Page 152 of Silvercloak
Beside her, Segal stared at the dome with that strange glassy expression on his face. Sweat poured from him in rivulets, his cloak clinging wetly to his chest, his wand hanging slack at his side. When Levan drew a breathing bubble over his mouth, he didn’t appear to notice. In fact, he had the distinct appearance of a mage who’d rather be anywhere else. Like a soldier who would not actively resist orders, but who would also not take their own initiative, would not enter into battle of their own free will. Saffron assumed he was herebecause of the brand, and the brand alone. Even the Risen were not free of it.
Another small notch in the Silvercloak advantage column—reluctant fighters were rarely effective ones.
Thishadto go differently.
“Alright, the cloaks have shown their hands,” Levan muttered, raking his hand through his hair. The words had a strangely warped echo to them. “They’re spread thin in each of the shacks. We split up in pairs and take them down one by one until we find the perimeter caster. Silver and I will take the tunnels—it’s the most dangerous, since they might be sealed off and we could be trapped, but we’ll have the element of surprise.”
Saffron’s chest thudded like a military drum. The Silvercloaks would almost definitely have sealed off the tunnels … if they knew about them. If not, they’d be scrambling at Levan’s words.
Silent and grim-faced, the pairings split off into the moonlit village, crouching beneath windows and pressing ears to wooden walls. Saffron felt like a leather belt was strapped too tightly around her chest. Prickling fear stabbed at her hands and feet, and she felt as though she might die at any moment. Like any breath might be her last.
Levan’s ungolden hand found hers, and he tugged her toward his childhood shack. At the touch of his skin, bolts of lightning shot up her arms, straight into her heart.
Surely he knew. Surely he knew this was her doing.
A poisonous purple cirrus clung to the shack like the tendrils of some ethereal beast. The front door opened onto the central clearing, so they were horribly exposed as they entered. Even though the Order all knew, by now, that she was dirty, she lifted her hood anyway.
She felt naked and vulnerable without her wand, but the onslaught ofeffigiasspells she was expecting never came. Perhaps the Silvercloaks were too busy watching their own doors to mind the windows. They knew the Bloodmoons were splitting up to take them down, and they knew the Bloodmoons would fire nothing less than killing spells. Two lone figures and a fallowwolf creeping into an unmanned shack were a distant threat—but a threat, nonetheless.
Once inside, Levan let go of her hand and pointed his black elm wand at the floor of the storage space.
“Et aperturan.”
A trapdoor swung up into the room, revealing a hole wide enough for a single body to slip through. A narrow rope ladder disappeared into the darkness below.
As soon as Levan cast a new spell, the protective bubbles around their mouths evaporated, but the purple mist hadn’t infiltrated the shack yet. They could breathe freely—as could the other Bloodmoons, providing they’d also made it inside a shack, but anyone still in the open air beneath the perimeter dome would be vulnerable. Saffron hoped a few stragglers might be picked off by the Silvercloaks this way, tipping the odds more squarely into the Order’s favor.
“After you,” Levan muttered, gesturing to the opening.
And what else could she do but obey?
Rasso leapt blithely into the chasm in the floor, unmistakably familiar with this strange locale. Saffron imagined Levan—and hisbrother?—chasing the beast around the surrounding woods as laughing children, mere miles from where Saffron herself had floated around Lunes on a flying carpet. With even the smallest detour, their paths could so easily have crossed.
Saff sank to the ground with a click of her knees, swinging her legs over the edge and finding the top rung of the ladder with her left boot. She lowered herself down until her feet found the soft, damp earth at the bottom, then turned to see nothing but blackness stretching out before her.
Levan dropped to the ground behind her, muttering an illumination spell. His wand lit like a candle, flickering white light over his face.
Saints,he was beautiful. Even now, his eyes shadowed and weary, his skin rough with stubble, the scar bisecting his lip somehow starker than ever.
Now they were alone, he took a step toward her, cupping her jaw with his palm. Urgency played out in his eyes, an undeniable plea, a question loaded with dread.
“Was it you, Silver?” he murmured, voice coarse and hollow.
“No,” she whispered, stomach flipping over, but she knew he’d see right through it—if he wanted to.
“You’re the only one who knew the plan in advance.”
She swallowed, forcing herself to keep meeting his blazing stare. “They must’ve been watching theportarigates.”
“And that would’ve given them enough time to pull together a squad of at least eleven?”
“They were likely waiting to move on your father the second he left the wards. They’ll have an arrest warrant now, thanks to the killings on the docks. The twelve—because they move in sixes—would have been on standby.”
Deep down, Saffron suspected there were twenty-four. Four whole tac teams. There’s no way they’d split up one-by-one and go into each shack alone.
The Bloodmoons were vastly outnumbered.
Hope smoldered in Saffron’s chest—surely,surelythis time the Bloodmoons would not weasel free—and yet it was tempered with something sad, something bitter, something that only intensified when Levan rested his forehead against hers.
