GIDEON PRESSED HIS BACK to the wall, breathing in the smell of oiled metal and ink. He drew his pistol and glanced at Laila, who mirrored him on the other side of this door, her scarlet uniform a pop of color in the darkness.
At Gideon’s request, the Ministry of Public Safety had instituted a curfew, decreeing a temporary postponement of citizens’ rights and allowing the Blood Guard to conduct raids wherever a casting signature had been found—or was suspected to be found.
It was Harrow who’d tipped Gideon off to this print shop. Three casting signatures were seen in one of its storerooms last week. The tip had come from one of the shopworkers, and as a result, Harrow had several spies watching the shop. She’d notified him less than an hour ago that seven people had entered after hours, when no one should have been there, and they hadn’t come out yet.
On my count, Laila mouthed, holding up three fingers. A printing press loomed at the bottom of the stairs behind her, where the darkness hid the rest of their raiding squad.
Three.
Two.
One.
They pushed off the wall. While Laila covered for him, Gideon kicked the door with all of his might.
It burst open.
They entered the shop’s uppermost room, their guns held high, while the rest of their raiding squad rushed in behind them. From the center, back-to- back, Gideon and Laila scanned the room, turning in a circle, their pistols pointed at empty space.
“There’s no one here.”
Dozens of freshly lit candles ringed the perimeter. Inside the circle of flames, where Gideon and Laila stood, someone had drawn symbols in blood on the floor.
Gideon looked from the bloody marks to the rafters, which were also empty. The door he’d just kicked in was the only way out. So where were they?
He lowered his pistol, eyeing the shadows cast by the flickering flames. “Where the fuck did they go?”
“Maybe they’re not gone,” said Laila, glancing at him. Her words cast a chill over the room.
Stepping into the circle of flames, he walked toward the center, where a white casting signature glimmered in the air. Strange, how much could change in so little time. Because as Gideon approached, he was hoping for a different one.
This signature was neither crimson, nor moth shaped. Its thorns and petals made Gideon’s blood run cold.
“Gideon?”
He glanced at the three guards still standing beyond the flames, as if afraid to step inside the circle. Behind them, Laila was staring at something over Gideon’s head.
“I know where they went.”
Turning away from Cressida’s signature, he looked to where Laila’s attention was focused: the long horizontal windows roughly ten feet up the wall. One of them was open.
“You three.” He nodded to the soldiers outside the circle. “Check the alleys.” Moving for the window, he called to Laila: “Give me a leg up?”
She strode over and cupped her hands. As he stepped into them, Laila pushed him upward. Gideon grabbed the frame of the open window and
pulled himself into it. Reaching down, he grabbed Laila’s outstretched hand and hauled her up beside him.
Gideon climbed onto the slanted roof first. But the fog was so thick, he could only see a few feet in front of him.
The print shop was part of several blocks of continuous row houses. This, combined with the fog cover, gave Cressida and any witches with her ease of movement tonight. They could be halfway across the city by now.
“We’ll cover more ground if we split up,” said Laila, half crouching beside him. Her eyes narrowed, scanning the fog. “Wait … there’s something there!”
“Where?”
Laila took off, scrambling up the sloped roof and disappearing into the gray, her gun drawn.
“Laila, wait …” Gideon followed her to the roofline. One misstep would send him sliding down the sloped shingles on either side.
Three quick pistol shots rang out from several yards ahead.
Fuck fuck fuck …
He picked up speed, running across the roofline, listening for the next shot. None came. When a silhouetted form appeared at the end of the row house roof, he drew his gun.
“Don’t move!”
The silhouette jumped, disappearing into the gray.
Gideon reached the edge of the roof but saw no sign of Laila. It was too far to jump from one length of row houses to the next, so Gideon dropped to the fire escape instead and vaulted down the steps.
Back on the ground, the fog thickened, obscuring the alley. Another shot rang out, closer this time.
He headed toward it. “Laila!”
