Skyshade (The Lightlark Saga Book 3) (The Lightlark Saga, 3) (Volume 3)

Isla dreamed of snakes slithering across her skin. She dreamed of drowning in them. She dreamed of them wrapping around her throat—

She awoke panting. Lynx’s green eyes glowed through the darkness, watching her warily. Her head was pulsing, feverish.

Follow the snakes . . .

It was still dark outside. She hadn’t planned on visiting the town, but she grabbed her daggers and slipped on her clothes.

Waiting for the storm had made her restless. The augur had said she would be back to his cave—that it had been written.

She didn’t yet know the right questions to ask, but she figured it wouldn’t hurt to pay in advance for his services. That was what she told herself, anyway, as she prowled the streets night after night. It was easier than admitting that she got a twisted sort of satisfaction in seeing the life leave the eyes of those she had seen hurt others. That with every kill . . . something inside of her was growing. And there was never a shortage of people to hunt down. Even as she killed the worst in society, over and over, more seemed to take their place, like relentless weeds.

She had a favorite perch, a rooftop where she could get a wide view of the city. That night, she found something waiting for her. A piece of fruit, and a pastry. It was warm in her hands. Buttery in her fingers. Still, she didn’t eat it. It could be poisoned.

The next night was the same. Another offering.

The following evening, she arrived early, and waited on a different rooftop. She watched a woman climb up the stairs inside the building and leave the gifts. She recognized her clothes. She was the woman Isla had saved.

Tonight, the gift was some sort of pie. It smelled of potatoes and meat and herbs, and even as her stomach growled in hunger, she didn’t eat it. The woman had seemed kind . . . but she couldn’t trust anyone.

She watched the streets for hours. It was quiet, so she made her way down to walk, sticking to the shadows. She made five right turns in a row, in a useless circle.

That was how she knew someone was following her. She could hear their footsteps splashing the puddles between misaligned stones in the road, just a few yards behind. Whoever it was, they weren’t skilled at stalking. They were clumsy, and careless.

Satisfaction rooted deep within her. She figured one of these days a friend of one of those men she had killed would come after her. Her skin buzzed with excitement as she climbed up the gutter of a building and waited. Once they turned into the alley, she pounced, jumping from the rooftop.

She nearly had her blade against her stalker’s throat, when she realized she knew them.

The woman who had been leaving her gifts. She had pale skin, freckles, and curly dark red hair that she wore up in pins.

She grinned, not looking too upset that a dagger had just been pointed at her. “This close, you look far less menacing than I thought you would,” she said, seeming stunned as she looked Isla up and down. Even though half her face was covered with her scarf, Isla didn’t like how closely she studied her.

“Stop following me,” Isla said, trying to make her voice as firm as possible. “Stop leaving me things.”

The woman just tilted her head. “I meant no offense. Just gratitude. I don’t know how to repay you.”

“You don’t need to,” Isla said. “Just please keep yourself safe.”

With one final nod, she turned on her heel.

“Help me, then.”

Isla turned around again. “What?”

The woman raised a shoulder. “Teach me.”

Isla just stared at her.

“It’s not the first time something like that has happened. Teach me to defend myself, in case you’re not there to save me next time.” Isla almost laughed. She shouldn’t be teaching anyone anything. But the woman just looked at her. She blinked.

Isla sighed. “If I teach you this, will you leave me alone?”

The woman nodded, grin widening.

“Fine.”

Isla looked behind her. Paused. When she was confident she wasn’t about to be ambushed, she took out one of her daggers—one with its own sheath—and handed it to the woman.

She beamed. “My name’s Sairsha, by the way.”

Isla ignored her. “The blade is sharp. Make sure not to stab yourself while trying to wield it.” She took another dagger between her fingers, and demonstrated the right way to hold it. “Like this.”

Sairsha tried a few times before getting it right.

She nodded. “Keep it sheathed. If you’re being attacked, the best thing to do in your case is run. If that’s impossible, then first try to go for their nose. Or their groin. If none of that works, use the dagger. Get in a strong stance.” Isla demonstrated a simple one. “And go for anywhere you can. The stomach is a good option. The ribs are hard to get through. The neck . . . is messy.” She closed her mouth, wondering if she was doing more harm than good. “If you aren’t skilled, the dagger is more likely to be used against you. It’s a last resort.”

Sairsha nodded. She carefully sheathed the weapon, pocketing it like a treasure. Her voice was reverent. “Thank you.”

Isla didn’t say anything in response before she turned and left.

Sairsha didn’t keep her promise. The next time Isla visited the town, the woman was waiting on her favorite rooftop with a basket of pastries in her lap.

She smiled and waved, and Isla turned on her heel and left. The next night was the same. She was close to visiting another town entirely, when she finally found her spot empty.

Good. The woman had given up.

Not an hour into her watching, Sairsha noisily opened the door opening to the roof. “Oh you’re here already! I had—”

Isla had her hand over her mouth in less than a moment. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.

“Helping you,” she whispered from behind Isla’s fingers. She held up something in her hand, as if to show her.

It was the dagger Isla had gifted her.

She dropped her hand. “If I tell you to leave, will you listen?”

The woman shook her head. Isla sighed.

They ended up on the rooftop, side by side. Sairsha chewed the pastries loudly, crumbs falling all over her lap.

At least she was being quiet, Isla thought, until Sairsha was done with her food and said, “You’ve saved many of my friends, you know.”

Isla didn’t look at her. She just stared ahead and wondered when this woman would leave her alone.

