She felt a sudden burst of pain in her arm, and she stumbled for a moment. The pain wasn’t hers.
Juliet remembered the old serving woman, dead in the hallway. She’d been an idiot to assume that there had been only one group of Catresou causing a distraction. She’d been so desperate for a chance to help her people, she had just stopped thinking.
Runajo had made Juliet a slave and a murderer. If Runajo died on a Catresou blade tonight, it would only be just.
And yet.
And yet Juliet was fleeing desperately across the rooftops, not looking for a single way to subvert this order. She had sworn by her soul that she would never forgive Runajo, and she didn’t. She couldn’t. But the thought of Runajo’s blood spilling across the ground, like the blood of a hundred others who had deserved to live more—
Losing Romeo had robbed the sun from her sky. The thought of losing Runajo felt like it would scrape the last stars out of the night.
She was close. She dropped from the roof and a moment later was running through hallways.
There was the door. She slowed, drawing her sword and trying to catch her breath as she listened—
Paris Catresou stepped out of the room.
Sheer surprise caught her by the throat and held her still.
She’d met Paris only once, the day that Tybalt was buried. She had still been reeling from her cousin’s death, from knowing that Romeo had killed him and soon she would have to kill Romeo in return. When her father had told her that Paris would be her Guardian in Tybalt’s place, she was already planning her escape.
But the awkward, desperately polite boy in her father’s study had been nothing like the jailer she expected. At Tybalt’s funeral, when grief overwhelmed her, he had been kind to her. Afterward, he had helped her slip away from the funeral feast, back to the sepulcher, where the sacred fire burned with the word zoura inlaid in gold on the wall above it. When she had told him how she had always only wanted to be correct, how she was afraid her father did not care about zoura at all, he had listened. And he had promised to serve her.
She had thought that, in another world, she could have been happy to serve her people with him.
The next day she had run away to make Romeo her Guardian, and destroyed him instead. She’d never seen Paris again; he hadn’t been at the compound when she was sent there for the purge, and she’d heard nothing of him since. She had hoped that he escaped, and resigned herself to not knowing.
She hadn’t expected to see him again.
To have him see her, holding a sword still smeared with Catresou blood.
Surprise held her. But only for a moment. The order Runajo had given her, Get here at once, still pulsed in her mind, and it dragged her a step forward—
As Paris attacked.
There was no warning: no shout, no spark of anger in his blank face, no tensing of his shoulders. His sword just lashed out, fast and fluid as a whip, and Juliet barely saved herself from that first stroke, it was so unexpected.
But she should have expected it, she realized as she dodged back, parrying. Paris had wanted to serve his people. She was now their enemy. Of course he would try to kill her.
What had he done to Runajo?
That thought sent her attacking forward in a flurry of speed. She’d had the impression that Paris was not particularly good, and his technique was definitely not impressive, but he was moving with a speed and strength that matched hers.
And that terrible, empty calm on his face. She remembered when he’d looked at her with such hope.
“Paris!” she shouted. “I don’t want to kill you!”
As she spoke, he tried to parry her stroke and failed. Her blade slid, and before she could stop it, sliced across his cheek. She pulled it away instantly, stumbling back a step, but blood was already welling up in a line across his face.
It wasn’t red. It was black.
The living bled crimson. When their dead bodies rose again as revenants, their blood oozed in brownish clots, if it hadn’t yet dried away entirely. But the living dead—whose souls were trapped by necromancers, so they could never find rest—they bled as black as night.
It was the very worst fate that could befall any Catresou.
Paris said, “My master ordered me not to kill you. But I have to complete my mission.”
His voice was completely emotionless. Lifeless. It made Juliet’s skin crawl.
“What’s your mission?” she asked.
“Rescue,” he said, and Juliet was about to reply, But the Catresou aren’t being kept here, when she saw someone else stepping out of the room.
It was the living dead girl who had been pulled out of her father’s secret laboratory. Juliet had only seen her once, when Lord Ineo was lecturing her on the depravity of the Catresou clan, and how grateful she should be that she’d been rescued from it. But she would know those golden curls and those dead eyes anywhere.
Runajo’s order still burned in her mind: Get here at once. Get here at once. Get here at once.
“Get out,” she said. “Now. I won’t stop you.”
Paris stared at her a moment longer. She thought of the dying man she’d tried to comfort, and she wished she could say the same words for Paris, but it would be no use. He couldn’t walk the Paths of Light, because his soul was trapped here. He couldn’t even understand the words, because the necromancer’s power had shredded his mind.
In another world, he could have been dear to her. In this one, he was already destroyed.
Paris turned and strode away; he caught the dead girl’s hand as he passed her, and dragged her with him.
Juliet ran into the room. Runajo was at the far end, huddled against the wall, terribly pale.
But alive.
Her eyes were squeezed shut, but she opened them as Juliet approached. “Did you stop him?” she asked.
“No,” said Juliet, kneeling beside her. Runajo was cradling her right arm to her side.
“You should have stopped him,” said Runajo.