“I’m here,” she said, jogging into view. “I don’t think I hit them … but I saw them.” She bent over, hands on her knees, catching her breath. “They ran west.”
“How many?” “Three, I think.”
Gideon glanced in the direction Laila had come from, trying to see. But the fog cloaked everything. It gave him a bad feeling.
“I think we should head back.” “What? No. I almost had her!”
He shook his head. Something felt wrong about this whole situation. “We’re going back.”
Laila looked like she was going to refuse, but Gideon outranked her. So she fell silently into step beside him and they headed for the main street, the glow of the streetlamps lighting their way.
“I almost had her,” she said again.
When a sound came from behind them—like the swish of a cloak, or a careful footstep—the back of Gideon’s neck prickled. Laila tensed, hearing it too.
He glanced at her, his hand hovering close to his holstered pistol. Catching his gaze, she nodded. They turned as one, their guns raised to the fog, gazes flicking from one side of the street to the other.
“Show yourself,” growled Laila.
Movement in the shadows made the blood drum in Gideon’s ears. At the sound of another footstep, he pressed the trigger as far as it would go before firing.
A dark form solidified against the gray, stepping out of the fog. The figure pushed back their hood, revealing a familiar face. “Jumpy much?”
“Harrow,” they said in unison.
Gideon loosed a breath and lowered his weapon. “You scared the shit out of us.”
Harrow’s hair was in its usual topknot, putting her missing ear on display. “I thought I’d see if you needed any backup.”
An unnerving thought occurred to Gideon.
The witches had disappeared into the fog, while Harrow had appeared out of it. He thought of Cressida, hiding in plain sight. Gideon was well acquainted with the kinds of tricks and deceptions witches were capable of.
Could Harrow be Cressida in disguise?
He immediately shook off the thought. Impossible. The amount of magic it would take to alter her appearance so drastically …
Gideon paused, thinking it through.
It would be possible for a witch as powerful as Cressida, but it would drain her considerably.
And I’d be able to smell the stench of magic on her.
Harrow smelled like … well, Harrow. Normal. Not a witch.
For two years, he’d been trying to hunt down and unmask the Crimson Moth. But what if he’d been wasting his time? What if, all along, it was Cressida who was the true threat and walking amongst them? At the thought, bile rose, burning in his throat. He swallowed thickly.
“Seems like your raid was unsuccessful,” said Harrow, frowning, as they returned to the entrance of the print shop.
“They must have heard us enter the building.”
Up ahead, the three soldiers he’d sent into the alley were returning empty-handed. Leaving Harrow and Gideon, Laila went to grill the soldiers on what they’d seen. Gideon should send one of them to arrest the print shop owner and bring him to headquarters for questioning. Before the man fled.
Gideon stared through the windows of the print shop ahead. The lights were on, and he saw soldiers searching the premises. There might not be witches within, but there could be some clue as to what they’d been meeting about.
When Laila was out of earshot, Harrow reached for Gideon’s arm, stopping him from entering the shop. “How did things go with Rune? Did you get what you needed from her?”
Gideon winced. This was not a conversation he wanted to have right now.
“I changed my mind.”
Harrow slit her eyes. “What?”
“About Rune. It makes no sense. If she was secretly saving witches, why would Cressida have tried to kill her the other night? The simplest explanation is that we were wrong. She isn’t a witch.”
And I can’t sleep with the girl my brother is in love with.
“Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe not.”
“Harrow—”
“Hear me out.” She held up a slim hand. “The Crimson Moth doesn’t kill witches; she saves them, right?”
He crossed his arms, waiting for her point.
“The other night, the Good Commander gave her no choice but to kill Seraphine when he called Rune to the platform and handed her a purging knife. If Rune is the Moth, she would never purge another witch, and it was a matter of seconds before everyone watching realized. Cressida’s spell could have just as easily been a diversion. It interrupted the purging, preventing Rune from revealing herself while also making her look like a target. The two are just as likely to be in league with each other.”
