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  The wide street beyond the iron gate ran perpendicular to the Citadel perimeter. At the end of the street an alley cut north before entering a maze of roads that would lead them to the Basilica of Spires, where Jordin waited with two horses.

  He heard Roland slip his knives from their sheaths. Rom motioned the fighter forward with a jerk of his head and grabbed Jonathan’s sleeve. “Stay close!” he whispered.

  Before Rom took his first step, Roland was past him. Two long bounds to the bottom of the steps. He flew across the lawn, straight for the gatehouse. No room for temperance; he would do what he must, given the stakes.

  Behind them, the sounds of chase grew louder. Fast. Heavy. Close—far too close. He could smell them.

  Dark Bloods.

  Rom grabbed Jonathan by the arm, urging him forward, faster. To the bottom of the steps, across the lawn in Roland’s footsteps.

  But then Roland suddenly changed course, his hand up, signaling warning and now Rom knew why: the pervasive stench of a city full of Corpses had momentarily masked the smell of Dark Blood.

  They veered toward the gate, committed, thirty-foot walls on either side. It was either through the gate or not at all.

  With a single glance over his shoulder, Rom released Jonathan and flipped out both of his throwing knives. Roland slid up against the wall of the gatehouse, facing them, paused a beat, then spun through the door.

  A grunt. Two. Nothing more.

  They paused against the gatehouse as Roland slipped out, blades dripping red in his fists. In another place and time Rom would have demanded to spare innocent Corpses, but this was not there or then. No time for second-guessing now.

  The fighter shoved a key in the lock, twisted hard, kicked the iron grate wide, and stood firm, heels planted, to face the Dark Bloods rushing him from the outside perimeter.

  Stealth was no longer their luxury or advantage.

  Seeing was.

  Rom saw every move with intense precision, impossibly slow as the suspended beat of a bat’s wings.

  The rush of both Dark Bloods converging on his second, who stood with his legs spread, muscled taut, blades by his hips, head tilted down, unflinching.

  They came at him. One running stride…

  Two…

  Three…

  Every movement protracted in Rom’s sight happened faster than with any Corpse or Mortal he had ever seen.

  They drew their swords back.

  It was then, with their flanks exposed, that Roland’s arms flashed, like striking serpents.

  But he was too slow.

  Rom saw it all in an elongated instant: Roland committed, both knives releasing off the tips of his fingers. Flying.

  Roland’s first knife took one of Dark Bloods in his throat, slicing deep.

  But the Dark Blood to Roland’s right shifted just in time to avoid the weapon flying toward him. He’d moved far faster than he should have been able. Speed to match their incredible strength!

  The second knife sliced through the Dark Blood’s clavicle instead—a searing slash that would slow a weaker man, but that did nothing to stop this man’s sword, arcing toward Roland’s head.

  Roland threw himself back, just avoiding the Dark Blood’s blade, his advantage gone along with his knives. The Dark Blood didn’t allow the momentum of his swing to compromise his balance, but used it, spinning for another strike.

  Rom, still taking in the implications of the speed of Saric’s dark warriors, didn’t react in time.

  Neither did he think to stop Jonathan, who flung himself past Rom and crashed into Roland’s legs from behind so that they buckled, the Dark Blood’s sword hissing harmlessly over his head.

  Rom’s hands flashed, palmed the carved handles of his knives. He surged forward, throwing his upper body into the uncoiling of his wrists as he whipped both forward from his hips, underhanded, not bothering to steady his aim. The target was hard to miss.

  It happened in slowing ticks, the spring of time having forgotten its tensile strength: Jonathan, landing on his shoulder as Roland started to rise, lips stretched back in a snarl.

  Rom’s blades slamming into the Dark Blood’s chest, a single hand span apart.

  Jonathan, rolling to his feet.

  In one smooth motion, the boy swept low, fingers curling around the hilt of the dead Dark Blood’s sword just as the man’s companion, stunned by Rom’s knives, started impossibly forward again, weapon drawn back.

