All That Burns by Ryan Graudin Page A

strength. I’m twisting, raking out with my nails at anything and everything. Elbows and knees dig against foreign fabric and joints. Someone behind me tries to pin my arms together. I lift my leg up, slam my stiletto straight into the attacker’s shin. His howl of pain joins the chorus of riot and noise as he lets go.
    Richard is fighting too, but the odds are against him. His arms are tangled in the crimson of his cape. Masked men surround him like vultures, clawing and pecking as if he were already dead.
    I throw myself at the nearest one. He shrugs me off with muscle and a grunt.
    The man whose shin I mangled grabs me again. By the neck. He twists me down into the velvet seat, pins me with his weight. And I can’t move, despite the rage that’s blazing through me. These human muscles are weak, powerless.
    Out of the corner of my eye I see one of the vulture-men pull a cloth from his pocket, press it into Richard’s face. The king’s arms and legs fall still. His head rolls back in a way which reminds me too much of death.
    I scream his name and the masked weight over me shoves harder.
    “Come on!” someone by the carriage door screams. “We’re running out of time!”
    “What about the ginger?” bellows the man above me.
    “Our orders were to leave her!” The same mask who pressed the cloth to Richard’s face is bending over me. All I can see is white terrycloth. All I can smell . . . it’s sweet: fruit on the verge of rot. It yanks my thoughts back, pulls me into myself.
    Fall. Tumble. Plummet.
    Black.

Nine
    T here are no dreams. No thoughts. My mind is empty, crammed full with black, black, black.
    And then there’s a roar. Like a giant wave pulling fast into the shore. Or the hum of a distant motorway. The noise tugs at my heart. I’m not supposed to be here in this dark. I’m supposed to be doing something else . . . something important.
    There’s a crack in my eyelids. This isn’t my bed. I open my eyes wider, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. My vision reels like a drunkard kicked out of a pub. At first it’s only colors. Wine-soaked burgundy, aching gold, mist and mint. Then shapes. The squares of upturned cushions. The point of my strappy heel.
    And the noise . . . there’s so much of it. Everywhere. Horses keening, the clatter of hooves. Screams and snarls. Pure, utter panic. The sounds swirl around, beat through the windows and open door of the carriage.
    The carriage . . . crowds and masks and screams and . . .Richard. Fighting against so many men. Going limp. And me, trying my hardest to save him.
    The memory hits me like ice water. I jolt up, ready for whatever fight I can manage, but I’m alone in the carriage.
    Outside is chaos. People running, mouths open to join one long and never-ending scream. I try to scan their faces—searching for black masks and clothes—but this seems to be the only color anyone is wearing. And then—a flash of pure, soul-sucking black.
    It takes a moment to process the presence of the Black Dog in the middle of Trafalgar Square, looming under the high shine of the sun. The very air around it looks dimmer, overcast. As if the creature is a black hole swallowing all traces of light.
    The beast gnashes through the crowd. Its teeth snap air, shred coats. The edges of its canines are laced with red, but still it wants more. I can feel its hunger from here: the burn in its eyes. So much like . . .
    Blæc.
    This is the same Black Dog which spared my life that night just weeks before. Frithemaeg fly around the soul feeder, diving like frantic swallows, trying to lash it into submission with roping spells of light. Blæc ignores them, shaking off their magic like water.
    “Lady Emrys!”
    I turn to see Ferrin crouched in the doorway. Her eyes are impossibly wide as she takes in the gutted carriage.
    “Where’s King Richard?”
    I open my mouth but nothing comes out. I doubt she’d hear it anyway—Blæc has started howling. The air grows