Daughter of Dusk (2 page)

“It brings me no joy to do this,” he said, “but you’re a threat to the city. We can’t let you live.”

Kyra’s fur stood on end, and she arched her back as the Red Shields raised sharp spears and pointed them toward her in silent unison. A growl stirred in her throat.
If this was how it would be, then she would go down fighting
.…

“Kyra, wake up.”

Kyra’s eyes flew open and she reached under her pillow for her dagger. She’d drawn the blade and was pushing herself to her feet when she finally regained her bearings. It was
morning. She’d been dreaming.

The single room she shared with Idalee and Lettie was still. The muted noises of the street one story below filtered in through the window. The girls were nowhere to be seen, but her good friend
Flick sat at the table across the room, looking as carefree as ever with his feet propped up on the table and his brown curls slightly mussed atop his head.

Kyra sank back into the bedding. “Fiery cities, Flick. Are you trying to scare me to death?” Flick lived with friends several streets away, but he spent so much time here that he
might as well have been a fourth resident, especially since he’d stopped courting the wool merchant’s daughter.

“What was it this time? Assassins? Demon cats? Old ladies wielding poisoned knitting needles?”

She sheathed her dagger and threw it at her pillow. “Red Shields. Malikel.”

“Ah.” Flick dipped a chunk of bread into a tumbler of watered wine and stared at it pensively before popping it into his mouth. “Hunting you down because they learned what you
were?”

“Aye.”

“At this rate, you’re likely to worry yourself to death before they find out.”

Given the way her heart was beating wild rhythms in her rib cage, Kyra couldn’t argue with his reasoning. But neither could she stop worrying.

When the Demon Riders first started raiding farms around Forge, everyone had assumed that the enormous wildcats they rode were simply well-trained pets. It was only after the barbarians captured
Kyra that she learned they were shape-shifters, the mythical felbeasts of legend. Kyra told the Palace upon her return, but she’d kept one detail to herself: that she shared their
shape-shifter blood.

Only five humans knew Kyra’s secret. Tristam and James had seen her change shape in the forest, and Kyra had told her adopted family—Flick, Idalee, and Lettie—after she
returned to Forge. While Tristam and her family could be counted on to keep her secret, James most definitely could not. After Kyra captured James and turned him over to the Palace, she’d
gone to sleep every night expecting to be woken by soldiers at her door. But it hadn’t yet happened, and though it was the best possible outcome, Kyra couldn’t shake the feeling that
something wasn’t right.

“If you want, we could still go to Edlan. Play it safe,” said Flick.

She rubbed the back of her neck. Flick’s offer was generous, but he didn’t really want to leave Forge. None of them did—Forge was all they’d ever known. “I
don’t know. Mayhap if I can earn Malikel’s trust, he won’t think me a threat to the city when he finally finds out.”

Flick gave a noncommittal shrug. “I didn’t wake you up just to get you out of that nightmare. Tristam’s waiting for you outside.”

“Tristam?” It was only then that Kyra noticed the angle of light coming in the room’s small window. She’d slept past noon. “We’re to report to duty today.
I’ve found a member of the Assassins Guild.” She threw a tunic over the shift and trousers she’d slept in, splashed her face at the washbasin by the door, then grabbed a hairbrush
and tugged at her hair until she could tie it back with a leather thong. She tried a few times to smooth down the wrinkles in her tunic, but they just popped back up.

Flick tipped backward in his chair, eyeing her with amusement. “Why don’t you go to such efforts to look presentable for
us
?”

Kyra gave up on the wrinkles. “All right if I let him in?”

“Fine by me.
My
hair’s been combed all morning.”

The door to their quarters opened into a plain wooden corridor that ended in a narrow staircase. When Kyra came out, she found Tristam at the top of the stairs, his tall form bent slightly as he
peered over the low railing. She walked quietly up behind him and placed a hand on his back.

“Looking at anything interesting?”

His muscles tensed under her hand, and he whipped around, reaching for the dagger at his waist. But then his eyes landed on her, and his face relaxed into an embarrassed smile.

A warmth spread around her ribs as she looked up at him and returned his grin. He must have just washed this morning, because she could smell the soap on him, layered over the familiar scent of
his skin.

