The Barren Tide sat near just north of the bridge on the southern side, tucked between Belvedere and York in a crevice of a street called Mariner’s Walk, and she’d taken to stopping in on some of her more successful nights before heading back to Powell (the way she’d seen it, it left one less coin for him to skim). She liked the pub because it was full of dark wood and fogging glass, rough edges and rougher fare. Not a smart place to pick pockets, but a fine place to blend in, to disappear. She had little fear of being recognized, either as a girl (the light was always kept low, and her hood kept up) or as a wanted thief (most of the patrons were wanted for something).

Her weapons were in easy reach, but she didn’t think she’d need them. At the Barren Tide, people tended to mind their own business. On the not-so-rare occasion that a fight broke out, the regulars were more concerned for the safety of their drinks (they’d sooner save a pitcher from a shaking table than step in to help the man whose falling body shook it), and Lila imagined someone could cry for help in the middle of the room and earn little more than a tip of the cup and a raised brow.

Not a place for all nights, to be sure. But a place for tonight.

It wasn’t until Lila was firmly stationed at the bar, fingers curled around a pint, that she let the questions take her mind and run free—the whys and hows and most of all what nows, because she knew she couldn’t simply go back to not knowing and not seeing and not wondering—and she was so wrapped up in them, she didn’t notice that a man had sat down beside her. Not until he spoke.

“Are you frightened?”

His voice was deep and smooth and foreign, and Lila looked up. “Excuse me?” she said, almost forgetting to keep her voice low.

“You’re clutching your drink,” explained the man, pointing at the fingers wrapped knuckles-white around her glass. Lila relaxed, but only a little.

“Long night,” she said, bringing the warm beer to her lips.

“And yet still young,” mused the man, taking a sip from his tumbler. Even in the Barren Tide, whose belly filled each night with a motley crew, the man seemed out of place. In the low light of the pub, he looked strangely … faded. His clothes were dark grey, and he wore a simple short cloak held by a silver clasp. His skin was pale, made paler by the dark wood bar beneath his hands, his hair a strange, colorless shade just shy of black. When he spoke, his voice was steady without being sweet, empty in a way that gave her chills, and his accent had gravel in it.

“Not from around here, are you?” she asked.

The corner of his mouth tugged up at that. “No.” He ran a finger absently around the rim of his glass. Except it didn’t feel absent. None of his motions did. He moved with a slow precision that made Lila nervous.

There was something about him, odd and jarringly familiar at the same time. She couldn’t see it, but she felt it. And then it struck her. That feeling. It was the same one she had looking into Kell’s black eye, holding the stone, bound to the wall. A shiver. A tingle. A whisper.

Magic.

Lila tensed, and hoped it didn’t show as she lifted the pint to her lips.

“I suppose we should be introduced,” said the stranger, turning in his seat so she could see his face. Lila nearly choked on her drink. There was nothing amiss in the angle of his jaw or the set of his nose or the line of his lips. But his eyes. One was greyish green. The other was pitch-black. “My name is Holland.”

A chill ran through her. He was the same as Kell, and yet entirely different. Looking into Kell’s eye had been like looking through a window into a new world. Strange and confusing, but not frightening. Looking into Holland’s eye made her skin crawl. Dark things swirled just beneath the smooth black depths. One word whispered through her mind. Run.

She didn’t trust herself to lift her glass again, in case her hands shook, so she nudged it away and casually dug a shilling from her pocket.

“Bard,” she said, by way of introduction and farewell.

She was about to push away from the counter when the man caught her wrist, pinning it to the weathered wood between them. A shiver ran up her arm at his touch, and the fingers of her free hand twitched, tempted toward the dagger under her cloak, but she resisted. “And your first name, miss?”

She tried to pull free, but his grip was made of stone. He didn’t even appear to be trying. “Delilah,” she growled. “Lila, if you like. Now let me go unless you want to lose your fingers.”

Again his lips tugged into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“Where is he, Lila?”

Her heart lurched. “Who?”

Holland’s grip tightened in warning. Lila winced.

“Do not lie. I can smell his magic on you.”

Lila held his gaze. “Perhaps because he used it to cuff me to a wall after I robbed him blind and tied him to a bed. If you’re looking for your friend, don’t look at me. We met on bad terms and parted on worse.”

Holland’s grip loosened, and Lila let out an inward sigh of relief. But it died an instant later when Holland was suddenly on his feet. He took her roughly by the arm and dragged her toward the door.

“What in bloody hell are you doing?” she snapped, boots scraping against the worn floor as she tried and failed to gain purchase. “I told you, we are not friends.”

“We’ll see,” said Holland, driving her forward.

The patrons of the Barren Tide never even looked up from their drinks. Bastards, thought Lila as she was shoved roughly out into the street.