Noah Creed—Laila’s brother and a young man who’d made Verity’s short list of Suitors Rune Needs to Consider—cut in.

“The Crimson Moth hasn’t struck in weeks,” Noah said, also defending Rune. To support this theory, he added: “I heard they brought in another witch tonight, completely unhindered. The Moth didn’t even try to rescue her.”

Rune’s attention homed in on Noah.

Where did you hear that, I wonder?

Noah shared his sister’s deep brown eyes, high cheekbones, and ocher skin tone. Not only was he handsome in his black overcoat with sloping shoulders and silk lapel, but he was also the son of the Good Commander. That position put him very close to a firsthand source of the most classified intel, making him a fine option indeed.

But will he notice his wife slipping out of bed in the night? Or coming home exhausted after dawn … sometimes with bruises?

Rune turned her smile on Noah. “A witch? Brought in tonight? Don’t tease us, Noah. Tell us more.”

Noah’s eyes widened at finding himself the subject of her attention. But he lifted his hands in protest. “Gideon Sharpe brought her in. That’s all I know.”

Gideon Sharpe.

Rune’s lip nearly curled at the name of Alex’s older brother. Devoutly loyal to the New Republic, Gideon was a ruthless, bloodthirsty witch hunter who’d sent more of Rune’s kind to the purge than any other member of the Guard.

He’d also famously helped assassinate the Sister Queens, sparking the revolution into a blaze.

Rune hated him.

The two Sharpe brothers couldn’t be more different.

Catching Rune’s gaze, Verity raised a dark eyebrow, asking a silent question. In answer, Rune tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, showing off her grandmother’s ruby earrings. She’d put them on earlier tonight, and they dripped from her ears like beads of blood. The earrings were her answer—failure—telling her partner in crime everything she needed to know about how tonight went. Seraphine is in enemy hands. Either Verity would figure out the rest herself or Rune would fill her in before the after-party she was hosting later tonight.

At the sight of the rubies, Verity’s mouth pinched. Turning away from Rune, she quickly cleared her throat.

“Well, I’ve always thought Missus Blackwater is the Moth,” she said, commanding the group’s attention as she glanced across the loud, brightly lit hall toward an old woman with frizzy hair and a neck strung with too many pearls. Missus Blackwater sat alone on the opera café’s terrace, murmuring to herself. “Can you imagine the old biddy leading the Blood Guard on a wild goose chase? What a perfect disguise!”

At that, everyone burst out laughing.

As more guesses were made, Rune took the chance Verity gave her and slipped silently into the crowd, armed with a new purpose: tracking down Gideon Sharpe.

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THREE GIDEON

ANOTHER NIGHT, ANOTHER WITCH.

Gideon Sharpe pressed his fists against the shower tiles. Letting the hot water scald his back, he stared blankly at the blood running like ink down his skin and swirling around the drain.

He couldn’t tell if the blood was real or imagined. The nightmares were no longer confined to his sleeping hours; they often struck in the middle of his waking ones now.

But this was no nightmare. He knew whose blood this was. It was as real as he was.

You shouldn’t have left them alone with her.

The Tasker brothers had a lust for disobeying orders. And though Gideon himself had no love for witches, he didn’t tolerate unnecessary cruelty. He’d wanted to discharge the brothers the last time they’d bludgeoned a witch half to death, but had been told by his betters that beating a witch senseless was no different from beating a disease-ridden rat.

So the abuse continued. Tonight was just one more occurrence.

And what are you going to do about it?

Gideon closed his eyes and turned his face into the steaming hot water.

A problem for tomorrow.

Right now, he was too tired to think. Too tired to move from this spot. It had taken him nearly a year to track down the high-profile witch he’d brought in tonight, and he’d ridden hard to get her.

He’d prefer not to see a saddle for another week at least.

But he’d agreed to meet Harrow, one of his sources, at the opera tonight. It was Harrow who’d tipped him off to Seraphine’s whereabouts, and she had news of the Crimson Moth—that perpetual thorn in Gideon’s side. Gideon was desperate to hear it.

The thought gave him renewed motivation. Rubbing the bar of soap between his hands, he scrubbed his weary body with suds, washing all over until he came to the brand seared into his left pectoral: a rose with knifelike thorns half enclosed inside a crescent moon.

Her brand.

Despite the heat of the shower, Gideon shivered.

The youngest Sister Queen might be dead, but she’d marked him forever.

Gideon often thought about cutting it out, just to be rid of every last fucking trace of her. But digging the brand out of his skin wouldn’t carve the memories from his mind. Or rid him of the flashbacks. Or soften the nightmares.

It didn’t matter. Every time he got out the knife and put the honed edge to his skin, his hands shook too much to do the job right. So, for now, it stayed.

The thought of her made him wonder if the spirits of particularly evil witches could live on past their deaths, returning to haunt those they’d tormented while alive. He immediately wished he could unthink it. Gideon turned off the water, eying the steamy room around him as the cold air rushed in, raising the hairs on his arms and legs.

She’s dead, you fool. And there’s no such thing as ghosts.

Cressida might be dead, but there were equally dangerous witches out there. Three nights ago, another mutilated body had been found dragged under a bridge. Chest ripped open. Blood drained out. Gideon wasn’t surprised when he learned it belonged to a Blood Guard officer. They always did. It was the third one this month.

Gideon couldn’t prove the Crimson Moth was committing the heinous acts, but he had a strong hunch. The murders usually took place right before she struck, breaking his charges out of their prison cells and escaping his ever-tightening security. To do that, the Moth needed spells, and spells required blood. Fresh blood.

Which of us is next?

Running his hands over his face, Gideon shook the water from his hair, grabbed a towel, and dried himself off, directing his thoughts somewhere else. Anywhere else.

The opera.

Yes. Good. He would go over tonight in his mind, and the preparation would banish the eerie chill in his bathroom.

First, Gideon would button his tired body into a uniform and drag himself to the opera house. There, while some useless story played itself out across the stage, Harrow would tell him what she’d learned about the Moth. And finally, Gideon would come home, devise a plan while falling into bed, sleep dreamlessly—or so he hoped—and resume his hunt for the fiend upon waking, armed with new information.

And this time, he would catch her.

But first Gideon needed to get through a night at the opera. An activity even less tolerable than trudging through mud and rain on horseback, hunting down a witch.

The only good news was, he was going to miss the first half.

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