The Orphan Queen (30 page)

With no better idea of where to start, I planted myself in the street where he'd stopped me from killing a man. The area was dark, with no gas lamps to push back the shadows. I shivered, wishing I'd worn a jacket. A sinister thought bubbled up in the back of my head: I could tell the air to warm itself for me.

The idea fizzled as quickly as it arrived. After what I'd done in the wraithland, I never wanted to use magic again.

Since I'd
experienced
the wraithland, everything was different.

A shadow peeled from the others. Black Knife gestured upward.

I followed him onto the rooftops, relishing the feel of using my muscles. This was a familiar exertion.

When we stood atop a tea shop, Black Knife studied me without speaking. Shadows cloaked his eyes as he circled me—I turned only my head to watch him—and there was something heavy and thoughtful about the way he moved. Then, he must have worked out whatever he'd been trying to decide, because he motioned for me to follow.

We took off at a quick walk at first, and then faster until we were running through the city, as though on a chase. He
leapt; I leapt. He ducked under an overhanging beam; I ducked, too. Over apothecaries and chandleries and inns, we raced into Thornton where we dodged the bright streetlamps and mirrors. Cold air stung the back of my throat, and breath misted white.

Out here in the city, I felt real. Alive. There were always questions with Black Knife, but still, I knew what to do: we squabbled, fought criminals and wraith beasts, and made the darkness our cloak and armor. Though we constantly threw ourselves into danger, these nighttime excursions felt safe.

Safer than my life with the Ospreys, or at the palace, or my uncertain future as queen.

Black Knife vanished around the corner of a bank.

I followed only seconds later, but he was gone. Gasping for breath, I paused under a stone-and-glass breezeway that connected two shops, and checked the dim rooftops. There was nothing.

Darkness gaped above me as gloved hands reached down through a trapdoor in the breezeway. I laughed and took his hands, and after some pulling and hushed laughter, we both tumbled inside the breezeway. He pushed the door shut.

Ambient light bled through the glass windows, which rattled in the wind. The breezeway wasn't large, only wide enough for two people to walk abreast, and about five strides long where it arched over an alley.

From the center of the walk, I could see several familiar shops, plus the roof of Laurence's Bakery.

So
that
was how he'd caught me so often.

“What happened to your mask?” Black Knife stood at the other end of the breezeway, unstrapping the crossbow from his
hip, but he was watching me. “Did you lose it?”

“It got dirty in the wraithland.”

“Hmph.” He dug through a pouch on his belt and tossed me a small paper-wrapped parcel. “I brought you a new one anyway. It will fit better.”

I snatched the package out of the air and pulled a flap of paper from inside a crease. The paper unfolded, and a delicate silk mask tumbled into my fingers, followed by a pair of leather gloves lined with wool and silk. All black. Of course, I'd known Black Knife must be someone wealthy enough to afford all of his weapons and perfect black clothes, but not so rich that he was too lazy to spend his nights as a vigilante. “They're beautiful.”

“They're useful. You need to hide your identity out here.”

All I did was hide my identity.

Even this, fighting and bickering with Black Knife, was hiding. But I loved it. I loved it more than Julianna Whitman's life, definitely more than William Cole's life, and even more than the life I'd planned for myself.

And how often did I get to keep things I loved? Never.

“I'm not like you.” Carefully, I wrapped his gifts back inside the paper.

“I thought you liked this. What we do.” He cocked his head. “Was I wrong?”

“No.” That was the problem. “You weren't wrong.” I pressed the parcel to my chest. “I used to hate you, you know. I thought you had a vendetta and that innocent people were paying the price. But then you saved my friend, and you showed me mercy. You gave me a second chance.”

“I believe you're a better person than you think you are.”

“You're so optimistic. It's not what I expected from a vigilante who calls himself Black Knife.”

“Well, I considered Optimistic Knife, but I didn't think anyone would take it seriously.”