“We feel safer nowadays. Fewer incidents happening. It seems people are afraid of the consequences. You’ve earned a reputation.”

That wasn’t great. She would need to start going to other villages.

A door opened below. Laughter spilled onto the streets. It closed, muting them. “Have you been there before?”

It was a bar. She had watched its entrance plenty of times but had never been inside. She shook her head, grateful the scarf over most of her face had kept still.

“I could use a drink. Let’s go.”

Isla ignored her.

“The beer’s terrible, but the food is good.”

Isla offered her a noncommittal nod.

“The company’s not bad either, except—”

Isla turned to face her. “If I go, will you actually leave me alone?”

Sairsha nodded. Isla sighed, then found herself scaling down the building, while Sairsha took the stairs. This was foolish. She should just go into an alley and use her device to portal away. She should find a completely different town. She should wait at her window until another storm finally broke.

But, she realized, she had come to crave the routine of this town. It had given her some semblance of control over her life. She liked this rooftop and the bars around it, the alley that was especially convenient for killing.

So she stepped inside the bar.

Someone near her turned lazily in her direction, then froze. He whispered something to the person next to them—a short woman—and she startled. It continued, person after person whispering, then staring, until the room went quiet.

Isla went still. Her hand inched toward her dagger and starstick, as she wondered which one she would use first.

She shouldn’t have come. It was a risk, even with a scarf disguising most of her face. The people of Nightshade hated her. If they knew she was Grim’s wife—the snake-queen—she might not be able to portal before they attacked.

Sairsha just laughed. “Don’t mind them. They’re just in awe of your presence.” They knew. She took a step backward.

“It really is you,” a voice said, as Isla turned to run. “The heartripper.”

Her hand paused just inches from the door handle.

Heartripper? She needed to start adding more variety to her killings. Clearly, she had made it her signature.

She breathed again.

“Told you I knew her.” The woman linked arms with Isla’s, and she had to physically stop herself from wrenching away.

A man with a weathered face and bald head nodded at her as she passed. “Thank you for all you’ve done,” he told her, before continuing his conversation.

Slowly the attention shifted away from her.

“Get you anything to drink?” Sairsha said, as she led Isla to a pair of empty stools that looked very close to collapsing and were covered in a film of substance, likely dried drink.

“No,” Isla said, keeping her voice as hushed as possible. They didn’t seem to know who she was beyond heartripper—yet—but she didn’t need to make it easy for them to figure out her identity.

Every time someone in front looked over their shoulder at her with curiosity, she tensed. She reminded herself that it would take hardly any time to portal away. Or to touch her necklace, summoning Grim in an instant. But then, he would probably end up killing every single person in this room. And wondering why his wife was in this bar to begin with.

Sairsha returned a few moments later, slamming a large mug in front of her. “In case you change your mind,” she said. “Our little saint must be parched.”

Saint. It was laughable how ridiculous that word was, when applied to her.

Isla nodded in thanks, not planning to take a sip.

The woman seemed to sense the reason for her hesitation. She raised an eyebrow, found an empty mug on a table, poured half of the offered drink in it, raised it in cheers, and took a hearty sip.

“Decidedly not poison,” she said with a wink. Then, she turned around again and joined the others.

Curiosity got the better of Isla a few minutes later. When no one was facing her, she quickly pulled down her scarf, took a tentative sip, and fought to keep herself from gagging. Yes. Decidedly not poison.

Still, decidedly disgusting.

Again, Sairsha did not keep her word.

They formed a routine. After Isla was done roaming the streets, she would visit the bar for a few minutes. It was filled with the same people every time.

“Why do you come here every night?” Isla asked her one day.

Sairsha shrugged. “I was looking for a sort of family.” She smiled as she looked over at the others. “We all know each other. We have meetings, sometimes, to try to make our town better. Our future better. We’re joined by purpose. And that, I’ve found, can be stronger than blood.”

Purpose.

Each night, they would share a drink; and every time, Isla would pretend to like the warm beer that tasted like it had long gone sour. But Sairsha seemed to love it and would throw her head back and laugh as she told Isla stories about her family and growing up in a small mountain village. It was nice.

“What do you think of the ruler?” Isla asked one day, curious.

Sairsha thought long and hard. “He’s fair. Much fairer than his father, or any before, I’ve heard. Whenever there is some sort of problem, he is always the first one there. He doesn’t just send others. During the curses, he himself built the tunnels with his great power. He spent years creating them. Making sure we were all safe and had enough provisions. He would hand-deliver them.”

She didn’t know why this shocked her, but it did.

Isla remembered him struggling against the dreks. Taking the brunt of the attack himself. Appearing in her room, ravaged by wounds and shadows.

He didn’t just hide behind a palace. He was there, in the thick of it, every time. He put the needs of his people above his own.

Except when it came to her.

She had just crept into bed that night when Lynx nudged her.

“Let me sleep,” she said, turning toward the other side. She barely got a handful of hours of rest a day, thanks to her insistence on playing vigilante every night.

Lynx made a growling sound and pushed her off onto the floor.

She landed in a heap of blankets and glared at him through the darkness. “What is it?”

His green eyes glowed just inches in front of her. He motioned toward the glass. The window.

There was a faint knocking sound, clearly not the wind. The stormfinch was asleep in its cage.

Knocking?

Lynx looked insistent.

She reached toward her necklace, and Lynx growled.

Isla dropped her hand. “Fine. If I die, it’s your fault,” she said to her leopard, and grabbed her blade instead.

She ripped the curtain back.

Her dagger dropped to the floor.

There was a figure, right outside her window, filling it like a god. Oro.