“Go clean up,” he said softly, gently, the way a parent would to a child. Holland withdrew, and Kell realized that he’d not only taken his seat, but was now gripping the arms of his chair with whitening knuckles. He forced his fingers free as Athos plucked the second glass from the table and poured the pale gold liquid into it.

He held it up for Kell to see, then drank to show the glass and contents alike were safe before pouring a new measure and offering it to Kell. The gesture of a man used to sabotage.

Kell took the glass and drank too fast and too deep in an effort to calm his nerves. As soon as the goblet was empty, Athos filled it again. The drink itself was light and sweet and strong, and went down easily. Meanwhile, the Danes shared their cup, Holland’s blood turning their lips a vibrant red as they drank. Power lies in the blood, thought Kell as his own began to warm.

“It’s amazing,” he said, forcing himself to drink his second portion slower than his first.

“What is?” asked Athos, sinking into his throne.

Kell nodded at the goblet of Holland’s blood. “That you manage to keep your clothes so white.” He finished his second glass, and Astrid laughed and poured him a third.

V

Kell should have stopped at one drink.

Or two.

He thought he’d stopped at three, but he couldn’t be entirely sure. He hadn’t felt the full effects of the drink until he’d gotten to his feet, and the white stone floor had tilted dangerously beneath him. Kell knew that it was foolish, drinking as much as he had, but the sight of Holland’s blood had rattled him. He couldn’t get the Antari’s expression out of his mind, the look that crossed his face just before the knife bit down. Holland’s visage was a perpetual mask of menacing calm, but just for an instant it had cracked. And Kell had done nothing. Had not pleaded—or even pressed—for Athos to yield. It wouldn’t have done any good, but still. They were both Antari. Luck alone cast Holland here in ruthless White and Kell in vibrant Red. What if their fortunes had been reversed?

Kell took a shaky breath, the air fogging before his lips. The cold was doing little to clear his head, but he knew he couldn’t go home, not yet, not like this, so he made his wandering way through the streets of White London.

This, too, was foolish. Reckless. He was always being reckless.

Why? he thought, suddenly angry at himself. Why did he always do this? Step out of safety and into shadow, into risk, into danger? Why? he heard Rhy begging on the roof that night.

He didn’t know. He wished he did, but he didn’t. All he knew was that he wanted to stop. The anger bled away, leaving something warm and steady. Or maybe that was the drink.

It had been a good drink, whatever it was. A strong drink. But not the kind of strong that made you weak. No, no, the kind of strong that made you strong. That made your blood sing. That made … Kell tipped his chin to look at the sky, and nearly lost his balance.

He needed to focus.

He was fairly sure he was heading in the general direction of the river. The air was biting against his lips, and it was getting dark—when had the sun gone down?—and in the dregs of light, the city was starting to stir around him. Silence cracking into noise.

“Pretty thing,” whispered an old woman from a doorway in Maktahn. “Pretty skin. Pretty bones.”

“This way, Master,” called another.

“Come inside.”

“Rest your feet.”

“Rest your bones.”

“Pretty bones.”

“Pretty blood.”

“Drink your magic.”

“Eat your life.”

“Come inside.”

Kell tried to focus, but he couldn’t seem to hold his thoughts together. As soon as he managed to gather a few, a breeze would blow through his head and scatter them, leaving him dazed and a little dizzy. Danger prickled at the edge of his senses. He closed his eyes, but every time he did, he saw Holland’s blood running into the glass, so he forced them open and looked up.

He hadn’t meant to head for the tavern. His feet had set out on their own. His body had made its way. Now he found himself staring at the sign over the door of the Scorched Bone.

Despite being a fixed point, the tavern in White London didn’t feel like the others. It still pulled at him, but the air smelled like blood as well as ash, and the street stones were cold beneath his boots. They tugged at his warmth. His power. His feet tried to carry him forward, but he willed them to stay.

Go home, thought Kell.

Rhy was right. Nothing good could come of these deals. Nothing good enough. It wasn’t worth it. The baubles he traded for, they brought him no peace. It was just a silly game. And it was time to stop.

He held on to that thought as he drew the knife from its holster and brought it to his forearm.

“It’s you,” came a voice behind him.

Kell turned, the blade sliding back to his side.

A woman stood there at the mouth of the alley, her face hidden by the hood of a threadbare blue cloak. If they’d been in any other London, the blue might have been the color of sapphires or the sea. Here it was the faintest shade, like the sky through layers and layers of clouds.

“Do I know you?” he asked, squinting into the dark.

She shook her head. “But I know you, Antari.”

“No, you don’t,” he said with a fair amount of certainty.

“I know what you do. When you’re not at the castle.”

Kell shook his head. “I am not making deals tonight.”