Chapter 19 · The Inquisitor's Iron Censer

The door didn't open. It came off.

Iron hinges screamed. The slab hit the stone and cold poured in behind it, with the smell of oiled steel and wet wool. Six elder-guards in grey cloaks filed through, crossbows up. Silver tips, every bolt.

I was still on my knees beside Vane. The chain on my ankle bit into the bone. His blood was drying on my fingers, from the glass I'd just dug out of his palm.

"Don't move," I said, low. "Vane. Look at me."

He didn't. His eyes had gone amber at the edges, the pupils blown wide. The black silver-veins had crawled past his elbow. His whole body leaned toward the broken door like a dog on a short leash.

"Mine," he said. Not to me. To the room.

"I know. Breathe."

Then she walked in.

Inquisitor Brandt was small. That was the first insult. I'd pictured a monster. She was a narrow woman in Council grey, hood back, head shaved to the skin. She swung a black iron censer on a chain, slow, like a church bell nobody wanted to hear.

Garrick came in behind her. Uniform pressed. Hands folded.