“Latrine duty for you,” she admonished. It was an old joke between them, a remark he’d made the first time she’d snuck up on him. “I’m sorry to keep you
waiting.”

“Late night?” asked Tristam. He straightened to his full height, and Kyra craned her neck to keep eye contact.

“Aye.” She was thankful when Tristam didn’t ask where she’d been. He was dressed in Palace livery—not that of a knight, Kyra noticed again with a pang, but the
plainer tunic of a Red Shield, with an embroidered
F
on the left breast, over plain black breeches. He’d been stripped of his knighthood for a year because he’d rescued Kyra
from the Demon Riders against direct orders from the Council. While Tristam had never complained about his punishment, Kyra couldn’t help wondering if he regretted his decision. Though she
noticed he wore this livery well. He held himself like a soldier, and his movements were precise and confident.

They returned to the room. Flick gave Tristam a sideways glance then and grunted a half greeting, not bothering to take his feet off the table. Flick was the illegitimate son of a minor nobleman
and had decided long ago that wallhuggers could not be trusted. Kyra glared at him, but he’d already turned his attention back to his breakfast.

“Let me fetch my daggers,” said Kyra. “And then I’ll be ready to go.”

She’d picked up the one on her bed and was rummaging through her chest for others when the door opened and Lettie stepped in, followed by Idalee carrying a basket of bread. The two sisters
were bundled against the cold with matching wool dresses, scarves wrapped around their hair, and warm boots. Months of shelter and good food seemed to be paying off. Lettie now stood as high as
Kyra’s waist, and Idalee’s dress was stretching tight around her chest and hips. The girl hadn’t even started her monthly blood and she already had more curves than Kyra.
They’d have to get her cloth to make a new dress soon.

Both girls stopped short when they saw Tristam.

“Ho, Tristam,” said Lettie, breaking into a dimpled grin.

Tristam bowed. “Hello, Lady Lettie.”

Lettie giggled, her dark brown curls bouncing beneath her headscarf.

Idalee gave Tristam a halfhearted curtsy and took her basket to the hearth without saying a word. Then she turned her back to the room, removed a loaf from the basket, and started vigorously
brushing it off.

Kyra frowned and walked closer. “What are you doing?” She’d always had problems with Flick and Tristam getting along, but this was the first time she’d seen rudeness from
Idalee.

“Nothing,” Idalee said. A strand of black hair stuck to her forehead as she bent protectively over the bread. The girl was standing so close to the fireplace that her skirt almost
brushed the embers.

Kyra saw now that Idalee’s bread was covered with dirt. “What happened?” She put her hand on Idalee’s shoulder, but the girl shook it off.

“I dropped the basket,” said Idalee.

Kyra and Flick exchanged a worried glance over Idalee’s head. Flick turned to Lettie. “Is that what truly happened?” he asked.

Lettie had climbed up onto one of the chairs. “A fatpurse pushed me in the market,” she said, cringing at Idalee’s warning glance. “Idalee yelled at him, and he knocked
the basket out of her hand.”

Kyra looked to Flick in alarm. His mouth tightened in a grim line, and he shook his head. Idalee had always been fiercely protective of her sister.

“Lettie, did the fatpurse hurt you?” said Flick. He used the low, steady tone he always did when trying to stay calm.

Lettie shook her head, and Flick looked her up and down, silently verifying her answer. Then he leaned against the fireplace mantel so Idalee would have to look at him, even if it was only out
of the corner of her eye. “You’re lucky it was only the bread that came to harm,” he said.

Idalee put down one clean loaf and picked up the next. “It in’t fair,” she said to the bread.

Of course it wasn’t fair. Kyra’s own pulse was rising at the thought of any wallhuggers laying hands on either Idalee or Lettie. But acknowledging the injustice wouldn’t keep
Idalee safe the next time some nobleman offended her. “Idalee, you can’t go testing your luck with the wallhuggers,” she said. “If they do something you don’t like,
you walk away. They’re dangerous and unpredictable.”

The words had barely left her mouth when Kyra remembered that Tristam was standing quietly at the edge of the room. She shot a mortified glance in his direction. “I mean, not
all—”

“No offense taken,” Tristam said before she could finish. He pushed away from the wall, his gaze keen. “Idalee, do you know the name of the man who pushed Lettie?”

