“Maw’s teeth, are we going to be here ’til truelight?” Mia snarled.

Pietro raised an eyebrow, poured another measure of goldwine onto her bloody shoulder. Mia winced in pain, took a drag of her cigarillo with a shaking hand. She was sat on a low stone bench, Pietro behind her, swathed in his customary black robes. The Hand was busy sewing up the bloody gouge in her shoulder, and he’d padded a wad of gauze about her backside, soaking through with red.

The chamber was sparse, dark stone walls and dim arkemical globes. Like most rooms in the Galante Chapel, it was perfumed with the faint stench of shit. The servants of Our Lady of Blessed Murder here in the Cityport of Churches had built their hideaway among the vast network of sewers beneath Galante’s skin, and it was hard to escape the smell. In the eight months she’d served here, Mia had become accustomed to it, but as a preference spent as little time down here as possible. Unless she needed stitching up or resupply, she really only visited when she needed to speak to—

“Well, bugger me all the way backwards,” said a familiar voice. “Look what the shadowcat dragged in.”

Mia looked up, saw a woman standing in the doorway, dressed in leather britches, long boots and a black velvet shirt. She was finger-thin, light brown hair cut in a distinctly masculine style, dark shadows under her eyes. She walked with a singular swagger, and wore more knives than anyone in her right mind would know what to do with.

“Bishop Tenhands,” Mia said, inclining her head. “I’d stand and bow, but the crossbow bolt in my backside isn’t too agreeable.”

“An interesting nevernight, then,” the woman smirked.

“Some coul—ow, fuck!” Mia glared over her shoulder again. “’Byss and blood, Pietro, are you stitching me up or sewing a dress?”

“All right, all right, bugger off,” Tenhands told the beleaguered surgeon. “I’ll finish her up. I’d like a word with our Blade alone.”

“My Bishop,” Pietro nodded, slapping a bundle of gauze none too gently on Mia’s bleeding shoulder and leaving the room. Tenhands sauntered around behind Mia, pulled away the bandage, the girl wincing as the blood stuck it to her skin.

Tenhands was a figure of infamy in Red Church lore, a long-serving Blade of the Mother with near twenty sanctified kills to her name. Old Mercurio had told Mia tales about the woman when she was younger, and Mia had grown up as something of an admirer. Serving in the Cityport of Churches, she’d learned its bishop wasn’t much for civility. Or frivolity. But she liked results, so fortunately, Tenhands liked her.

“This looks like it hurts,” Tenhands muttered, eyeing the horrid wound across Mia’s back and shoulder.

“It’s far from ticklish.”

The bishop took up the bone needle, began sewing Mia’s wound with steady fingers. “I trust the pain was worth it?”

Mia winced, taking a long drag of her clove cigarillo. “Senator Aurelius’s son is being fitted for his death masque as we speak.”

“You used the lament?”

Mia nodded. “On the lips, just as you suggested.”

“I shan’t ask how you got access to the young don’s mouth, then.”

“Never kiss and tell.”

“And where’s young Dove?”

“Sadly,” Mia sighed, “my young Hand won’t be back for supper. Ever.”

“Shame, that.”

“He was never the sharpest blade on the racks, Bishop.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers.” Tenhands dug the needle in for another stitch. “Since the Järnheims gutted us, quality around here is in short supply. Present company excepted, of course.”

Mia chewed her lip and sighed. Bishop Tenhands spoke truth—good Hands and Blades were hard to find in the Red Church these turns. Galante was never a glamorous appointment, and most of the servants of Niah posted here dreamed of grander things. But matters were worse than ever since the Luminatii attack.

Eight months on, Our Lady of Blessed Murder’s congregation was still bleeding from the blow Ashlinn Järnheim and her brother had inflicted at the behest of their father. It wasn’t simply Lord Cassius’s murder that had the Church reeling, although the loss of the Black Prince would have been grievous enough. But Torvar Järnheim hadn’t merely had his children serve up the Ministry to the Luminatii—the old assassin had also revealed the location of every Red Church chapel in the Republic.

And so, while Justicus Remus was invading the Quiet Mountain, the Luminatii had launched simultaneous assaults across greater Itreya. The chapels in Dweym and Galante remained unscathed. But every other chapel had been destroyed.

Worse, Torvar had supplied names. Aliases. Last known residences. Between Torvar’s treachery and the Luminatii attacks, Our Lady of Blessed Murder had lost near three-quarters of her assassins in a single nevernight.

