Page 7 of Heartbreak Prince

“I don’t know. Come on.”

I don’t tell him what Praxid said—that the Mollois and the Arbogasts are all dead. That news hasn’t been confirmed yet. It could be false. And until we know for sure, I can’t risk him collapsing under the weight of grief and the ramifications of a coup.

Still, all signs point to a conspiracy. The attack glyphs that produced the slivers of red light should never have been allowed in the Lyre & Vice. The men who used them must have had someone on the inside who let them through the door with lethal glyphs on their fingers.

Guests of the club are shrieking, most of them ducking and hiding, a few trying to sort out what caused the conflict and who they’re supposed to fight. The three men from the table are attacking Renfrow, first with magic, then closing in for hand-to-hand. I hustle Vawn toward the side exit, but before we reach it, the door explodes off its hinges, flying into the room.

Figures in purple uniforms stride into the club, slim chains swinging from their shoulders and across their chests. They wear egg-shaped helmets, each one completely encrusted with multicolored crystals, void of any openings for mouths or eyes. Their nails are three times as long as mine, probably reinforced, and every nail bears at least two glyphs. A dangerous technique, one typically employed by assassins.

Catching my breath, I push the prince behind me and throw out my hand, fending off two pulses of magic. The soldiers don’t continue the onslaught; they advance.

Most glyph magic is meant for up-close encounters, influencing one’s own body or the conditions around it, depending on whether a glyph is inward or outward-facing. At this distance, in the flicker of the colorful lights, it’s tough to tell for sure, but it looks like these soldiers have inward-facing glyphs, which probably means they fight with enhanced speed, strength, and agility. I can’t take on half a dozen enhanced individuals by myself.

Desperately I glance toward Renfrow, just in time to see him fall. The three men he was fighting converge on him, blades flashing.

I didn’t know Renfrow well, but I feel his death like a knife in my gut.

“Oh fuck,” gasps the prince.

At Vawn’s exclamation, one of the three attackers looks up from Renfrow’s corpse and marches in our direction. He’ll reach us before the helmeted soldiers do.

I drag Vawn backward, toward the great cylindrical display in the center of the dance floor. “Do you have weapons? Any enhancements?” I ask him tersely.

“I… Is Praxid dead?” He blinks at me, his eyes vague with confusion.

He’s in shock, which means he won’t be any help. I scan the room for any source of aid, but more uniformed figures are pouring through the main entrance, and the club guards are being swiftly dispatched. The dancing lights from the crystal pillars gleam in the pools of their blood. Guests cringe and wail in their booths or under their tables. No one seems ready to defend the prince. I don’t see his companions anywhere.

Renfrow’s attacker is upon us, wielding bloody knives. I draw my two favorite blades, each shaped like a curved claw, with a hole in the center of each handle so I can spin them around my fingers. As I set them whirling, my attacker hesitates, distracted by a fighting style he didn’t expect from me. I seize the advantage, hurtling into his space and whipping my knives through his flesh. Wrists and biceps first, to disable him, then a quick slash through his throat. Vengeance for Renfrow.

The man falls. In the back of my mind, the shock registers. My first kill. But I have no time to think about it, no chance to indulge in regret if I had any.

I sheath one knife and wipe the man’s blood from the other blade with the pad of my thumb. I smear it over my left and right thumbnails, activating the strength glyphs on their surfaces, feeling the flush of power through my body.

Saliva or pressure, combined with specific intent, is enough to trigger a glyph, but a blood activation lasts longer. In addition to my increased strength, I should have another minute of protection on my right hand as well.

I pick up the dead assassin’s knife and shove it at the prince. “Take this.”

He takes it, but his hands are shaking. “Why was Praxid here? Did he say something to Renfrow? To you?”

“Later.” I sheathe my knives and hunt for an escape route. Both the exits are out of the question. Maybe there’s a back door through the kitchens? No time. The attackers from the side exit have been intercepted by house security, but I fear the soldiers will dispatch the guards soon and head straight for us.

I glance up at the domed ceiling and its skylights, then at the magic carpet aquarium beside us. Technically it’s more of an aerie than an aquarium—

Stop overthinking. Just act.

Drawing back my right fist, I ram it into the transparent surface. The crystal cracks, and I punch again, roaring with the effort, throwing every bit of my enhanced strength into the blow. This time the cylinder shatters, chunks of crystal raining down around us.

The enclosure is only partly destroyed, but the new opening is wide enough for the magic carpets to dart out. They whisk over our heads, one after another, like multicolored birds seeking freedom. The chaos of their escape is a temporary storm of fabric and tassels, hiding us from the attackers.

“Lift me,” I shout at the prince.

He has enough presence of mind to jam the knife into his belt, grab me around the waist, and lift me up high enough so I can grab the tassel of a carpet as it whirls overhead. I yank it down to our level, seize a second tassel, and snap the carpet out flat. It hovers parallel to the floor, at knee height.

“Get on!” I order the prince.

“I’ve only ridden a carpet once—”

“Get the fuck on.”