hope lay unconscious on the back of one of those mercenaries’ horses. Ana had no weapon and no plan, but she also had nothing more to lose.
A hundred paces. She drew steadily nearer. At any moment, the mercenaries could turn and catch sight of her.
Fifty paces. She could see them clearly now, moving much more slowly than she with the unconscious con man tied to a horse.
And they saw her.
They slowed their horses and rounded the edge of the trees, hands lingering near their swords. A cold wind stirred, rattling the dry winter leaves across dead grass. Shadows flickered across the men’s faces.
Ana gave her hood a tug. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest, and she found herself reaching out with her Affinity, keeping it poised as she would a blade. A sense of calm enveloped her as her Affinity settled over the blood pulsing through the mercenaries’ bodies. Hers to command, if she wished.
She grasped that thought, letting it fuel her courage. “Release that man. He is my charge,” she called.
The mercenary riding alone—the leader—spoke first. Even on his horse Ana could see that he was an impossibly tall man. He was the one with a black beard, the one she had watched hand the pouch of goldleaves to the bartender. She was close enough to hear his low growl. “You got some guts, lass, riding after us alone. Got a death wish, or what?”
“You must have heard by now,” Ana said, “what happened at the Vyntr’makt in Kyrov?”
“What? You lost your damashka doll?” Blackbeard and his companion rasped with laughter.
Ana kept her face blank. She knew from lessons with her brother that some negotiations required placidity. Others called for firmness. And finally, in the rarest of cases, you showed your power.
Slowly, Ana slid off her glove and stretched her fingers, lifting her hand high.
She summoned her Affinity.
The mockery on the mercenaries’ faces vanished, replaced by alternating horror and disgust, as the veins in her hand began to turn dark, from the tips of her fingers to her elbow.
“An Affinite,” sneered Blackbeard. “You think you can threaten us just because you’re one of those deimhovs? Oi, Stanys. Watch me cut this witch down.”
“Need help, boss?” his companion called.
“Take the quarry to a safer place.” Blackbeard turned to Ana with a malicious grin. “The witch is mine.”
Anger bottled at her throat, but she forced it down, down as she thought of Luka. Her bratika had always strived for peace where possible. Ana gave it one last try. “Hand him over now, and no one has to be hurt.”
Blackbeard’s expression darkened. “I’ll teach you all about hurting,” he snarled, and launched his horse toward her.
Her horse shrieked at the sudden assault, springing back. Ana had just enough time to feel the shift in balance before the saddle tilted beneath her and she tumbled off. By instinct, she latched on to Blackbeard’s blood and pulled.
His curse rang out, and she saw him fall just as her back jolted against the ground, knocking the wind from her. Nearby, there was a thud as Blackbeard broke his fall with a roll.
Ana sucked in a deep breath, willing her stunned limbs to work again. She heard the schick of Blackbeard’s dagger as he drew it from its sheath. “Damned deimhov,” he snarled, and sprang.
Through the haze in her mind, she grasped at her Affinity.
Blackbeard drove his blade down. A rumble of thunder muffled her scream as pain seared over her shoulder. Blood bloomed across her senses.
The mercenary’s smile sliced white. Pinning her down with his body, he brought his dagger to her cheek. In the dim light, she could make out the green-tinted liquid as it formed a drop at the tip of the blade. Terror filled her. “Recognize that, you witch?” Blackbeard’s tone was triumphant, mocking. “You think just because you’re an Affinite, that makes you more powerful than us?”
Slowly, she was regaining control of her body; the fog in her mind was dissipating. Ana twitched a finger.
“Think again. You made a dumb choice, revealing yourself to us, deimhov. I dominate monsters like you. I trade monsters like you.” Blackbeard brought his face close to hers. “You don’t scare me.”
With his other hand, he shoved a glass vial of Deys’voshk to her lips. Bitter liquid filled her mouth. She was back in the dungeons again, metal chains and straps holding her in place, the taste of the pungent poison flooding her senses. My little monster, Sadov whispered.