Queen of Shadows (Throne of Glass #4) - Sarah J. Maas Page 0,60

beyond, some revelers had paused to watch the inspection—wide-eyed, curious, and not at all inclined to help the two women inside the carriage.

The guard looked them over with a sneer, the expression deepening as his eyes alighted on Lysandra’s tattooed wrist. “I owe you nothing, whore.” He spat out another filthy word at both of them, and then shouted, “Search the compartment in the back.”

“We are on our way to an appointment,” Lysandra hissed, but he slammed the door in her face. The carriage jostled as the men leaped onto the back and opened the rear compartment. After a moment, someone slammed a hand onto the side of the carriage and shouted, “Move on!”

They didn’t dare stop looking offended, didn’t dare stop fanning themselves for the next two blocks, or the two after that, until the driver thumped the top of the carriage twice. All clear.

Aelin jumped off the bench and flung open the compartment. Aedion had vomited, but he was awake and looking more than a bit put out as she beckoned him to emerge. “One more stop, and then we’re there.”

“Quick,” said Lysandra, peering casually out the window. “The others are almost here.”

The alley was barely wide enough to fit both of the carriages that ambled toward each other, no more than two large vehicles slowing to avoid colliding as they passed. Lysandra flung open the door just as they were aligned with the other carriage, and Chaol’s tight face appeared across the way as he did the same.

“Go, go, go,” she said to Aedion, shoving him over the small gap between the coaches. He stumbled, grunting as he landed against the captain. Lysandra said behind her, “I’ll be there soon. Good luck.”

Aelin leaped into the other carriage, shutting the door behind her, and they continued on down the street.

She was breathing so hard that she thought she’d never get enough air. Aedion slumped onto the floor, keeping low.

Chaol said, “Everything all right?”

She could only manage a nod, grateful he didn’t push for any other answers. But it wasn’t all right. Not at all.

The carriage, driven by one of Chaol’s men, took them another few blocks, right to the border of the slums, where they got out on a deserted, decrepit street. She trusted Chaol’s men—but only so far. Taking Aedion right to her apartment seemed like asking for trouble.

With Aedion sagging between them, she and Chaol hurried down the next several blocks, taking the long way back to the warehouse to dodge any tail, listening so hard they barely breathed. But then they were at the warehouse, and Aedion managed to stand long enough for Chaol to slide the door open before they rushed inside, into the dark and safety at last.

Chaol took Aelin’s place at Aedion’s side as she lingered by the door. Grunting at the weight, he managed to get her cousin up the stairs. “He’s got an injury along his ribs,” she said as she forced herself to wait—to monitor the warehouse door for any signs of pursuers. “It’s bleeding.” Chaol gave her a confirming nod over his shoulder.

When her cousin and the captain were almost to the top of the stairs, when it became clear no one was about to burst in, she followed them. But pausing had cost her; pausing had let the razor-sharp focus slip, let every thought she’d kept at bay come sweeping in. Every step she took was heavier than the last.

One foot up, then the next, then the next.

By the time she made it to the second floor, Chaol had taken Aedion into the guest bedroom. The sound of running water gurgled out to greet her.

Aelin left the front door unlocked for Lysandra, and for a moment, she just stood in her apartment, bracing a hand on the back of the couch, staring at nothing.

When she was certain she could move again, she strode into her bedroom. She was naked before she reached the bathing chamber, and she sat herself right in the cold, dry tub before she turned on the water.

Once she emerged, clean and wearing one of Sam’s old white shirts and a pair of his undershorts, Chaol was waiting for her on the couch. She didn’t dare look at his face—not yet.

Lysandra popped her head in from the guest room. “I’m just finishing cleaning him up. He should be fine, if he doesn’t burst the stitches again. No infection, thank the gods.”

Aelin lifted a limp hand in thanks, also not daring to look into the