Nightsworn | The Whispering Wall #2

Eighty Four: Wights

Dela cowered against the wall. She had never seen so much blood.

The handsome man with the dark hair and cold eyes had let her out of the huge house the back way as if it were a mercy, but she didn't know her way in the quarter and was scared to try. She didn't know where Thorne had gone or if he would send someone back for her. She hoped so. She didn't know what she was going to do if he didn't.

But before that, there had been blood.

She was used to blood; she dealt with dead bodies all the time. She'd seen war wounds, hunting wounds and every other kind in between, but she'd never seen them inflicted, never seen someone's life leaving them in a gouting stream. Worst of all had been the look on the dark-haired man's face – Marick, she thought the Angel had called him – like all that loss of life was nothing to him. It wasn't enjoyment, but he certainly didn't care about the lives he cut down with his blade. It had got worse when more men had arrived and the fighting had begun in earnest.

The lead Angel had run. She didn't know where and didn't much care, as long as he didn't come anywhere near her. He'd seemed spoiled and cruel, and she wasn't much minded to find out what he was capable of, which was fortunate as he'd forgotten all about her.

That left her to sit against the wall of the big house, huddle for warmth, and try not to cry.

She wasn't succeeding at that last one.

She felt filthy, like she'd committed something she would have to atone for. She'd worked with the Devils. She'd broken into a temple. She'd deceived Lady Kerrin and Lin. She didn't deserve to go back to Kiel, but her only other option was to go home, and she couldn't face that either.

Footsteps nearby made her jump. She looked around, huddling tighter. She'd heard rumours about the dead quarter, and what might happen to a girl who wandered into it without an escort. Last time she'd had one. Now she was alone. Terror coursed through her like spilling blood. She squeezed her eyes shut against that image, but it was burned into her mind.

"Why are you sitting in a gutter?"

She looked up. A woman stared down at her, choppy short hair a halo around her face. Her eyes glittered but most of her face was in shadow even in the rising light.

"I...don't know my way out," she whispered, and tears threatened again.

The woman rolled her eyes. "Get up, girl. Nothing says victim like sitting on the ground and sniffling."

She did. When standing, she realised the woman wasn't much taller than she was. Somehow she didn't think that made her any less dangerous.

"Arlen said you might be here," the woman said. "You're the acolyte, aren't you?"

With the guilt swirling in her thoughts, it felt more of an accusation than a question. She nodded, throat tight. She wouldn't cry in front of this woman who disdained it so much.

"I'll take you to the edge of the quarter." She cocked her head. "You don't seem like an acolyte to me."

Another blow. She flinched inwardly and said nothing, staring at the ground between their feet. She just wanted to go back to her pallet and pretend nothing had happened tonight, if she could.

The woman sighed and walked off. Dela followed, assuming she was supposed to but half-expecting to be berated for it any moment. There was still noise inside the house, but it didn't sound like fighting. It sounded more like an argument now. Curtains covered the windows so she couldn't see what was going on, and a small part of her was glad that her morbid curiosity had been foiled. She'd seen more than enough tonight to last her a lifetime of nightmares.