As the bishop said, the Red Church had been gutted; that was probably the only reason a Blade as young as Mia was even entrusted with offerings like the one on Gaius Aurelius. In the eight months since her posting to Galante, she’d ended three men and one woman in the Black Mother’s name. Most Blades her age would be lucky to have been sent on their first kill.

Mia was thankful for the chance to show her worth. But problem was, her list of throats to slit was growing longer, not shorter. She’d killed Justicus Remus, but Consul Scaeva and Grand Cardinal Duomo still lived. Her familia were still unavenged. And with Tric’s murder at Ashlinn’s hands during the Luminatii attack, she now had one more windpipe to open before her vengeance was done.

And stuck here in Galante, she was no closer to any of them.

Mia clenched her jaw as the bishop continued to stitch her, thinking about . . . that . . . thing that had accosted her in the necropolis. Truth was, it had saved her life. Her near-death should have left her shaken, but as ever, her passengers ate any sense of fear inside her, twice as swift now as when she carried Mister Kindly alone. She felt nothing close to afraid. And so, she was only left with questions.

What was it?

What did it want with her?

“The Crown of the Moon”?

She’d seen that particular phrase before, buried in the pages of—

“Heard about some trouble with Aurelius’s guards,” Tenhands remarked, ceasing her needlework long enough to take a pull of the medicinal goldwine.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” Mia replied.

“You normally operate with a little more discretion.”

“Beg pardon, Bishop, but you didn’t ask for discretion,” Mia said, faint annoyance in her voice. “You asked for a dead senator’s son.”

“One doesn’t necessarily preclude the other.”

“But given the choice, which would you rather?”

Mia hissed as the bishop poured more alcohol onto her now-closed wound, bound it in long strips of gauze.

“I like you, Corvere,” Tenhands said. “You remind me of me in my younger turns. More balls than most men I’ve ever met. And you get your killing done, so you’ve earned a little ego. But word to the wise: you’d best leave that lip of yours behind when you head back to the Mountain. The Ministry aren’t as fond of you as I.”

“And why would I head back to the Mountain? I’m posted to—”

“Speaker Adonai sent a blood missive just now,” Tenhands interjected. “You’ve been recalled by the Ministry.”

Mia’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. Goosebumps on her skin.

“ . . . Why?” she asked.

Tenhands shrugged. “All I know is they’re leaving me a killer down, and a pile of throats that need slitting. If I could use Blades on more than one offering at a time, that’d be something. But that’d breach the Promise. So when you see that bastard Solis, be a love and knee him in the codpiece for me, will you?”

Mia’s mind was turning, suspicion and excitement entwined in her belly. Being recalled by the Ministry could mean anything. Reassignment. Rebuke. Retribution. She’d served the Black Mother well in the past eight months, but every Shahiid in the Mountain knew she’d failed her final trial, refusing to kill an innocent. The only reason she became a Blade at all was because Lord Cassius had baptized her as he lay dying on the sands of Last Hope. Perhaps the good grace his endorsement had given her had finally run out . . .

Who knew what awaited her when she arrived?

“When do I leave?” Mia asked.

Tenhands lifted her bone needle, looked meaningfully at Mia’s backside.

“As soon as you can walk.”

Mia sighed. No sense fretting on what she couldn’t change. And getting back to the Mountain, she could speak to Chronicler Aelius again, see Naev. Maybe find some of the answers she sought.

“Bend over,” the bishop ordered. “I’ll try to be gentle.”

Mia took the bottle of medicinal goldwine and took a long, deep pull.

“I’ll bet you say that to all the girls.”

It turns out three men at once was almost more than Mia could handle.

The battle had started well enough. The pit fighters had advanced, spurred on by the jeering crowd and the fact that Mia had thrown her wooden sword into the dirt. The first—a burly Itreyan—had bellowed a war cry and swung his blade at her head. And with a glance, Mia had reached toward the dark at his feet.

Out here in the light of two suns, the shadows were sluggish and heavy. But Mia was stronger now, in herself, in what she was, and she’d been playing this particular trick for years, after all. With a glance, she affixed the big Itreyan’s boots in his own shadow, stopping his charge short. Weaving close as he lost balance, she’d kicked him hard in the knee, punched him square in the throat, and as he toppled backward, she’d pirouetted and caught the sword flying from his hand to the tune of the cheering crowd.

“ . . . you are showing off now . . .” came a whisper in her ear.

“That’s the bloody poin—”

The blow caught her on the back of the head, sent her reeling. She barely managed to turn and block the next flurry, staggering back into a semblance of guard. The remaining Pit fighters—a broad Liisian with a pockmarked face, and a taller Dweymeri with only seven fingers—advanced, giving her no time to catch her breath. She was forced back across the Pit, warm blood dripping down the back of her neck.

