A Deadly Bite

16.1 || A Guiding Little Whisper

Even as the belief that all around me is a dream drifts away, its touch remains, twisted with that odd sense of reliving a warped version of past events. Edita's hand slips into the pocket of her trousers, emerging a moment later with a pair of thin, wiry cylinders of metal.

Recognition strikes me in a burst. Lockpicks. The very same tools she used to crack open the lock to my cell, the first time I saw her. They granted me freedom once, and now they do so again.

She flashes me a teasing smile that so eerily echoes the look she cast at her brother in that moment. "Bear with me."

The lockpicks jam into the door's lock, stuck in beneath the handle. Swallowing the remainder of my bread, I comb my fingers through my hair, wincing at the high-pitched scraping of metal on metal. They snag on a web of tangled strands. I give a tug, then awkwardly extract my hand, wringing the edge of my tunic instead. Every nerve jitters, bound tight in anxiety and swelling in a thin, itching, blanket kind of fear.

I can barely think. All I can cling to is that shred of hope, the idea of survival, of fixing myself. There's no sense or logic to ground it on. It all suddenly feels so fragile.

Sarielle's pleading gaze surfaces at the back of my mind, the phantom warm of her hand squeezing mine. My resolve hardens.

She would want this. If I know that to be true, then little else matters.

"Aha!" A sharp click splits the air, chiming in sync with Edita's exclamation. She wrenches out her second lockpick, shoves them both back into her pocket and reaches for her sword instead. It scrapes awfully against the side of her sheath as she draws it out. She holds it with the same honed skill she embodied when she was alive, so much so that it almost appears natural for her blade to be nothing but bloodstained fragments. Her hand rests keenly on its hilt as she lowers it to her side and twists the door's handle.

It creaks, whining in feeble alarm as she pulls it inward and elbows it aside. The hallway beyond is empty. A frown creases my brow.

Should there not be a guard posted here? I thought Harlow was more careful than this.

Edita must share my confusion, for she hums doubtfully, lifting her broken sword to jab at the shadows. She advances, waving a hand for me to follow. Forcing myself not to hesitate, I do so.

The mosaic of wooden floorboards is cool beneath my bare feet, enough to lace my spine with a shiver. I wish I had my boots. I long for something to hold in my hands too, for they feel far too empty right now, clawing at one another in a futile attempt to dispel the feeling. My boots, my dagger, my tunic marked with the Oscensi symbol, anything. Harlow has stripped me of everything I might have considered mine.

My sliding grip knocks against one of my binds, and I grit my teeth. When I have my flame again, I'll defend myself. I'll get it all back. He won't trap me again.

"This way," Edita hisses, lingering against the bend of a right turning for a moment before darting beyond it. She vanishes briefly. I hurry to catch up, although stop short when a foreign cry reaches my ears, followed by the sound of blades clashing together.

Shrinking into the wall, I curl my fingers around the corner, daring to stick my head out beyond it. Edita's half-blade tangles with the sword of a soldier in navy. He takes a swing at her arm, and she dodges aside, light and nimble on her feet. Her silver overshirt flutters with the movement. A low growl reverberates to match her bared teeth, and her sword slices through the air. It cuts cleanly through the soldier's wrist.

Breath catching, I flinch back, a bout of dizziness rocking through me without warning. The soldier's hand hits the floor in tandem with his sword, the sound hitting my ears dully. He barely has chance to scream before Edita's dripping blade plunges into his gut.