  With a feral cry, Jonathan whirled 360 degrees, sword extended in a deadly arc. The heavy blade severed the Dark Blood’s arm just above its wrist, flipping hand and sword end over end, overhead.

  Roland stretched for the weapon, snagged it from the air with both hands—one on its hilt, one on the fingers that still grasped it—and swung the blade with a roar that smothered the echo of Jonathan’s cry.

  The sword sliced cleanly through the Dark Blood’s neck. The headless body faltered for a long count, then toppled back onto the cement.

  Rom, Roland, and Jonathan remained crouched for a suspended instant longer.

  More Dark Bloods were coming, running heavily down the stone steps of the palace. Alarm spread through Rom like fire.

  “Jonathan! Blade!”

  Jonathan flung his sword at him. It was good to see that their future Sovereign could handle himself in real fight, but the look on his face betrayed a horror that Rom feared would compromise him next time. Violence beyond the games wasn’t in his nature.

  Or was it?

  “Hurry!” He rushed by Jonathan, tugging at him as he passed. “Roland, rear!”

  Roland spun just in time to engage the two Dark Bloods sprinting to the gate, three others behind them.

  Rom pushed to keep up with his charge, who had proven himself among the three fastest runners in the camp numerous times. “Ahead—the alley to the left.”

  Jonathan threw a glance over his shoulder. “Roland?”

  “Can handle himself. He buys us time.”

  Rom twisted back to see Roland’s blade in full swing, cutting down one of the Dark Bloods with the precision Rom had come to count on. Having miscalculated their speed once—with nearly fatal results—Rom knew Roland wouldn’t be taken off guard again. No one of Saric’s making could match the fighter’s skill. He was sure of it.

  But Rom had another problem; that darker smell of death, so obscured by the Corpses of the city, came to him from farther ahead.

  They had nearly reached the alley when a dark shape stepped into their path, blocking their way. Beyond him, two more Dark Bloods ran across the street. The place was crawling with them!

  Ignoring a stab of panic, Rom turned to Jonathan, who he knew to be unarmed. His escape was the only thing that mattered now.

  “Through that alley to the Basilica of Spires. Get to Jordin. Stop for nothing. We’ll meet you outside the city.”

  Without waiting for a response, Rom veered to his right, straight toward the first Dark Blood. “Roland!” His cry rang down the street. “More!”

  He swung his sword as the closest one moved to block Jonathan. With a single blow, he buried the heavy blade into the man’s chest.

  “Run!” he shouted. “Now!”

  Jonathan dodged the falling body and ran, sprinting around the corner. Alone and running. Gone.

  Maker help him.

  Rom was so distracted by the thought of this newest risk to him that he only narrowly avoided an oncoming blade. He blocked it at the very last instant, dancing out into the street, away from the alley. Away from the path of Jonathan’s flight.

  There would be blood on this street tonight, but at least it would not be Jonathan’s.

  The two Dark Bloods converged on him at once.

  “Roland!”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  AN HOUR HAD PASSED since the others had entered this city of death. An hour that Jordin had spent fighting her own battle—namely, the terrible fear that harm might find Jonathan.

  What if the Dark Blood
s were already in the Citadel? What if they were more formidable than Roland said? What if there were hundreds of them?

  What if, what if, what if?

  She had reminded herself that he was with Rom and Roland, who could maneuver and fight their way through the thickest spot. That Jonathan himself was fast and surprisingly skilled. But the truth was that if it came down to it, she wasn’t sure he had the heart to kill.

  What if Jonathan was wounded or taken? Or simply unwilling to use his blade?

  She should have gone!

  Nerves raw, Jordin had hurried through the city, her hood pulled low over her forehead, taking as many back alleys as she could find with the two horses, avoiding the pungent odor of death wherever it was strongest. But any concern for her own discovery had been wholly overshadowed an hour ago by her sheer need to see Jonathan at her side again, unharmed and beautiful.

  She had tied the horses to a utility pole tucked behind the basilica and then climbed up the fire escape to the roof. From there it had been an easy matter to climb up the exterior ladder of the tallest spire and swing beneath the rail of the narrow walk near the top.

