Chapter 6

Four inches of steel flashed as I spun my switchblade over and under my fingers in an endless loop. Rain thundered against the roof overhead, and the only other noise came from below—the rumble of adult conversation, interspersed with sloppy laughter.

A few feet away, the boy in black sat against the wall. Instead of a knife, he held a small, leather-bound book in one hand. A grimoire, probably—his personal record of magical knowledge. He flipped the pages, his gaze drifting aimlessly across them. He was bored too.

Still, the attic was better than standing in the rain all night.

This was the second time we'd snuck into the attic instead of waiting in the alley. My heart drummed at the prospect of getting caught, but we'd have plenty of time to slip outside before dawn.

I looked at the empty space between us, large enough for another person to sit in, then stretched my legs out, slouching against the wall. The knife started spinning again.

The deepest voice downstairs boomed something, and everyone else went silent. The man continued in a menacing growl, and I strained to make out words, losing track of the precise motion of my hand.

The switchblade slipped from my fingers. Still spinning, it skidded across the floor and bumped into the boy's boot.

He glanced at it. Though he'd unzipped his jacket to reveal a simple black shirt, he'd left the hood up. Only a few locks of his dark hair were visible where they tumbled across his forehead. Tucking his grimoire into an inner pocket of his coat, he picked up my knife and examined the glossy red handle, then the short blade. I fidgeted as I watched him, tugging on my chiffon blouse then adjusting my sleek, sunflower-blond ponytail.

He pressed the switch. The blade retracted with a click. A touch of his thumb and it popped back out.

"Don't cut yourself," I taunted. "Knives aren't toys."

Smirking, he flicked the blade into the air. It whirled end over end, then plunged back down. He caught it by the point. His gaze angled toward me, assessing my reaction.

I pressed my palms to the floor, feigning nonchalance. "Yeah, yeah."

He tossed the blade again and caught it by the handle—then his arm flashed out. The point thunked into the wooden floor between two of my fingers, the edge a quarter inch from my skin.

My lungs heaved with a silent gasp, but I didn't let myself recoil.

"Mildly impressive," I drawled.

He arched an eyebrow and released the knife, leaving it stuck in the floor. I snatched it and pointed it at his hand. His eyebrows rose higher.

"Only fair," I told him. "Or are you afraid?"

In answer, he placed his left hand on the floor, fingers spread. I turned the knife over, locking my gaze on the spot between his middle and ring fingers. Nerves twanged in my gut, but I wouldn't be outdone with my own blade.

I bit my lower lip, then snapped the knife down. It hit the floorboards with a dull thud—and the boy lurched back. As he raised his arm, a line of blood ran down his hand.

"Oh shit!" I gasped, retracting the blade. "I cut you!"

He gazed bemusedly at his hand as blood pooled in his palm. Swearing under my breath, I reached for him.

"It's fine," he muttered, dodging my reach. "I don't need—"

I grabbed his wrist. "Let me see how bad it is."

He pulled away. I pulled back. He wrenched his arm, almost yanking me onto his lap.

"Just let me see!" I hissed, digging my fingers into his wrist. Pressed against his side, I yanked his hand toward me and peered down. The slice between his fingers was bleeding freely and I couldn't tell how deep it was. It probably hurt like hell.

"Shit," I mumbled guiltily. "I'm an idiot."

"Yeah, you are."

"Shut up." I glared into the shadows beneath his hood. Abruptly furious, I shoved his hood off. Dim light fell across his face, illuminating his fair skin—and the fresh bruise darkening his cheekbone.

I sat back. He slanted a scowl at me, then leaned against the wall, still holding his bleeding hand up. I pulled out my switchblade again, untucked the hem of my shirt, and cut a strip off the bottom. He said nothing as I wrapped the silky fabric around his hand to form a makeshift bandage, nor when I pulled a small, shallow jar from my back pocket. I unscrewed the lid and scooped white cream onto my fingers.

"What's that?" he asked suspiciously.

I knelt in front of him. "My aunt is an alchemist. She made it. It fades bruises in a couple of hours."

He didn't ask why I carried it around with me. The answer was as obvious as the purple mark on his face.

"Hold still," I warned as I reached for him.

He winced slightly when the cool cream touched his cheek. I spread it carefully across the bruise, massaging it into his skin.

His fingers brushed my wrist, stopping my movement. I met his eyes, surprised by how close our faces were.

"Is your aunt the one you want to kill?" The question was soft, inflectionless.

I searched his unreadable stare. "Yes."

"Is she a buyer or a seller?"

With a glance at the unseen room below, I answered, "Seller."

As if in reply, a deep male voice boomed with cold laughter. The boy didn't flinch, but his pupils dilated with adrenaline.

"Is he the one you want to kill?" I asked.

His chin dipped in a slight nod.

I recalled how that rough voice could silence all the others downstairs. "He sounds dangerous."

The boy's lips pressed into a thin line. His pupils dilated even more. "He is."

"Do you think you can kill him?"

"Not yet." The same words as our first brief conversation. "I'm not strong enough yet."

My fingers slid down and pressed against his jaw in silent sympathy.

"Well, Ruth?"

The growling voice rumbled directly beneath me and I started, falling into the boy. His hands clamped my upper arms, and we froze like that.

"Keep your voice down, Bane," my aunt replied sharply. "We don't want to broadcast this negotiation."

"It isn't a negotiation," the man retorted, an Eastern European accent thickening his words. "I've already made my offer."

"And I'm not selling to the first buyer to come knocking," Ruth snapped. "Why do you want her?"

"My business," he leered. "Either refuse or counter."

A short pause.

"You won't refuse." His growling voice went quiet, sinister. "Keeping the girl will only bring more trouble for you. Get rid of her now. My offer is generous for a magic-stunted runt."

The silence stretched again before Ruth replied coolly, "I'll consider your offer."

Bane barked a laugh, and footsteps thumped away. The muffled rumble of conversation swelled as he rejoined the main group.

My fingers trembled as I squeezed fistfuls of the boy's shirt. He hadn't shown pain when I'd cut his hand. He hadn't shown fear when he'd spoken of Bane. But now…

Now he stared at me with such untempered horror that I knew split lips and broken bones had become the least of my worries.