The paper crinkled against my chest as I shook my head, not bothering to hide my weak chuckle. “I've seen the notes people leave you. The city needs you. They want your help.”

He shifted his weight toward me. “The city could need you, too.”

What was he imagining? That we'd just continue for the rest of our lives like this, fighting crime and not knowing each other's real names?

“I'm not like you,” I said again. “I can't give this city what it needs. I have other obligations.”

Black Knife was motionless, a shadow statue across the breezeway. His silk hood glimmered in the faint light. “Did you find what you were looking for in the wraithland?”

Could I tell him the truth? He knew I had magic. What would he think if I told him about the wraith wind, and how it had called my name?

When had
Black Knife
become someone I considered confiding in? If I wasn't careful, I'd want to tell him about my parents and the Ospreys and how everything was so confused now because I wasn't sure we were doing the right thing anymore.

And all I wanted —all I
really
wanted—was this. The mask. The hunting. The night.

His footfalls were whisper quiet. “Will?”

I turned away.

“What happened here?” Gloved fingertips brushed my cheek,
so, so gentle. “Someone hit you. Who?”

I covered the fading bruise. “It's nothing. I handled it.”

“I'm sure you did.” He pulled away. “You said you're not like me. Who
are
you, then? What kind of trouble are you in?”

“The kind you can't help with.” The words came out more harshly than I intended, but he didn't even flinch.

“I might,” he said. “Or I might know someone who can help.”

“I don't
want
your help. Not with this.”

“With what?” He was relentless.

I leaned my forehead on the glass. “I hate you.” It didn't sound remotely convincing.

“You like your secrets, I know. I like mine, too.” He leaned closer and whispered, “I'm good at keeping secrets.”

Maybe telling him just a little wouldn't hurt. He already knew so much about me. What would a little more change? “I'm part of a group. The Ospreys.”

He waited.

“I'm supposed to be a sort of leader—eventually—but I'm not right now. Someone else is. He's the one who hit me.” I closed my eyes and hugged myself. “I've certainly taken worse injuries, but I never expected it from him. He's always been so careful.”

“What made him change?”

“The wraithland. I wasn't supposed to go. He didn't know until I was already there.”

“You really don't like to tell people your plans, do you?”

“Not if I can execute the plan on my own.” I straightened and wiped my forehead smudge off the glass. “I'm not interested in being rescued or saved. I've been part of the Ospreys for almost ten years and I'm committed to our cause.”

“It was for the Ospreys that you went to the wraithland?”

I nodded. “I had to know what would happen when the wraith reaches us. And if there was any truth to the rumors about Mirror Lake.”

“Is there?” There was a hopeful tilt to his voice.

“It's complicated.” I touched my pocket, and the ridges of the barrier scales I'd taken from the village. “The truth is, I found something much, much worse.” The voice calling my name haunted me.

“Can you tell me about it?”

“Another night. I can't right now.”

“Very well.” He was quiet for a moment, letting the silence between us soak in. “Do you still think what you're doing with the Ospreys is right?”

“Yes.” At least, I hoped. “I'm not as sure about our methods anymore.”

“What methods are those? Stealing? Something worse?”

“We stole to survive!”

He held up his hands like surrender. “I know. We had this discussion. I'm just trying to understand, and you won't give me anything but vague answers.”

“Because I can't!” I slammed my fist against the window, and he stepped back. “If you don't want vague, don't ask questions. Don't bother trying to understand.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you.” He hesitated, then touched my hand on the glass. The fingertips of his gloves were soft against my skin. “Will, I think we are more alike than you realize.”

“What do you mean?”

“Black Knife. I started this fight because I was angry. I wanted to show certain people that I wasn't a puppet.” An embarrassed chuckle escaped him. “Of course, I wore a mask, so no one ever knew it was me. But eventually all my anger was burned away by a deeper understanding of Skyvale and everything that was wrong with it. I still do this because it's right. Because Skyvale needs
someone
and no one else was stepping up. Now I'm Black Knife because it's the best way to help my kingdom,” he whispered.

