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Carrion Swift: the most notorious gambler, cheat, and smuggler in the entire city. He was also uncommonly good in bed—the only man in Zilvaren who’d ever made me scream his name out of pleasure rather than frustration.
The man was capable of anything. His fingers were lighter than the dawn breeze. He’d talked me out of my underwear—perhaps the greatest heist ever performed in Zilvaren—and people hadn’t stopped talking about that for months.
The last time I’d seen him, I’d been scrambling out of his bed, clutching hold of my bundled clothes, swearing on the forgotten gods and all four winds that I’d rather die than stick around for a repeat performance of the show he’d just put on for me.
“My hand! She… she cut off my… hand!” “I’m coming for your fucking head next,”
like the moments after a scream, when the terrible sound tears the air in two, and for a split second afterward, the memory of it hangs there, determined to still be heard.
Saeris Fane was twenty-four years of age when she died. Honestly, she should have died a lot sooner, but the girl never did know when to give up.
I had known Death’s voice to be a howling hot wind across the parched desert. A wet, hacking cough in the night. The urgent cry of a starving baby. I had never for one moment imagined his voice might also be the stroke of velvet in the ever-encroaching darkness.
Of course Death was beautiful. How else would anyone choose to go with him without putting up a fight?
Even though he scowled at me, his dark brows tugging together to form a dark, unhappy line, he was still the most savagely beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