Gideon frowned, not liking how much sense this made.
“Or,” he argued, “Rune isn’t a witch, and Cressida interceded to stop her from killing Seraphine.”
“But you can’t know for certain which it is, can you? Not until you sleep with Rune and find her scars.”
The words planted a seed of doubt inside Gideon. He didn’t want it there. He wanted to dig it up and stomp on it.
“Catching the Crimson Moth is no longer the priority,” he told her. “We need to find Cressida and put a stop to whatever she’s planning.”
“Why are you suddenly so reluctant to see this through?” said Harrow, her gaze searching him. “If Rune is the Moth, and the Moth is in league with Cressida, catching the former will help you put a stop to the latter.”
That seed of doubt sprouted into a full-fledged weed, spreading through him, choking out his defenses. Harrow’s logic was sound, and it worried Gideon that he’d considered none of this.
Suddenly, Harrow barked a laugh.
“Oh, Comrade. Tell me you didn’t.” Gideon glanced over and found her eyes crinkling. “This is a twist I didn’t expect!”
“What are you on about?” He turned back toward the print shop, heading for the door.
“You went and fell in love with that pretty little socialite.” Gideon flinched, halting at the shop entrance.
Harrow stepped lightly around him, smirking as she entered the shop. “Why else would you give up so easily?”
Gideon’s hands fisted.
What if she was right? What if this game he’d been playing with Rune
—and the feelings she evoked in him—had compromised his ability to think? He begrudgingly followed Harrow inside, stepping around the soldiers ransacking the print shop, searching boxes and cabinets and closets. “It’s equally possible that we suspect the wrong girl,” said Gideon,
keeping his voice down. “Rune might not be a witch.”
A mocking smile twisted her mouth. “If she’s not a witch, how did she melt your frozen heart?”
“Who has a frozen heart?” Laila asked, polishing her pistol as she rejoined them.
“No one,” said Gideon, moving up the stairs. Harrow smirked harder.
Both Laila and Harrow followed him into the back room, where the ring of candles burned and Cressida’s signature still glimmered in the air.
“Who are we talking about?” he heard Laila ask.
“Focus,” snapped Gideon. “Cressida Roseblood is alive and hatching some plot. We need to know how many witches she’s gathering at these meetings and what, exactly, they’re about.”
He stepped into the circle, crouching down to study the spellmarks drawn in blood on the floorboards, wishing he could decipher them. It was times like this where he wondered if they’d been too hasty, burning all the spell books. It would be useful to have them as a reference.
Gideon could trace these marks and bring them to Seraphine Oakes, who was still in custody. She would know what they were, but was unlikely to be cooperative.
“If I were a vengeful witch planning retribution,” said Harrow, crouching down next to him, touching the marks with her fingers, “I would make my move on Liberty Day.”
“I second that,” said Laila, walking around the room, looking for anything they might have missed the first time. “We should at least—”
Beside Gideon, Harrow’s head snapped up. “Do you smell that?”
“Smell what?” asked Laila.
Gideon sniffed the air. Blood and roses.
“It smells like …”
“Magic,” said Gideon, rising to his feet. Fear snaked through his insides. “They’re still here.”
He looked to the rafters, but the beams were empty. Harrow rose to her feet beside him. The smell was growing stronger by the second, making Gideon queasy.
“We need to find the source,” said Harrow, moving for the door.
Gideon’s spine tingled. That bad feeling was back. Something was wrong. The fog. The empty room. The freshly lit candles, as if the meeting hadn’t even started yet when they’d burst through the door.
As if they’d been set up.
We were expected.
“Harrow, wait.”
She’d reached the door. Gideon stepped out of the circle, intending to stop her. But before he could grab her arm and pull her back into the room, a loud BOOM! shook the walls and floors. The red-hot force of an explosion threw him backward, slamming his body into solid brick.
Fire flared across his vision seconds before the world went black.
