She thought, I could kill them all if I had to.
A girl stepped in front of her. She was no older than fourteen, with big eyes and big elbows and pale, twiglike arms that Rachelle could have snapped between her hands.
“What can we do for you, mademoiselle?” she asked, her voice respectful but her gaze flickering nervously around the floor.
Rachelle could fight them all. But she didn’t want to. She wanted to get a cup of hot coffee and sit in a corner, warming herself amid the human clatter while everyone looked past her, the way she could in the coffeehouse back on the rue Grand-Séverin, where the people knew her and remembered the night she had saved four children from woodspawn.
This place was warm and human but hated her, and suddenly the cold, wet night seemed more appealing.
Then she noticed the man seated in the corner, his long legs stretched out in front of him. His coat collar was turned up and his cap was pulled down, but she would know those sharp cheekbones and lush, arrogant lips anywhere. It was Erec d’Anjou, captain of the King’s bloodbound, masquerading as a common citizen so he could spy out the King’s enemies.
Damned if she was going to turn tail and run while he was watching.
Rachelle planted her feet a little more firmly. “I need coffee,” she said.
Abruptly an older man shoved the girl aside. He had similar lines to his face—father, maybe, or uncle—and corded muscles.
“This is a respectable coffeehouse,” he said, his voice low and rumbling.
“Good,” she said. “I would hate to ruin my reputation.”
“You don’t need to trouble us,” said the man. “For the love of the Dayspring, go somewhere else.”
He was brave, she had to give him that. Her senses had sharpened as they always did when somebody nearby was afraid; she half saw, half heard the swift, desperate pulse in his throat. But he was staring her down as if she couldn’t draw her sword, cut his neck open, and walk away. As if she didn’t know what it felt like to have blood beneath her fingernails and spattered across her face.
She forced the memories back. “I’m a servant of the King. A respectable house would be honored to serve me.”
“You know, you can threaten all you like,” Erec said from his corner, “but they’re still going to spit in your coffee.” He gave her a look of bored weariness. “Why don’t you come back when you’ve learned how to make people do what you want?”
Her throat tightened in helpless frustration. Erec always found ways to tease her when she couldn’t get back at him.
Without a word, she strode to his corner and sat herself down in his lap. “What a considerate young man you are,” she said loudly. “Tell me all about persuading people.”
Nobody could embarrass Erec—it was as impossible as water running uphill—but at least she could make sure that his evening of being inconspicuous was thoroughly ruined.
He slid his hand up her cheek, hooking a thumb under her jaw. “Some things are better shown than told, hm?”
Heat blossomed across her cheeks. Two years ago, he’d found it very easy to persuade her to kiss him, back before she’d learned to tell when he was joking and when he was serious. Before she’d realized his kisses were never serious.
“I don’t need to be shown anything,” she said. “I already know what you are.”
“Do you?” asked Erec, with that oblique tilt of his eyebrows that she knew so well, and her heart thudded.
Then she heard a soft chorus of clicks.
She looked over her shoulder and cursed herself for letting Erec distract her. Because there were twelve men now, and four of them were holding muskets, their wide brass mouths gleaming in the dim light.
“Step away from him,” said the owner of the coffeehouse.
Rachelle’s mind whirled through cold calculations. She had thought she could kill them all. She probably still could, with Erec’s help, because while some fools thought that killing bloodbound was as simple as pointing the musket and pulling the trigger, human hands were slow and muskets had terrible aim.
But sometimes fools were lucky. And even bloodbound couldn’t survive a musket ball in the face.
“You really should have left when I told you to,” Erec murmured.
“You really should have arrested them as soon as they got muskets,” Rachelle muttered back.
“I was waiting for them to implicate all their friends.”
“I said step away,” the owner growled. “We’re done with bowing and scraping to murderers.”
“Well, then I should probably be leaving as well,” said Erec. “Because I’m Erec d’Anjou, captain of the King’s bloodbound, and you would not believe the blood on my hands.”
“I really think they would,” said Rachelle.
“You traitor,” snarled one of the men.
“Not to the King,” said Erec, wrapping his arms around Rachelle. She knew that he was preparing to fling her in one direction while he threw himself in the other. The real risk was in the very first moment, when they were still in front of the muskets; once moving, they would be almost safe, because muskets were only as good as the hands that held them and the eyes that aimed them.
She could feel the cold-hot thrill of battle starting to hum in her veins.
If she hadn’t been readying herself to fight, she might not have noticed the flicker of movement at the edge of her vision. She looked at the mural, at the wonderfully lifelike leaves painted in the background.