The Emperor's Wolves (Wolves of Elantra #1) - Michelle Sagara Page 0,34

bear no sign that would indicate you serve one or another of the petty factions that trouble my streets. Even did you, none would have information of interest to me in specific.” His smile was gentle. His voice was not. “If you bore me, if you have wasted my time, there is a penalty to be paid.”

Severn did not blink.

“Because it is an interesting question, and the answer would not otherwise be difficult to obtain, I will answer. No. These deaths have only occurred within Nightshade.”

“What do the marks on the bodies mean?”

Silence, then. Night made the color of Barrani eyes appear darker than they were, or at least that was Severn’s hope. “Marks?”

He knew that this was a misstep, then. “There’re rumors—”

“Are there? I seldom trouble to listen to rumors. Tonight is a rare exception. I would hear your rumors, boy. In detail.”

“The rumors say there are marks on the victims.”

“Ah.” He glanced to the left, and the Barrani guard standing there detached from his lord’s side. He approached Severn slowly. Severn, however, held his ground. His glance flickered once to the guard, but he forced it to return to the fieflord’s cold expression. He had known that there would be a risk; even delivering the message had caused bruises and cuts.

“And do the rumors say much else about these so-called marks?”

He drew a shallow breath before responding. “They’re black. They cover the arms and legs of the victim; possibly the back. Some people say they’re words, writing.”

“Rumor is seldom so accurate.”

Severn forced himself not to shrug. While shrugging was a gesture that served in place of many different replies, it would not help him here. He doubted that the fieflord shrugged. Ever.

“Where did you see these marks, boy?”

A pause, then. But not a long pause. “The body of a child in the southern block. Her name was Tina.”

“You are lying.”

Severn did not deny it. He waited.

“I will ask again while you consider the wisdom of your choices. Where did you see these marks?”

So many choices came down to survival. So many. But for Severn, survival was tied to family, to duty. The simple fact of death did not and had not obliterated the fact of family. Even his own. Silence could protect Elianne, if it was necessary.

“One of my friends,” he finally said, “has the same marks.”

“I wish to speak with this friend.”

“No.” Possibly the hardest refusal Severn had ever offered. He knew what his death would to do to Elianne and the girls. He uttered no further words of defiance; he simply waited. The first blow rocked him back; the second doubled him over. He fell to his knees, splaying his hands flat to avoid planting his face into the worn stones that girded the well.

“I wish to speak with this friend.”

“No.”

There was blood in his mouth. A cracked rib, maybe two. His shoulder was either broken or dislocated. In the distance, as if sensing blood, the Ferals howled.

“Take me to this friend.”

This time, Severn remained silent, braced for further blows. Those came, but they were carefully delivered; none broke his legs. It didn’t matter. He had been hurt before, and this kind of pain passed, one way or the other. He did not beg, although he considered it; he might have tried if he’d had any sense that humiliation was what the fieflord wanted.

The beating stopped abruptly, although the pain lingered. Severn was hauled to his feet, facing the fieflord.

“Benito,” the fieflord said, which surprised him. “Tina—Christina, I believe, if one is being entirely correct. Anali. Do you recognize these names?”

Severn nodded.

“Ah. Amal. Shardan. Lina—again, a diminutive.” He continued to speak names, and Severn understood two things: they were the names of all those who had been murdered or sacrificed, and he recognized every single one of them. Some, of course, he’d learned on the street. And those names he almost expected to belong to people he knew—the gossip would barely reach him otherwise. But some of the names? He’d heard nothing.

This, then, was what he feared, and had feared from the beginning. He knew all of the names. He had interacted with all of the dead. And...so had Elianne.

Lord Nightshade watched him for a long moment after the last of the names had faded.

Severn swallowed. “Who is doing this? If you tell me—”

“If it is as I suspect, you will not find him; he might hunt here, but this is not where he dwells. If you managed to find him, you would die. I think