“Then you should have ordered me to,” said Juliet. She reached for Runajo’s arm and then stopped, fingertips an inch from her skin.
She could see the faint, round scars from when the Sisterhood had forced Runajo to do penance for dragging Juliet back from the Mouth of Death.
“I don’t think he broke it,” said Runajo.
Juliet probed gently down the arm with a finger. Runajo’s face screwed up, but she didn’t wince or moan.
“Probably not broken,” Juliet agreed. “Deep bruising, maybe.”
Runajo glared. “He took the living dead girl.”
“I know. She was already a prisoner, so I’m not sure how it matters.”
“It matters because she could have helped me end the Ruining. She was the last thing that possibly could. And now she’s going to be locked in a closet while fugitive Catresou mutter spells over her.”
Runajo was alight with righteous fury, her pain momentarily forgotten. It reminded Juliet of when they were in the Cloister, and Runajo hadn’t understood why Juliet was so furious to see her bleeding when they still had questions about necromancers and the Ruining to solve.
“No,” said Juliet. “Paris isn’t with the rest of the Catresou. He’s living dead, working for a necromancer who wants me left alive. Probably the same necromancer who was killing Sisters in the Cloister.”
Runajo looked surprised. “His name is Paris? You knew him?”
“Once,” said Juliet.
8
IT WAS A LONG WAY back, through the clean, wide streets of the Upper City, the great gates, and the twisting alleys of the Lower City. By the time Paris had brought the girl back to his master’s house, the sun had risen in the sky.
She walked silently, patiently, allowing him to lead her. She was dead like him, and Paris felt sure that she, too, had been raised by his master. She clearly understood the same inevitable truth: that they existed now only to serve him.
The girl’s hand was small and co
ld in his.
Romeo’s hands had been warm.
The memory was sudden and without warning, like a blade sliding between his ribs. Just before they left on the raid, Romeo had seized his hand, had said quietly and urgently, Paris. Paris, do you remember me?
Yes, Paris had said. You are the enemy of my master.
He didn’t know why the memory was so vivid. It wasn’t the only time that a living person besides his master had touched him. Meros especially liked to shove him by the shoulder and grab him by the hair. And since Meros was alive, surely his hands were just as warm, but Paris didn’t remember them, they didn’t seem real, not like—like—
Romeo pressed against the wall, Paris holding the blade at his throat, the stench of Catresou blood, and Romeo saying, I know you didn’t want to do this—
Paris had done far worse things on his master’s orders. He didn’t know why he remembered that one.
His head throbbed with sudden pain. There was no “worse” when it came to his master’s orders. That thought was vile. Absurd. Everything he had done in obedience, he had done right.
It was equally absurd to wish that his master’s orders were different. But Paris almost wished that his master hadn’t told him to keep Romeo alive at all costs. Because then he wouldn’t remember pulling him away from the cage of seething revenants. He wouldn’t remember—it wasn’t a feeling, he couldn’t feel things anymore—but he wouldn’t remember that strange unwinding in his chest, almost like relief.
Paris realized he had stopped walking. The girl waited, unquestioning.
I am obedient, he thought. I am obedient, and he strode forward.
Once upon a time, a prosperous man had owned a large, well-maintained tenement. (His master had told Paris this, while laughing.) Then the man’s wife had died, and he had come begging for favor to the Night Game. They were both dead now, and raised again to serve.
Paris knocked at the door. A stout, balding man answered it: the onetime owner of the house. When he saw Paris, he drew the door wide.
“Where is he?” asked Paris.
The man didn’t ask who he was; there was only one possible person who could matter to either of them.
“The ballroom,” he said.
Paris nodded, and led the girl inside.
Once, the tenement had housed men and women who were well-to-do. The large, high-vaulted room, painted in red and gold, had existed so that they could pay for the privilege of throwing parties in it.
These past three weeks, it had hosted the Night Game. The last one had been just the night before, and the room was not clean: there were scattered chairs, a few discarded masks. The cages of sacrifices still sat in the center of the room, and inside the cages, the bodies had begun to stir, hissing and gnawing at the bars.
Paris’s master knelt by one of the cages, poking at a revenant with a stick. He rose and turned as Paris entered the room.
Instantly Paris let go of the girl’s hand and dropped to his knees.
“I brought her back,” he said, and he felt that rare, exquisite sunburst of joy, because his master smiled.
Not at him. But it didn’t matter, because his master, smiling at the girl, was the happiest that Paris had ever seen him.
In two strides, he was before her, and he swept her into an embrace.
Paris, still kneeling beside them, found his head at level with the girl’s still, limp hand. He wondered if he should go, but he had not been dismissed.
“I’m so sorry,” his master whispered. “I understand everything now. I will make things right.”
The girl’s fingers flexed. Her hand began to lift—and then in one smooth motion, she had drawn the knife that hung from his master’s belt.
In the next moment, she ducked out of his arms. She rammed the knife between her ribs, straight into her heart.
Paris’s chest ached. He knew the peculiar pain of that stroke, even though now he was glad his master had inflicted it on him.
His master’s cry ripped through Paris’s mind, tore him apart. He had never heard grief like that before, felt grief like that before.
