Chapter 17. Witness in the Dark

Ash-salt churned in my pocket. I cracked the wax with my thumb and smeared a crescent on the floor where the shadow pooled thickest. The salt hissed. The shadow behind her shivered and stuttered, a film being dragged through a lantern too fast. For a heartbeat, the Labyrinth forgot it liked her.

She paused. Delighted. “Ashfall tricks,” she said, amused. “Good girl.”

“I’m not your girl,” I said, and slipped left while the spray still hissed.

She let me go—because she could catch me again. Because hunters enjoy remembering which of us is playing the game and which of us is the game. The Labyrinth’s breath deepened, amused with her.

My fingers had gone stiff. The cold that lived in Veilgrove did not always consent to being breathed out again. I flexed. The ring of thorn bit the pad of my finger hard enough to draw blood.

“Not yet,” I told it. “Save your hunger.”

The path opened without warning into a dome where the Labyrinth had made a mistake and cr