Sevenfingers stepped up, swung at her face, throat, chest. Mia countered, locking him up and slipping inside his guard, but Pockface’s sword cracked across her ribs before she could strike, and an elbow sent her sprawling into the dirt.

She kept her grip on her sword, rolling aside as the pair tried to stomp her head in. Scrabbling on the ground, she slung a handful of red sand into Pockface’s eyes, lashed out with her boot and sent Sevenfingers to the ground. Rolling to her feet, she planted her boot in the now-blinded Pockface’s bollocks, hard enough to elicit a groan of sympathy from every man in the crowd. And to their cheers, she smashed her sword hilt into his face, smearing his nose across his cheeks.

“ . . . behind . . .”

She turned, barely blocking a blow that would’ve caved her skull in. The burly Itreyan was back on his feet, chin smeared with vomit and spit. She danced with him in the dust, strike and riposte, weave and flurry. Burlyboy was huge, twice as strong as she. But what Mia lacked in size, she made up for in speed and sheer, bloody ferocity. The Itreyan swung hard, snapping her gladius in half as she blocked. But with a shapeless cry, she danced inside his follow-through, crouched low and smashed her broken sword up beneath his chin. The splintered wood punctured his throat, gouts of blood coating Mia’s hands as Burlyboy fell.

“ . . . left, left . . . !”

Mister Kindly’s whisper brought her around, but too late—a gladius caught her across the shoulder, sent her reeling as the crowd roared. Sevenfingers swung again, struck her in the ribs, Mia gasping in agony. She locked up his swordarm, pulled him close. Smelling sweat, dirty breath, blood. Sevenfingers punched her in the face, once, twice, and with a ragged cry she reached out to the shadows, locking up his feet as she pushed backward with all her strength. With his feet rooted, the man toppled backward, Mia falling on top of him, fingers finding his mouth, slipping inside his cheeks and twisting like fishhooks before ripping outward.

The man screamed as his lips split, the crowd baying. The girl began pounding on his jaw with her fists, once, twice, three times. Hands red. Teeth gritted. Blood in her mouth. Picturing a smiling consul with dark, pretty eyes. A grand cardinal with a beard like a hedgerow and a voice like honey. Their faces pulped as she pounded, again

“ . . . mia . . .”

and again, picturing her mother, her brother, her father, everything she’d lost, everything they’d taken, and this man beneath her just one more enemy, just one more obstacle between her and the turn she’d spit on all their fucking grav—

“ . . . mia . . . !”

She fell still. Drenched in sweat. Breath burning. Covered in warm, sticky red. She could feel Mister Kindly’s chill, mixed with the blood on the back of her neck. The world came back into focus, its volume swelling in her ears. And beneath the thundering pulse and echoes of her past, she heard it. Swelling in her chest and tingling her fingertips.

Applause.

She stood, painted to the elbows in red. The crowd in the bleachers were on their feet, Teardrinker tending a flurry of bids rolling in from the sanguila at the Pit’s edge. Three hundred silver. Three hundred and fifty. Four. And on trembling legs, the girl walked across the Pit and stood before Leonides. She looked her would-be master in the eye, and dropped into a perfect curtsey before him.

“Domini,” she said.

The sanguila regarded her with narrowed eyes. His executus whispered in his ear. And as a storm of butterflies took wing in Mia’s belly, Leonides raised his hand and spoke in a voice that rang across the entire Pit.

“One thousand silver pieces.”

A low murmur rippled across the audience, Mia’s heart thrilling. Such a sum! Truth told, it was an overbid—the man could have probably knocked out most of his fellows with half that. But Mia knew the domini of the Lions of Leonides was fond of theater, and his bid told everyone in the Pit that he was in no mood to haggle.

Leonides wanted her. And so, he would have her. Price be damned.

It had gone perfectly. If Mia fought among the Lions of Leonides, she was almost assured a place in the Venatus Magni. And when the games were we over, when she stood victorious upon the dais—

“One thousand and one,” came a call.

Mia’s belly turned cold. She glanced up to the stands, saw a figure step forward from the crowd. Wrapped in a long cloak despite the heat, pulling back the hood to reveal a young pretty face, long auburn hair, pale Itreyan skin.

A woman.

“ . . . who is that . . . ?”

“No bloody idea,” Mia whispered.

“One thousand and one silver pieces,” the woman repeated.

Mia’s eyes narrowed. She’d never heard of a female sanguila—though there had been a few famous female gladiatii, the stage of the venatus was ever managed by the careful hand of men. Maybe the newcomer was an agent for another domini? A foil from the ledgermen to drive up her price?