  Byzantium, city of the dead, stretched out before her, its stone-and-brick buildings looking to her eye like nothing so much as a mausoleum. From here she could see the Citadel just to the south, the broad wall around it, the rare, dim outdoor electrical lights of its grounds. For half an hour she’d searched the gates, the streets leading to the far entrance, for any sight of them, looking for any Mortal movement beyond the occasional truck or cart or dead pedestrian ambling by. With each passing minute her anxiety twisted her gut tighter.

  The sound of hooves drew her attention to a closer side street intersecting the main way. There a horse-drawn covered cart wobbled in the moonlight, alone. She could smell the human contents from here.

  Corpses, Corpses, everywhere.

  Too strange, to think that but for the blood she might be oblivious to the odor of death. That she might see in Byzantium a world as alive as the Nomad camp. To think that apart from the external factors of custom and dress, there had once been no difference between Nomads and those of the Order.

  That was before Jonathan’s coming, when they had celebrated life without having it.

  Without knowing it.

  She studied the streets for sight of the others. Her vision had grown more acute the last few years as Jonathan’s blood had matured in her veins. But no amount of Mortal vision could conjure him from the shadows.

  She willed herself to be still and to master the cold creeping into her fingertips, to relengthen her breath.

  Until tonight, her greatest concern for Jonathan had been that he’d be misunderstood. That the uncertainty and gentleness in his eyes would be seen as weakness by a people who lived by a code of vigilant strength and wild life.

  She knew better than perhaps even the old Keeper that Jonathan carried a terrible burden—one she doubted he could carry alone indefinitely.

  The blood in his veins had chosen him, not the other way around. He hadn’t asked to take on humanity’s redemption from death, to bleed out for the world, one portion of blood at a time.

  Did the others see the torture in his eyes? The questions that followed him like carrion birds? Did they lay awake at night and beg the Maker to ease the way of their savior, as she did? Did they care as much for his life as his blood?

  Or was Jonathan only that vessel selected by the centuries to do the Maker’s bidding?

  Jonathan, where are you?

  She would be the one by his side—not someone who cared only about the promise of what he could bring—but a woman who knew and loved him for the secrets in his heart.

  The instant she thought it, she chided herself. He was the Sovereign and savior of the world. She was an orphan who had been saved by his blood. Her role was to protect and love him. His was to right the world.

  From here on out, she would vow to keep her mind in its proper—

  Her train of thought broke with movement at the edge of her vision: a man, tearing from an alley into a street two hundred paces west of here.

  Her heart hammered against her ribs, adrenaline flooding her veins. She would know that running form anywhere—that head lowered into the night, the length of that stride, his braids streaming behind him.

  Jonathan, alone, headed for the front of the basilica.

  And then not alone. A tall form sprinted around the corner, thirty paces behind him. A Dark Blood. On the side street, the horse-drawn cart meandered on, on a direct path to intersect Jonathan’s flight.

  There was no sign of Rom or Roland.

  Something had gone wrong.

  Jordin reached around for the bow on her shoulder and then stopped. The distance was too great, a low-percentage attempt that would only delay her getting to him. She had to get closer.

  She sprang, catlike, over the short railing, bounded across the ceramic roof tiles, seven paces to the fire escape along the back of the basilica. She swung onto the ladder’s guide rails and slid down, palms burning from the friction of rusted steel on skin.

  Down two stories. Three. She shoved away from the fire escape, dropped fifteen feet to the ground on light feet. And then she was running before her thoughts had time to catch her, focused on one thing only: reaching Jonathan before the Dark Blood did.

  She ran along the basilica’s eastern wall, sprinting on her toes, demanding her legs fly faster.

  Around the corner, grabbing for the drain pipe on the turn.

  Hand over her shoulder, slipping her bow free.

  The main street careened into view.

  Jordin pulled up hard, arrow notched, seeing the scene before her: Jonathan running full bore, still a hundred paces off. The Dark Blood closing, not quickly, but too fast for her to reach him in time.

