Her calm voice drove like a knife, stabbing with each syllable. He’d felt the agonizing pain of steel cutting into his flesh, wreaking havoc as it tore muscle and tissue deep within. He’d suffered through more broken bones than he could count, yet the acute discomfort of her words spread through him with a feeling unlike any he’d experienced.

  “Your cloak and shroud are not disguises to me,” she continued, creeping closer as she spoke. “I’ve patched you up too many times over the years not to recognize you. Your methods speak to a mastery that has been attained by few.”

  His heart raced, the intrigue and annoyance roiling his insides. His recognition of her eyes; the unexpected familiarity of her voice… it all made sense. Her tone and timbre had been disguised by the properties of the cloth mask she wore when treating him, but there was no confusing them now.

  Her foot turned as it slipped in the pool of blood on the ground. Her shuffling steps failed, and she pitched forward. Risens caught the healer in his arms, her face burying itself into his chest.

  “The mask is a new touch,” she whispered, trembling.

  He resisted the urge to do the same.

  He chided himself once more. He’d thought retaining the Shadows Shroud, allowing it to remain and conceal his face, was the best course of action. None would recognize it, tie it to his service to the throne.

  He’d been wrong.

  “You only see me when I am in need of your professional services,” he replied. “My means and methods are my own.”

  His response was far more curt than he’d anticipated. His subconscious revolted against his continued failures. As was often the case, he replayed the battle, though entirely one-sided in his mind. He had been compromised again—twice now by someone bearing the Brand of the Courtesan. And this time, by one who knew of his role, of his tasks and duties to their mutual master. He reviewed the failure in his mind, yet found no acceptable solution.

  Though he’d not known her identity at the time, the thought of leaving her to the will of Dorchette and his goons caused far greater concern and discomfort than his veiled identity.

  His thoughts shifted to her body. However, not for the typical reasons. The faded Brand she bore on her torso solidified an idea in his mind. The justification for the continued sparing of her life was confirmed.

  It was widely known that the streetwalkers, though they competed for marks, were a close-knit bunch. Many times their survival depended on it. If any would know where he could find the woman who escaped the Duke’s estate, perhaps it was she. As if knowing his thoughts were focused on her Brand, she adjusted the covering of the dead man’s shirt, hiding her exposed skin.

  “We need to leave this place,” he noted, mentally commanding the Shadows Shroud to fade from his face. “Do you have someplace close that we can go?”

  She seemed to struggle in extracting herself from where she stood, pressed tightly against his chest. Her bloodied and welted face gazed up at his, lingering for a moment as their eyes met. Risens loathed to admit that it had been a long while since he felt the touch of another without their deaths being moments away. Then again, he realized, he’d felt this one’s touch many times before.

  “Yes. My clinic is only a few blocks away,” she added. For a moment, he expected her to question the absence of the mask, though she avoided the topic. “I can make it on my own.”

  She moved to take a step, yet she stumbled as her trembling legs failed to support her weight. Again, he caught her before she reached the ground, keeping her aloft with a hand under her arm.

  She lowered her gaze toward the ground, exhaling a deep sigh of pure resignation. The healer adjusted the oversized shirt that had shifted during her uncoordinated stumble, again covering her woefully clothed chest.

  “There is an entrance off the rear alley,” she sighed. “We should have no trouble reaching it without being seen. Only one well-traveled avenue to cross.”

  With his hand adding support, they snaked their path through the alley, steering clear of the remains of Dorchette, Vinch, and their gang. Their actions, unsanctioned by the crown, were a blight on Halthome, though trivial in the grand scheme of things. Their brutal demise was a boon to Windwake’s citizens, yet there was no shortage of others waiting to fill their wicked void. The ripples of their absence would likely not be felt far.

  A few meters down the cramped path, Risens intentionally steered them through a large stagnant puddle. His grip tightened on her arm as her tentative purchase of her footing slipped in the slime of the rank water. She cast him a fierce gaze that was entirely lost on him. All traces of the blood on their shoes would remain in the fetid water. Evidence of their passing died with Dorchette and his gang in the back alley of the Springs.

  Her lack of balance was a concern as they weaved their way through the darkened corridors. Her continued unsteady footing was peculiar, though probably not surprising, given the repeated blows to her head. Thankfully, the blood had stopped leaking from the gash across her cheek.

  Risens’ annoyance increased as they neared the crowded avenue of which she’d spoken.

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  “The entrance is behind the cart,” she said. “They deliver to the shops. Never stay for long.”

  Indeed, a tradesman’s wagon was parked alongside the opposite side of the road, immediately opposite to where their alley deposited them.

  Risens slowed their pace. The obstacle the carriage created would delay their movement. Few others passed the opening, yet he was hesitant to leave the shadows while it yet remained. He propped the healer against the wall, pressing his arm beneath hers and pinning his hand against the stone to keep her upright in the shadows at the edge of the alley. From his position, he could see well along the road for dozens of meters in either direction. As expected, few traversed along the track.

  His wait was thankfully short. Only a few breaths after they arrived, the young driver of the wagon rounded the front of the patient draft horses, alighting on the driver’s seat with a grace beyond his years. With a shift of the reins and a call, the beasts lumbered onward.

  Risens’ momentary relief was spoiled the instant the carriage moved.