Idalee finally stopped attacking the bread, and her eyes were slightly hopeful when she raised them to Tristam. “No. Could you do something, if I did?”

“There are no laws against pushing, I’m afraid,” he said gently. “But I would have liked to know.” He glanced out the window. “It’s about time we go.
Kyra, are you ready?”

“Almost.” Kyra ran back to her trunk and finally fished out her daggers. “Everything all right over here?” she asked as she tucked them into her boots.

“We’ll be fine,” said Flick.

She supposed they would have to be. “Take care, then,” she said, and followed Tristam out the door.

Forge was laid out in rough concentric circles with the Palace at its center. The nobility lived in the ring just outside the Palace wall, hence their nickname
“wallhuggers.” Wealthy merchants, including Kyra’s new landlady, lived in the ring outside that. As Kyra and Tristam set out from her quarters, they headed farther away from the
Palace, toward the beggars’ circle.

Kyra tried again to apologize for her comment about dangerous wallhuggers, but Tristam waved her words aside.

“It just means that you’re comfortable enough around me to speak freely. I’m glad of it.”

He’d thrown a cloak over his livery to disguise his affiliation with the Palace, and the two of them strolled down the street like any other couple. A silk vendor waved a gold scarf to get
Kyra’s attention. “It will bring out the warm tones of your skin, lovely lady.” When she ignored him, the silk vendor turned his efforts to Tristam. “Young Lord, get your
lady a scarf to match her beauty.”

Kyra chuckled. The merchant’s honeyed words would have been more convincing if he hadn’t said the same thing to every other person walking down the street.

The silk merchant’s voice echoed after them. “You’re a feisty pair of young lovers. I can tell that you adore each other.”

Kyra’s laugh trailed off, and she took an involuntary glance at Tristam. The street vendor’s words rattled in her mind. Feisty? She supposed she’d been called that before.
Young? That was certainly true. But lovers?

Six weeks ago, after they’d been released by the Makvani, the two of them had shared a kiss. It didn’t take much effort at all to conjure the memory of his arms around her that
night, or the tingle on her skin as they’d leaned their faces close. But that had been one moment in the forest, when they didn’t know what the future held. Now they were back in the
city, and things felt less clear. Tristam was the son of a noble house, and she was a pardoned criminal. How could a stolen kiss in the forest stand against that? After weeks of working together
under Malikel, they were comfortable with each other, even flirted on occasion. But things remained…uncertain.

As they continued walking, the lively trappings of the merchant circle gave way to the blackened walls of the fire-burned district, the part of the city that had been destroyed in the Demon
Rider raid orchestrated by James. The streets were lined with charred frames. A few of the ruins had been torn down, and some of the poor had set up tents and lean-tos in the burnt-out buildings.
The air still smelled faintly of charcoal, and though the ash was gone, Kyra couldn’t shake the impression that breathing too deeply would clog her nose with blackened dust.

“It doesn’t look much different from before, does it?” said Kyra. “There’s been some rebuilding near the merchant sector, but not down here.”

“The landlords are likely waiting for the city to clean it up,” said Tristam. “The first person to rebuild has to also clean the wells and unclog the gutters. Nobody wants to
do that.”

“It would only take a crew of Red Shields a couple weeks to clean everything,” said Kyra.

“That sounds about right,” said Tristam. Neither mentioned the obvious, that the Council hadn’t seen fit to use its soldiers this way.

Their path didn’t take them directly by the ruins of The Drunken Dog, for which Kyra was grateful. Her friend Bella, who had been like a mother to her, had died after the fire overtook the
tavern, and Kyra didn’t want to dwell on the loss today. She sped up her steps as they neared the vicinity of her old home and didn’t stop until it was far behind her. Tristam kept pace
with her and didn’t comment.

Finally, they came to a place where the houses stood intact, though they were still marked by smoke. The beggars along the street became more numerous, and soon Kyra and Tristam neared a corner
where she recognized other Palace men. All of them, like Tristam, wore plain cloaks to hide their Palace livery. In addition to Kyra and Tristam, there were three Red Shields and Sir Rollan, a
knight new to Malikel’s command. He’d been transferred after Malikel dismissed another knight for taking bribes while on gate duty. The Defense Minister was one of the few who actually
enforced honesty in his men—most other commanders simply overlooked such infractions.