Page 52 of Ring of Ruin

It didn’t feel like either Cynwrig or Mathi. Aside from the fact that neither had reason to be here, they would have called first, given they were both aware that I was temporarily shifting to my brother’s. They’d also have announced their presence as they came up the stairs. As much as I kept needling Mathi about his seduction intentions, his manners would never allow him to enter a lady’s home or indeed bedroom without invitation.

Of course, once given, it was all bets off.

But it wasn’t Darby or Lugh, either. The wood song would have acknowledged my brother’s presence, given he’d spent a good part of his life here.

I tucked the Codex behind a nearby crossbeam, then dragged out my phone and sent a quick text to Sgott, explaining the situation and asking if he still had people watching the place outside.

His response was quick and to the point. Stay put, his people would be there in minutes.

Relief was fleeting. The ladder made an odd sound, and it took me a minute to realize someone had pressed the release switch downstairs.

ThankgodsI’d slid the latch across.

I pressed my fingers against the floor again. The stranger stood directly below me, and though I couldn’t see him, I had an odd sense that he—or she—was staring up at the ladder, as if willing it to unfold.

Then my knives came to life.

He wasn’t willing the ladder down. He was magicking it.

I dragged my knives from their sheaths. Light flickered down their lengths, but it wasn’t particularly fierce, suggesting the spell caster fell more to the “light” rather than the dark. But that was neither here nor there, given that up until this point, the knives had really only reacted when the magic would cause me harm in some way.

Obviously, the witch belowdidn’tintend to share a cup of tea and a quick chat.

I quickly took off my slippers to maintain skin contact with the floorboards, then I placed one knife against the edge of the latch to stop the magic sliding it back and the other against one of the hinges. As long as I kept a hinge and the latch in place, the ladder would remain exactly where it was, no matter what the caster tried.

For several seconds, nothing more happened, then the knives flared and there was a brief, sharp retort that almost sounded like a gunshot. A foul, almost eggy scent started staining the air, catching in my throat and making it burn. I somehow stopped the urge to cough, not wanting to confirm my presence up here even though he or she pretty obviously knew where I was.

The burning moved down my throat, hitting my chest and making it difficult to breathe. I couldn’t stay here and keep breathing in this muck. It would end badly if I did.

As I pushed upright, I heard the footsteps.

On the roof.

Fuck.

My gaze jumped to the other side of the room. Was the skylight shut? Had it properly locked? The wire dangled rather than being secured to the crossbeam, but Sgott’s people wouldn’t have known what it was there for simply because Sgott wouldn’t have known it was necessary.

Why the fuck hadn’t I thought to check it myself? Especially given I’d known they’d already used it as an exit if not an entry point.

The wood song altered, telling me several people were now running up the stairs from the ground floor. Sgott’s men, I presumed, which meant the witch down below would soon be dealt with.

What Sgott’s people wouldn’t know about was the person on the roof.

The cough finally escaped, and it was so damn bad it left me dizzy and gasping. The pulsing in the knives sharpened, as did the scent of foul eggs.

Move, instinct said.Now.

I left the knives where they were and thrust up, my footsteps vibrating through the floorboards but not loudly enough for anyone other than a pixie to hear. The person below wasn’t a pixie—none of us were capable of regular magic—and wouldn’t know I’d moved. Unless, of course, I coughed again.

The noxious scent eased the farther away I got from the loft ladder, and though my throat still burned, breathing became less difficult.

The stranger on the roof had reached the skylight and stopped. I hurried over... just in time to see the flat edge of a crowbar appear between the frame and the sash.

I glanced around and spotted the rarely used metal fire poker leaning against the wall behind the skylight. I hurried over to grab it, keeping out of the shifter’s direct line of sight. The poker was decades old, as heavy as fuck, and had—according to Gran—been designed more as a weapon than a poker. When I’d asked if she ever had used it as designed, she’d simply given me an inscrutable sort of smile. But its placement close to the dodgy rear skylight rather than the wood heater certainly suggested intent if not actual use.

The skylight opened, and the crowbar angled across the corner edge, presumably to prevent it being closed. I hefted the poker and waited for the stranger to appear.

He didn’t.

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