  A pair of city guards, conversing between themselves, filled the gap where the wagon had been.

  Acting quickly, he switched the arm propping the healer upright, stepping close, pressing her body between him and the stone. He shifted his other arm, moving her hand to his back before slipping his free hand discreetly to the handle of his knife at his hip. To the guards, they would appear as nothing more than lovers eager for a quiet place to share their desire for one another.

  “If they see my face, they are dead,” he whispered, his head buried against her neck. “Do not make a sound.”

  Risens felt the rise and fall of her chest against his. Noted the pressure of her fingernails as they moved, clawing along his shoulder and back. He paid careful attention as her other arm slipped around his back, close to, yet clearly not intent on the dagger secreted at his waist. He could feel the tremble of her skin as his quickened breaths brushed against it.

  Though he acted the part of the lovers’ embrace, his attention was focused elsewhere. It took a moment for the soldiers to notice them in the shadows, but one stepped forward as soon as they were discovered, the second, following a few steps behind. His eyes tracked their movement across the street, his hand slowly pulling the blade further from its sheath. The fingernails on his shoulder dug harder into his skin.

  “C’mon, Horstin,” the trailing guard snickered. “Leave ’em be. How’d you like being interrupted?”

  Risens breathed a sigh of relief as the progress of the first faltered, replaced by laughter.

  The healer let out an audible moan, shifting her hand up to the back of his head.

  “Move along, you two,” Horstin called over his shoulder while beckoning the second to follow. “They make rooms for that, you know. Only charge by the hour, I hear, don’t they, Geral?”

  The latter punched his partner in the arm. Their ensuing banter echoed through the avenue as they marched away.

  Seizing the chance, Risens shifted his hold again, switching the healer’s weight back to his other arm. Then, with his head tucked slightly, shielding the view of his face, he hastened across the street, slipping silently into the shadows of the next alley.

  With her guidance, a few quick corners brought them to a stop at a nondescript doorway. Though the alley—like all that wound throughout Windwake, or likely any city—was dirty, the section here was remarkably free from the debris and flotsam of society that seemed to always collect in the dark places, outside the blissfully ignorant view of most of the citizens. The door itself was wooden, a dark, yet filthy grain that disguised the steel bands that reinforced its structure. It was plain with the exception of a small cross—the sign of the healer—carved neatly into the upper right corner of the topmost panel.

  The healer appeared steadier on her feet, perhaps bolstered by the familiar sight. She freed herself from Risens’ grasp and fumbled through the pocket of her skirt for her keyring. Thankfully, the vile attack at the hands of Dorchette had not torn the fabric entirely. The rapid jingle of keys in her shaking hand was a poor omen for granting them easy access. After the third failed attempt and her impressive hushed cursing, he willingly took over.

  He managed to find the right key quickly, and the heavy door swung silently inward, revealing a purposefully arranged room inside. His nose was greeted by a flood of the pungent odor he knew too well. The agonizing salve that had stitched his skin together seemed to infiltrate every breath, coercing his mind into disturbing flashbacks of its sting for the first few steps.

  The room itself was deceivingly large and well arranged. A narrow bed, covered with an immaculately pressed white linen, was sandwiched between a shelf and a desk. Vials and cylinders of all shapes and sizes crowded the working surface of the table, while the shelving was meticulously organized and labeled.

  One wall was bisected by an open door, giving a glance into the living space beyond. Shelves of books lined one side. In the other, a sink stood next to a tall wardrobe. The shelf in the middle was filled with the polished steel implements of her craft. The opposite side of the wall was flanked by a trio of heavy iron doors. A stark white coat and apron hung on pegs between two. A narrow cabinet, its door slightly ajar, appeared to contain a small stack of neatly folded others.

  He ushered her inside and closed and bolted the heavy wooden door behind her. She shuffled toward the cot, catching herself against it as her legs gave out again.

  “Forgive me; I’m a fool.” She groaned, running her hand through her matted red hair. “I can’t seem to get my head straight or stop my hands from trembling.”

  “Head wounds and shock can do that,” he answered, moving to assist her. Without complaint, she allowed him to help her up onto the cot. “Now who’s the one doing the medical assisting?”

  His comment seemed to snap her out of her delusion, her eyes swelling as they contemplated something he was sure he’d understand soon.

  She smiled. It was a pretty one too. It was a shame her face had always been half-covered by a mask.

  I guess that’s something we have in common now.

  “Forgive me, I’ve neither thanked you for saving me, nor told you my name.” The pallor of her face reddened with her embarrassment.

  He waved off her concern. “As for thanks, I need none. Though now that you mention it, it’s me who has been derelict in the thanks over the years. As for your name, it can be left unsaid if you prefer.”

  “Tawny,” she replied without skipping a beat. “I’ve known yours for over a decade. With all that’s transpired, there is no further harm in you knowing mine. We both bear secrets likely best left unspoken.”

  Risens nodded.

  He knew nothing of her interaction with the King or his agents, though he understood the logic of her words. It would likely be the death of both of them were any of their dealings to be brought to light.

  All past actions aside, however, he still needed information—information that she could likely provide.

  “You have a deal, Tawny,” he responded.

  It was a rare thing for the corners of his lips to curl between moments of extreme life and death. Though this was an honest, genuine grin that crossed his face.