FOUR #3
He pushes his hood back, revealing the kind of beauty the old stories warn about.
Dazzling and cruel and made for vengeance.
Winter-blue eyes, slightly gray and stormy like the sky overhead, are set above high cheekbones as sharp as the blades at his back.
His nose is long and straight save for a crook that suggests it’s been broken more than once. And that full mouth …
“And you were offering your assistance?” Bishop says coldly. He points to the dagger in the thief’s hand, and the man drops it.
“My lord.” The thief’s voice cracks, and he continues to back away like he’s afraid of being so much as within the reach of Bishop’s shadow. “This is a misunderstanding. If you allow me a moment, I can explain—”
“Are you harmed, Lady Icaros?” Bishop’s question cuts through the man’s pleading, but the warrior’s gaze doesn’t leave the thief.
“Ic-ar-os,” the thief stammers. His eyes widen as it hits him, and he begins to shake. He falls to his knees. “Please. I didn’t know who she was.”
Bishop’s glare softens at the edges, but his tone remains steely. “Do you honestly believe her rank is what matters?”
The thief understands at the same moment I do. It’s not mercy softening Bishop. It’s comprehension. Like he sees the man in front of him for the scum that he is and knows exactly what to do.
Bishop towers over the thief, who’s been reduced to blubbering and wringing hands. The man bends forward, reaching for Bishop’s boots as the air begins to shimmer in the space around him—just like when he stole the necklace right off me.
“Watch out.” The warning leaps from my tongue as the thief’s back arcs unnaturally.
Bishop steps away, a stony mask descending over his face. It’s a curious combination of disinterest and disgust that seem to cancel each other out in favor of … boredom.
Maybe if he were the one covered in scrapes and bruises with a torn gown, he’d be more invested.
But even without my injured pride, this is new to me.
Horror floods through me as the thief’s body contracts.
Bones snap like the illustration in that forbidden book and transform with wet, grinding sounds that make my stomach heave.
Dirty brown fur sprouts across his shrinking shape, and his nose elongates into a pointed snout, wiry whiskers shooting underneath.
His clothes pool on the ground, and where the man begged on his knees a moment before, a rat now crouches.
For a heartbeat, I can’t move or breathe. I can hardly think.
“Nice choice,” Bishop says dryly like this is all perfectly fucking normal. “It fits.”
The rat darts over my feet. Tiny claws scrabble on the wet, loose stones as it races toward the back of the alley. It scampers up the side of the rain barrel, racing toward the drainage pipe. He’s going to get away. A cry escapes me as movement blurs in the corner of my vision.
The dagger flies so fast, I don’t see it before it sticks its target with a wet thwap, pinning the rat to the barrel’s wooden side. A thin squeal escapes the creature, sounding somehow horribly human, and then its tiny body goes limp.
I shake my head as if I can make my brain process all this faster. “He … he …”
Bishop crosses to the barrel and plucks the knife free.
The rodent’s body falls to the stones, its blood dripping down the weathered wood.
Grabbing the edge of his cloak, he wipes the blade clean on the fabric before returning it to some unseen spot underneath.
Must be where he hides all his contraband books and deadly weapons.
“He broke the law.” His voice is firm, leaving no room for argument. “That kind of magic is punishable by death.” He turns the full weight of his icy stare on me like he’s daring me to question his authority.
I bite my lip to keep the wrong response from spilling out.
I’m not sorry the thief is dead, especially not when he was going to kill me.
But I have roughly a dozen questions about what I just saw.
All of them pale in comparison to the ones I have for Bishop himself.
Why here? What about all the unauthorized magic happening in that secluded square we were just in? Why didn’t he punish those people?
He might have an explanation for those, but then I would have to explain how I know about those places. And I can’t do that without outing myself, which means I’ll never uncover what I want to know most of all: Why was Bishop in that bookstore? Why did he take that book with him? Where is it now?
He extends his hand to help me up. There’s a splash of blood on his glove. But I take it anyway, carefully keeping my gaze on his face for signs that he knows where I’ve been and what I was up to. He scans me, eyes narrowing like he’s contemplating queries of his own. “You’re unusually quiet.”
I blink. “How would you know?”
“I saw enough last night.” He wrenches me off the ground with the same care he took removing the dagger from the dead rat. “You don’t strike me as the strong-and-silent type.”
And you don’t strike me as the type to read illicit books. I swallow the retort and grimace at my scraped palms. The bleeding has mostly stopped, but the raw wounds are peppered with sand and dirt. “It’s been a rough day.”