Cyrene’s senses tingled as adrenaline coursed through her veins. She needed to keep moving.
She had been on edge all night, and she had known that something was off, that something was going to go wrong. How could Ahlvie not feel the shift in the atmosphere as soon as he had started the game? It was destined for failure, and they should have gotten out before all hell had broken loose.
Cyrene pushed the side door open and darted into an alleyway. Her breathing heaved as she glanced down the dark depths. The alleyway was all mud. Her slippers were already a disaster, but she lifted her skirts to prevent them from soaking through on the bottom.
She edged toward the mouth of the alley, pressing her back against the dirty building. When she touched something wet and slimy, she pulled her hand back and cringed. Gross!
Her foot connected with an object leaning against the wall, and she hastily retreated. No other people remained in the alley. She leaned over and saw a box filled with garbage. Without thinking twice, her fingers grasped a large wooden board from the wreckage. Although she knew defensive techniques, she wasn’t a soldier and she wasn’t going to risk anything. She wasn’t stupid.
Board in hand, she walked the last few feet to the edge of the alley and peered around the corner, holding her breath. The brawl had broken through the front door, and men were openly fighting in the streets. The Royal Guard would surely be here soon to break up the quarrel. Wouldn’t they?
The door to the alleyway burst open before her, and she cried out as men poured out of the building. They tackled each other against the filthy walls, butting heads and drawing rusted swords from their belts. She didn’t have time to wait for the Guard now. Swords crashed together behind her, the ringing sound echoing in her ears, propelling her into action.
She darted into the open street. Two men jumped in front of her. One missed the man he was fighting and dropped his sword as the weight of his swing pulled him off balance. The man he had been attacking now stood over him with his sword raised.
Cyrene rushed past them to avoid the bloodshed and then stumbled right into the heart of the brawl. She tried not to see what was happening all around her, but she couldn’t stop it. Men lay on the ground, blood pouring from open wounds. Others were wrestling in the muddy street, landing drunken punches and kicks to their friend-turned-foe. A few remained on their feet, jabbing hidden daggers through the open air and cursing each time they missed. Cries, yells, and shouts filled the space, and Cyrene desperately wanted all the noise to stop.
She neared the alley she had entered from with Ahlvie. When she spied an unconscious barmaid, Cyrene’s voice wavered as she cried out in horror. A huge blue bruise had formed on the woman’s head, and blood flowed from the wound. She stooped to help the woman, and a sword caught Cyrene in the side.
All her breath whooshed out of her lungs as she fell, the board leaving her hands and clattering to the ground a few feet away. She gasped. Pain seared through her. Each desperate inhale sent excruciating pain up her side. The white of her dress darkened under her hand.
Tears burst from her eyes at the sudden all-consuming pain. She pressed her hand harder against her side, hoping the blade had just punctured the skin and not done more serious damage. She didn’t even know where the man who had hit her had gone. She just needed to get out of the fight. She needed to get somewhere safe, somewhere she could assess her wound, somewhere she could get help.
As she crawled the last few feet toward the alley near the tunnel door, safety was the only thought in her mind. Her dress trudged through the mud, soaking her to the bone. She clawed her fingers through the mud and locked her mind away, trying to ignore the pain, the nausea rising in her throat, and the swoony feeling of letting go.
She finally found purchase on the wall, her hand gripping the side of the white building on the opposite side of the street from the bar. Her chest was heaving, and she pressed harder on the wound. Adrenaline fueled her forward. She scrambled out of the street and into the alley, her back pressed against the grimy wall. Spending a few precious seconds to catch her breath, she leaned her head backward. She had to move. The door wasn’t that far away.
Using the side of the building as leverage, she put the weight on her feet and slid into an upright position. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to start walking. Unfortunately, the pain didn’t ease.
Just a few more feet.
She couldn’t die like this. Cyrene steeled her resolve, locking the pain away in the deepest part of her mind, and she rushed forward.
The door was concealed around a bend, and she glided her hand along the wall to find the chink that would open it. Her hand slipped into the small hole, and she pushed. The tunnel door heaved inward, and she stumbled into the dark depths of the underground tunnel system.
Once she closed the door behind her, she collapsed on the ground. From pain and relief, tears streamed down her face. The torch had dimmed from where they left it at the bottom of the small set of steps.
Her fear began to subside the longer she sat in the tunnel entrance. True, her wound hurt worse than anything she had ever thought possible, and she was trapped all alone in a network of tunnels that she couldn’t possibly navigate, yet she was safe.
But she couldn’t say the same for Ahlvie. Did Jestre’s men gang up on him? Had a knife been pushed into his ribs? Is he lying dead in that disgusting bar?
No! She couldn’t think like that. Ahlvie could handle himself. He was sober and could get himself out of the situation he’d created. If he didn’t come find her soon, she would find a way to get back to him.
Cyrene eased herself down the set of stairs and painstakingly stood. She hissed between her teeth, the tears falling faster, as her muddy fingers found the handle of the torch and pulled it from its hook. She gingerly sank back down on the stone step, holding the torch high and pulling back her blood-coated right hand to see the wound in her side.
She gagged at the amount of blood soaking through her dress and looked away, trying not to vomit in the tunnel. After a few seconds of deep breathing, she raised the hem of her dress and found a gouge about an inch in diameter where the edge of the man’s sword had nicked her in the side. Blood still trickled out of the gash, and she reapplied pressure. It wasn’t clotting. She needed someone proficient in medicinal treatment, like a medic…or Maelia. She replaced the torch overhead and sat again, covering her wound.
Cyrene’s next shuddering breath made the hairs on the back of her neck rise. She swallowed, suddenly alert. It was the same feeling she’d had earlier, first in the alley and then in the bar. She had thought it had something to do with their surroundings, but she was safe in the tunnel now.
The atmosphere in the tunnel shifted, morphed, disintegrated, and returned. It became its own being, swirling around her feet and coalescing. Her stomach flipped, and goose bumps broke out across her arms. She scrambled to her feet, her mind groggy and slow. The air pressed in on her as if it wanted to ease the tension in her body. She bit her lip, looking around in the shadows, knowing instinctively that someone else was doing this, whatever this was…commanding the air, telling her what to do.
She knew then that it had happened before—that strange feeling she had gotten at Zorian’s funeral, in the Laelish Market, in the crowd leaving the boats when they first arrived in Albion, in the bar when she had won with all snake eyes, and when the fight had broken loose.
Someone was here.