“No,” said his master, falling to his knees before the girl, “no.”
She stared at him expressionlessly. The knife sat buried between her ribs, and black blood welled up around the blade, but she did not fall.
She was living dead, like Paris, and their master’s power drove every pulse of her heart. Yet a knife driven straight through her heart should have killed her again, required her to be raised again, and Paris stared at her in puzzlement.
“I know what you need,” said his master. “I will give it to you.”
Slowly, gently, he pulled the knife free of her body.
“You know I can’t kill you,” he said. “Nobody can. But I’m almost ready.”
He pressed his lips to the wound and kissed it. Then he raised his face to her and said, black-lipped, “I only need a few more Night Games to gather my power. Then I’ll take the key, and open the gates of death, and you will be home. All the world will die, and you will finally know peace.”
The girl looked at him. In the cages, the revenants hissed and writhed.
She raised her hands to his cheeks, slid them into his hair. And then she bent down and kissed him, again and again.
9
LORD INEO WAS NOT PLEASED with either of them. But he was especially not pleased with Juliet.
“The Catresou breached our walls, killed five of our own people, and absconded with nearly seventeen prisoners.”
Juliet couldn’t see his face. She was kneeling, head bowed, staring at the ground. But she could hear the flat, clipped tone of his voice, and she could imagine the sour look on his face. It was almost amusing.
“I had believed that your mission was to protect us,” Lord Ineo went on. “Do you care to explain how this happened?”
His frustration wasn’t amusing, not when he had the power to kill her or make her kill in retribution. But it was still deeply satisfying.
“I killed the first ones I found,” she said, as meekly as she could. “Then I fought the next group, but before I could defeat them, Runajo summoned me to help her.”
“Before you could defeat them,” Lord Ineo said flatly.
“They also overcame your guards,” said Runajo. “The ones watching the prisoners went down without a fight. I thought they were supposed to protect us.”
“Oh, those guards will also be disciplined,” said Lord Ineo. “I just want to know why our Juliet did not give her all to defend her people against a bloody, unprovoked attack. It makes no sense. Unless, of course, she is still confused in her loyalties.”
Dread clutched at Juliet’s throat. She could already imagine the next words: Perhaps she needs a chance to prove herself, followed by an order to kill Catresou prisoners in retribution for the attack. Runajo would relay the order, and the magic would strangle Juliet’s will and send her walking out into the morning sunlight, out to the building where they kept the Catresou prisoners, and she would have to kill, and kill, and kill—
“Juliet,” said Runajo, each word chilled and precise, “kiss his feet.”
The order had seized her by the base of the skull and pressed her forward before she even knew what was happening. Then her lips were against his toes and she wanted to pull back in revulsion, but she couldn’t. She could only let the magic move her to kiss his other foot before it allowed her to sit back, shaking with humiliation.
He had flinched. That was something.
“If you don’t think she’s entirely broken to our will,” Runajo said impatiently, “you’re a fool. And I know you’re not a fool. You’re very displeased that this happened, and you want us to be sorry. I assure you, we are. May we now discuss something important, such as how we’re going to recover the living dead girl?”
There was a short, brittle silence. Then Lord Ineo laughed softly.
“I see I have no choice but to respect you,” he said, and there was actually
warmth in his voice. It turned Juliet’s stomach, though she shouldn’t be surprised. Of course he liked Runajo. She was ruthless enough. “Did they say anything, when they took her? Do they know what she is?”
Before Runajo could reply—before she could say that they had only been one boy, who had not been alive either—Juliet spoke up.
“When I got there, they were dragging her out. They were telling the girl that they were going to give her a proper burial, as one of their people deserved.”
The worlds felt oily and unclean in her mouth. Juliet had never been a liar before.
But she’d never had such need before.
“Really?” said Lord Ineo. “Is that true?”
And for one agonized heartbeat, she could only wait and hope—
“Juliet,” said Runajo, “tell him.”
But she hadn’t said to tell him what.
Juliet raised her head and looked Lord Ineo straight in the eyes. “I am telling you the truth, my lord. They were furious that we hadn’t given her Catresou burial rites.”
“They were shouting something like that when they attacked me,” said Runajo.
Lord Ineo sighed. “Superstitious fools.”
He didn’t seem very worried at the thought. She’d given him the answer he wanted: that he had already nobly vanquished all necromancers in the city.
“But when are we going to get the girl back?” asked Runajo.
“When we round up the rest of the Catresou.” He paused meaningfully. “It’s not a thing to be discussed before your charge.”
“Juliet,” said Runajo, without looking at her, “go.”
Her body rose and walked from the room smoothly and without hesitation. But the moment the door closed behind her, the order obeyed, she stopped. She thought she could still hear them if she strained—
Then Runajo spoke silently into her mind: Do not find a way to spy on us.
Again the order drove her feet into motion, carrying her down the hallway. When her feet were finally released, Juliet stumbled, then turned and slammed her palm into the wall.
For a few moments, as they talked to Lord Ineo, she had started to think that Runajo was her ally again.
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