V.E Schwab - A Darker Shade of Magic

She didn’t trust herself to lift her glass again, in case her hands shook, so she nudged it away and casually dug a shilling from her pocket.

“Bard,” she said, by way of introduction and farewell.

She was about to push away from the counter when the man caught her wrist, pinning it to the weathered wood between them. A shiver ran up her arm at his touch, and the fingers of her free hand twitched, tempted toward the dagger under her cloak, but she resisted. “And your first name, miss?”

She tried to pull free, but his grip was made of stone. He didn’t even appear to be trying. “Delilah,” she growled. “Lila, if you like. Now let me go unless you want to lose your fingers.”

Again his lips tugged into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“Where is he, Lila?”

Her heart lurched. “Who?”

Holland’s grip tightened in warning. Lila winced.

“Do not lie. I can smell his magic on you.”

Lila held his gaze. “Perhaps because he used it to cuff me to a wall after I robbed him blind and tied him to a bed. If you’re looking for your friend, don’t look at me. We met on bad terms and parted on worse.”

Holland’s grip loosened, and Lila let out an inward sigh of relief. But it died an instant later when Holland was suddenly on his feet. He took her roughly by the arm and dragged her toward the door.

“What in bloody hell are you doing?” she snapped, boots scraping against the worn floor as she tried and failed to gain purchase. “I told you, we are not friends.”

“We’ll see,” said Holland, driving her forward.

The patrons of the Barren Tide never even looked up from their drinks. Bastards , thought Lila as she was shoved roughly out into the street.

The moment the pub door closed behind them, Lila went for the revolver at her belt, but for someone whose movements seemed so slow, Holland was fast— impossibly fast—and by the time she pulled the trigger, she’d fired into nothing but air. Before the shot even finished sounding, Holland reappeared, this time at her back. She felt him there, felt the air shift the barest moment before one of his hands closed around her throat, pinning her shoulders against his chest. The other hand wrapped around the fingers on her pistol and brought the barrel to rest against her temple. The whole thing had taken less than a breath.

“Divest yourself of weapons,” he instructed. “Or I will do it for you.”

His grip wasn’t crushing; if anything, his hold was casual, confident, and Lila had been around cutthroats long enough to know that the ones you truly had to fear were the ones who gripped their guns loosely, like they’d been born holding them. Lila used her free hand to dig the knife out of her belt and drop it to the ground. She freed a second from her back. A third she usually kept in her boot, but it was sitting on her bed, ruined. Holland’s hand slid from her throat to her shoulder, but he cocked the pistol in warning.

“What, no cannons?” he asked drily.

“You’re mad,” growled Lila. “Your friend Kell, he’s long gone.”

“Do you think?” asked Holland. “Let’s find out.”

The air around them began to crackle with energy. With magic . And Holland was right: she could smell it. Not flowers, as with Kell (flowers and something else, something grassy and clean). Instead, Holland’s power smelled metallic, like heated steel. It singed the air.

She wondered if Kell would be able to smell it, too. If that’s what Holland wanted.

There was something else in that magic—not a smell, but a sense all the same—something sharp, like anger, like hate. A fierceness that didn’t show in the lines of Holland’s face. No, his face was startlingly calm. Terrifyingly calm.

“Scream,” he said.

Lila frowned. “What do you—”

The question was cut off by pain. A bolt of energy, like bottled lightning, shot up her arm where he gripped it, dancing over her skin and electrifying her nerves, and she cried out before she could stop herself. And then, almost as quickly as the pain came, it vanished, leaving Lila breathless and shaking.

“You … bastard,” she snarled.

“Call his name,” instructed Holland.

“I can assure you … he’s not … going to come,” she said, stumbling over the words. “Certainly not … for me . We—”

Another wave of pain, this one brighter, sharper, and Lila clenched her jaw against the scream and waited for the pain to pass, but this time it didn’t; it only worsened, and through it she could hear Holland say calmly, “Perhaps I should start breaking bones?”

She tried to say no, but when she opened her mouth to answer, all she heard was a cry, and then, as if encouraged, the pain worsened. She called Kell’s name then, for all the good it would do her. He wouldn’t come. Maybe if she tried, this madman would realize that and let her go. Find another form of bait. The pain finally petered out, and Lila realized she was on her knees, one hand gripping the cold stone street, the other wrenched up behind her, still in Holland’s grip. She thought she was going to be sick.

“Better,” said Holland.

“Go to hell,” she spat.

He jerked her up to her feet and back against him, and brought the gun beneath her chin. “I’ve never used a revolver,” he said in her ear. “But I know how they work. Six shots, yes? You’ve fired one. That leaves five more, if the gun was full. Do you think I could fire the rest without killing you? Humans die so easily, but I bet, if I’m clever …” He let the gun slide down her body, pausing at her shoulder, her elbow, before trailing down her side to her thigh and coming to rest against her knee. “The sooner he comes, the sooner I will let you go. Call his name. ”

“He won’t come,” she whispered bitterly. “Why do you refuse to believe—”

“Because I know our friend,” said Holland. He lifted his gun-wielding hand—Lila shuddered with relief as the kiss of metal left her skin—and wrapped his arm casually around her shoulders. “He is near. I can hear his boots on the street stones. Close your eyes. Can you hear him?”

Lila squeezed her eyes shut, but all she could hear was the thud of her heart and the thought racing through her mind. I don’t want to die. Not here. Not now. Not like this.

“Bring him to me,” whispered Holland. The air began to hum again.

“Don’t—” Lila’s bones lit up with pain. It shot from her skull to her weathered boots and back, and she screamed. And then, suddenly, the agony stopped and the sound died on her lips and Holland let go. She crumpled forward to the cobbled street, the stones scraping against her knees and palms as she caught herself.

Through the pounding in her head, she heard Holland’s voice say, “There you are.”

She dragged her head up and saw Kell standing in the road, the strange magical boy in his black coat, looking breathless and angry.

Lila couldn’t believe it.

He’d come back.

But why had he come back?

Before she could ask, he looked straight at her—one eye black and one blue and both wide—and said a single word.

“Run.”

II

Kell had been standing on the bridge, leaning against the rail and trying to make sense of how and why he’d been set up—the false letter, the humble plea, the compelled cutthroats—when he caught the scent of magic on the air. Not a faint tendril, either, but a flare. A beacon of light in a darkened city. And a signature he would know anywhere. Heated steel and ash.