Chapter 4

Quinton

"I'm sorry, did you say brothel?" Sethis asked.

"You are familiar with the concept, then? Good." Quinton pulled a small piece of cloth from his pocket. He had no ink, but blood worked well enough to make the few marks Autumn would know how to read. He didn't know what it said about him that the person he trusted most outside his pack was an agent of a foreign court, but Autumn was the only one in Massa'eve who'd never let him down yet. If Quinton was the type of male to have a friend, he would consider her his. Finishing the ciphered message, Quinton gave Sethis instructions on how to find the princess and made the male repeat them twice before letting him go.

Sethis moved far enough away from camp before shifting to avoid the telltale flash of light from being easily observed. Quinton nodded with approval and wished him well. Then, he too turned his back on the camp. Unlike Sethis, who was riding the currents away from the citadel though, Quinton's mission lay in the other direction, and into the wind.

Sharp bits of ice pellets battered into Quinton's face as he walked, the pain when they struck his eyes nearly as blinding as the fog itself. Every step toward the priests' stronghold was a battle, each gust trying to pry the cloak and weapons from Quinton's grip. If Quinton had harbored any doubts on whether the gales were deliberate, they were gone now. Nothing about this blizzard was natural.

Gritting his teeth, Quinton forged his way forward. He'd done this before. Had been barely older than a pup the first time his trainers tossed him naked into the snow, leaving him to fight his way through or die. He'd lived than, and now he had a much greater cause to light his way than his own demise.

Halfway to the citadel, the path changed again, with a vast sheet of ice stretching over snow. Quinton's boots slipped on it repeatedly—and when they didn't, it was because the ice gave in completely, leaving him to wade through waist high snow that numbed his limbs. The dragon inside him howled to shift, but Quinton knew better. He would be too easy to spot in the air, and the sight of his shadow rolling over the ground would be akin to ringing a dinner bell for Geoffrey and the priests both.

Quinton shook by the time he got to the citadel, the shadows in the fortress's stone a welcome embrace. Working feeling back into his hands, Quinton melted into the darkness and pulled out a blade. If the priests were to be believed, the Orion's mark now inked onto Quinton's back should make violence against another competitor inside the citadel a capital offense. Whether that extended to the priests remained an open question.

Quinton's feet slid silently over the stones as he ghosted through the tapestry laden corridors. Soon enough, his senses honed onto the faint echo of a chant from one of the chambers. One voice singing. Good. Quinton's heart rate calmed to a gentle rhythm that synchronized with the innate pulse of the fortress. Every place had a pulse. Finding it, blending in, was as natural as breathing to an assassin. Quinton slid forward toward the voice, shadows sliding with him.

Quinton stopped at the chamber's entrance and peered through the slit between the open door hinges. The priest was indeed alone, draped in ceremonial robes as he intoned some ode to Orion. Lit candles twinkling like stars around him. As the priest filled his lungs for another round of deep song, Quinton moved. The blade was at the priest's throat a moment later, the clear steel catching the priest's reflection in the glistening candlelight.

"Quiet," Quinton said, his knife drawing a trickle of blood. "Orion's mark may avenge your death, priest, but I promise it won't prevent it."

"What are you doing?" the priest gasped. "What do you want?"

Quinton's smile did not touch his eyes as he willed his magic into the priest's blood. "To talk."

The scent of terror rolling off the priest was a mark of the man's intelligence.