble bridge. After a few blocks, the adrenaline coursing through my veins abated, and my legs began to shake, the enormity of what I had just done crashing down on me. I stumbled against a storefront and sank to the ground, covering my face with my hands. I no longer looked like myself or acted like myself. I was desperate, yes, but did that justify abandoning my principles? Should I have worked harder to come up with an alternate approach to reclaiming the Anlace? Or did the extreme importance of my goal justify my horrific methods? I did not know the answer to any of these questions. I only knew I was developing the ability to shut off my conscience in the name of practicality. And that filled me with a deep-rooted dread.
I raised my head and looked up at the stars, beseeching Nature for the wisdom I sought. But it was the voice in my head that provided an answer and further stoked my fear. What’s practical isn’t necessarily the same as what’s right. Wings have been cut off Fae in the name of practicality; people are executed in the name of practicality; and some even starve in the name of practicality. Pretty poor substitute for a moral compass.
I forced myself to my feet—staying in the vicinity of the guard’s house was hardly wise—and walked onward. I couldn’t help thinking I’d breached a barrier that might lead to all sorts of unconscionable deeds. Worse, having crossed it, I wasn’t sure it would be possible to turn back.
JUST THE SCARS
By the time I reached the marble bridge spanning the River Kappa, my energy was dwindling. I couldn’t track down Sandrovich tonight. It was cold and dark, and I had no idea where the man lived or worked. I needed information. This was too important an undertaking to rush into blindly.
I paused in the middle of the bridge, leaning on the white rail and listening to the water below, for there was only yawning blackness when I looked