Maybe we were alike after all.

Our eyes met. Strange, how familiar he'd become. “Who are you?”

His eyes were gentle, as though he smiled beneath that mask. “You know I can't tell you any more than you can tell me who you are.”

His hand was still on mine. Our shoulders brushed. Our arms pressed together. I could hardly breathe against the swelling in my heart. I turned up my face, overcome with a wild recklessness.

“Will.” He spoke hoarsely, but he didn't stop me.

I cupped my free hand over his cheek, letting the cool silk slide beneath my fingers; his face was sharp and angular, and his jaw tensed, as though he was worried I'd lift the mask. But I left it as I rose to my toes and pressed my mouth against his, only that thin silk between our lips.

He gasped and pulled back. “I don't—”

Shame welled up inside me. “You're right. I shouldn't have. I'm sorry.” I was such an idiot.

I shouldn't be here. I needed to get back to the palace, offer
as much information about the wraith as I could, and then return to my real life as an Osprey. As a future queen of orphans. It would be best if I never saw Black Knife again.

Black Knife closed his eyes. His mask puffed as he exhaled through his mouth.

The packet with his gifts dropped as I retreated toward the trapdoor. “I'd better go.”

I'd barely taken three steps when he grabbed my arm and spun me around. His hands were tight around my forearms; his body angled toward mine. When I stepped back, my shoulders hit the window with a
thud
.

He kissed me, just another touch of our mouths through silk. His breath came hot and ragged. “Don't leave.”

“I'll have to, eventually.”

He couldn't rescue me, and I didn't want him to. I'd chosen my path long ago.

“Don't leave now, though.” He released my forearms and touched my face, gloved fingertips gliding over my temple and cheekbone and chin. “Stay here a while longer?”

“For now, I suppose.” When I closed my eyes and let my head drop back, he kissed me again, light and sweet and restrained with the silk of his mask still between us. It wasn't enough.

Haltingly, I slid my hands up the sides of his neck, beneath the base of his mask. The barest hint of stubble scraped my fingertips as I folded the layer up.

“Will—” He touched my hands, halting my progress.

“I won't look.”

His eyes were wide, dubious, but he released my hands and let out a shaky breath.

“Wait.” I
withdrew and pushed back my hood, and fumbled with my scarf, pulling it from around my throat. One last look into his eyes, I lifted the scarf to cover mine. His fingers grazed my temples, pushing back my hair as I tied the scarf behind my head. His fingertips ran down my throat, down my collarbone and arms.

The world was dark when Black Knife lifted my hands to his face.

He'd taken off his mask.

I slipped one hand to the back of his neck, my fingers sliding into strands of soft hair, and pulled him close.

Our lips touched with soft, hesitating movements, and for a moment, I thought he might pull back again. But Black Knife sighed my name as he kissed a trail of sparks down my cheek and throat, and I lost myself in memorizing the curves and contours of his face. His cheekbones, sharp and prominent. His nose, aristocratically strong. His jaw, angular and firm. When we kissed again, a low moan vibrated in his throat.

His arms wound around my waist, pulling my hips closer to his. His hands splayed out on the small of my back; the very tips of his fingers dug against my clothes.

I touched his throat, his chin. Pressing upward, I explored the ridges of his brow and temples. The soft fan of his eyelashes breezed over my palm. He was forbidden to look at, but I mapped his features with my hands.

And when he kissed me again, all warm invitation, my thoughts swirled away, like drops of ink in water. I wanted more and more.

“Wait.” His breath came in short gasps as he took my wrists
and pulled my hands away from him. “I need a moment.” He rested his forehead on mine and breathed. Breathed.

I leaned back against the window. His chest expanded under my palm; his heart raced like mine.

Then came the susurrus of his mask going back on. “Can this really work?” I whispered, pushing up my blindfold to look at him. Black silk covered his face, like always. “Neither of us knowing the other's real name? Both of us wearing masks all the time?”