  She dropped to one knee, gauged the distance and sighted two feet over the warrior’s head. She drew the compound bow’s string to her ear, held her breath to steady her aim, and loosed the arrow.

  It flew nearly two seconds before striking the man in his breast armor. He jerked, caught off guard by the blow from nowhere. But the strike only slowed him a pace before he continued his charge.

  Jordin had already notched her second arrow. Pulled back, let fly.

  This time the Dark Blood was ready for the projectile, saw it coming, and jerked out of the way with stunning speed. Still running. Fast.

  Too fast.

  She’d never reach Jonathan in time!

  The clip-clop of the horse-drawn cart edged into the street directly ahead of her, driver perched lazily on the cab, reins in hand.

  Flinging her bow over her shoulder, Jordin bolted up and tore for the horse. There was only one way to reach Jonathan before the Dark Blood did.

  A single strong horse pulled that cart. She needed it. Without warning to driver or animal, she launched herself at the horse, landing on its back like a black-clad wraith. Grabbing it by the neck, she jerked the reins from the driver.

  The startled horse snorted and bucked, but she had ridden horses far stronger and wilder than this domestic dog and she hung on, heels digging into flank.

  The horse bolted, terrified. She sent a vicious lash of the reins to its right hindquarter. Hooves pounded the cobblestone street as the horse picked up speed, the covered cart a forgotten distraction.

  The driver cried out but when she glanced back he was gone, having fallen from his perch or jumped.

  Thirty yards.

  “Run, Jonathan!” Her scream echoed down the street. “Run!”

  He ran directly toward her, face glistening from the dead sprint.

  The Dark Blood had somehow picked up his pace. His sword was in his hand. He was going to throw it!

  Jordin smashed her heels into the horse’s flanks, pulling it to the right to avoid Jonathan.

  “Run!”

  But the moment she passed him, Jonathan slowed, following her with wide eyes.

  “To the back!” she screa
med. She jerked the horse hard to the left, directly toward the oncoming Dark Blood.

  She saw it all in a mosaic flash: The alarm on the Dark Blood’s face. The careening cart breaking free of its hitch. The horse jerking its head back at the sight and scent of the looming Dark Blood.

  The cart veered to the left and slammed into a darkened light pole.

  Then they were on top of the warrior.

  He was far too agile, avoiding them again at the last instant, but he’d been thrown off guard.

  Keep him off balance.

  The simple thought broke into her consciousness even as she acted out of instinct.

  The horse was already galloping by the Dark Blood, whose back was now to her. She threw herself backward off the horse, feet over head, snatching her knife from the sheath in midair, twisting so that she would land facing the Dark Blood from behind.

  She landed on the run, sprinting silently for his exposed back—four long paces. She was half his size and he was quick, but she now held full advantage, and she couldn’t afford to waste it.

  He had just begun to turn back when she launched herself at him.

  Landed on his back.

  Wrapped both legs around his belly.

  Jerked his dreadlocks back with her left hand.

  Ripped the blade in her right hand across his exposed throat with a shrill cry.

  No one would threaten Jonathan.

  Blood gushed to the ground as the Dark Blood staggered forward. She rode him to the ground, breathing hard. His body twitched once under her, and then lay dead.

  Her rage caught her off guard. But of course it was rage. She would take a hundred like him if they dared touch the Sovereign. Her Sovereign.

  Her head snapped up. He stood twenty paces away, staring not at her, but through the bars at the back of the covered cart that had crashed into the light post. The lettering on the side of the cart finally arranged itself into three cohesive words for the first time.

  Authority of Passing.

  This, then, was one of the transports that took frail or flawed Corpses to their living graves—Corpses like the ones they had seen on the way in to the city a few hours earlier.

  The thought skittered through her mind like a piece of refuse blown by the wind, here, and then gone in the face of far more pressing matters. Where there was one Dark Blood there might be more. They had to get out of the city. And where were Rom and Roland?