Mia looked to Leonides expectantly. Whoever this woman was, the greatest sanguila in the history of the games wasn’t going to be outbid by a single silver coin.

Titus’s face was a mask. Leonides glanced to his executus, back to the newcomer, speaking as if the words soured his mouth.

“This is somewhat childish, don’t you think, my dear?”

The woman’s smile was splashed across her face like poison.

“Childish? Whatever do you mean?”

“I hear tell you have but a handful of coppers to rub together,” Leonides said. “If your intent is to embarrass the patriis familia of your own House, are there not less expensive ways to do so?”

The woman smiled wider, and Mia’s stomach sank.

“My thanks for your concern,” she said. “But this is just business, Father.”

“ . . . o, dear . . .”

“I have told you before, Leona,” Leonides warned. “The venatus is no place for women. And the sanguila’s box is no place for you.”

“Frightened my Falcons might eclipse your Lions, dear Patriis?”

Leonides scoffed. “One victor’s laurel in a backwater stoush does not a collegium make.”

“You won’t mind if I take the bloody beauty, then?”

Leona glanced at Mia. Leonides also turned to stare. Mia stepped forward, pleas roiling behind her teeth. But Mister Kindly’s whisper held her still.

“ . . . remember who you are. and who you are supposed to be . . .”

The not-cat was right. This was her script, after all, and she had the hardest role to play. If she was to fight on the sands in service to a gladiatii collegium, she could only do so as its property. And property didn’t speak unless spoken to. It certainly didn’t wade into a public pissing contest between father and daughter . . .

Shit.

Mia stared at Sanguila Leonides. Eyes pleading. She’d calculated it so well. She’d fought like a daemon, won the approval of every blood master in the Pit. She was only a single word, a single bid away from entry into the greatest collegium in the Republic. One step closer to Consul Scaeva’s and Cardinal Duomo’s throats. All Leonides need do was speak . . .

“Very well, Leona.”

Leonides feigned a shrug, turning his back on his daughter.

“Take her, then. For all the good she will do you.”

Leona smiled, sharp and bright. Mia’s shoulders sagged. Legionaries marched into the ring, the crook-eyed boy slapping shackles around her wrists. She could’ve run, then. Hidden beneath her cloak of shadows, slipped from the Pit with only dismayed shouts and prayers to the Everseeing in her wake.

But then she’d be right back where she started. It had taken weeks to orchestrate a clandestine trip to Ashkah, the broken caravan, her sale in the Garden. She’d waste weeks more in trying to get sold to a mightier collegium, and with the grand games so close, they were weeks she simply didn’t have to spare.

She’d ended too many lives, risked so much to be here to simply abandon her plan altogether. And though Leona was an unknown factor, Mia still had faith in her own abilities, and no real fear she could fail. Behind her lay only blood and a Mountain full of treachery. Ahead lay the sand of the venatus, and vengeance.

This was her course now. For good or ill, she had to walk it.

The legionaries parted. Mia looked up to see Dona Leona standing before her. This close, she could see the woman was in her early twenties. Bright blue eyes and auburn hair coiled in gentle ringlets, lightly freckled skin. She wore gold jewelry, a ruby wedding band. Beneath her cloak, her gown was cut of soft Liisian silk. Every part of her screamed “wealth,” save her eyes. As Mia risked a glance into those kohled pools of brilliant blue, she could think of only one word to describe them.

Hungry.

“My bloody beauty,” she smiled. “What a pair we shall make.”

Mia hung still, unsure what to say. Leona glanced at the soldiers, annoyance in her gaze. One of the men drew a truncheon, struck Mia across her legs. The girl cried out, fell to her knees. Teeth clenched, bloodstained hands in fists. But she could feel Mister Kindly, prowling cool inside her shadow, his whisper in her ears.

“ . . . who you are, and who you are supposed to be . . .”

And so, she stayed there in the dust, eyes downturned, silent and still.

“I am Dona Leona,” the woman said. “Though you will call me Domina.”

The woman extended her hand. Mia saw a golden ring on Leona’s signet finger—a falcon, wings spread, crowned with a victor’s wreath.

The truncheon cracked across her shoulder blades. Mia gasped in pain.

“Show your respects, slave!” a soldier barked.

Mia stared at that bird of prey in its wreath of gold. Just as proud and fierce and wild as she. And yet here she was, kneeling in the dirt like a whipped kitten.

Patience, she thought.

If Vengeance has a mother, her name is Patience.

Mia drew a deep breath.

Closed her eyes.

“Domina,” she murmured.

And leaning forward, she kissed the ring.