She closes her eyes a moment, then, holding her precious spice satchel above her head, she slides neatly inside, feet first.
Belén rolls a barrel up to obscure the view of the entrance to the chute as Hector takes the torch from Storm. “Now you. Go!”
Storm growls, low and deep, but he follows Mara’s lead and plunges into the hole. His disappearance is quickly followed by a distant, echoing splash.
“Elisa? Your turn.”
Oh, God.
The Godstone leaps, and I curse myself for stupidity. I dangle my legs into the hole. It reeks of dead fish and rotting vegetables. I place my hands beneath my thighs and push off.
I slide, but not quickly. My pants catch in muck, slowing me down. I reach out for the walls of the tight tunnel to push myself forward. My fingertips sink into sludge. I refuse to think about what I am touching.
I slither a bit farther, and suddenly I’m surrounded by air, and falling. I’ve no time to be surprised before my heels hit the water, then my rear. My feet hit bottom but slip out from under me, and ice-cold water closes over my head. I gather my feet and shoot to the surface, sputtering. “Mara?” I call.
“Here.”
I wade toward her voice, wiping water from my eyes and nose. The surface reaches just past my Godstone. It’s cold, but not as bad as I feared. Wading is going to be difficult in my boots and thick desert garb. I hope we reach a boat soon.
A splash behind me brings light with it. Another splash sounds quickly after.
“All here and uninjured?” Hector asks. He looks everyone over quickly.
“My cloak is ruined,” Storm says. His cowl has fallen back, and in the torchlight, I finally glimpse his new hair. It’s cropped close and inky black. It makes his cheeks appear even more gaunt, like a feral cat’s.
“You’ll live,” I tell him. “And when we get back to—” I gasp as my Godstone becomes ice.
“We must go!” I whisper. “Now. He is very near.”
“Belén, guard the queen’s back,” Hector says, grabbing the torch from him and starting down the sewer tunnel at an impossible pace. There is a slight hiss as he dunks the torch in the water. The tunnel goes black.
Pushing through waist-deep water at a near run while fully clothed and booted is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. It’s as hard as wading through sand, as hard as climbing cliffs. My lungs burn with effort and my limbs become leaden with cold, for the Godstone continues to pulse icy warnings through my veins. But I don’t dare pray myself warm. I imagine Franco searching the cellar above, hoping to feel the tickle of warmth that tells him the Godstone is near.
I take comfort in the fact that if Franco is following us, it means he is not following Ximena. Maybe they’ll get away. Maybe they’ll be safe. I hope the entire city has descended upon the inn by now.
The arching ceiling of the tunnel begins to appear, dark and blurred as a ghost; we must be approaching the exit to the bay and open sky. But I don’t know how I’ll make it that far. My teeth chatter and my lips have gone numb. My limbs move too slowly. Hector’s form grows distant.
“Hec . . .” My mouth can hardly form words. “Hec . . . tor.”
He spins, and water laps against the sides of the tunnel as he rushes toward me. “What is it?” His whisper is frantic. “Are you . . .” His hand reaches blindly for me, connects with my cheek. “Your skin is ice.” He grabs my shoulders and pulls me against him, saying, “Belén. Do it now.”
In my peripheral vision, I catch a faint gleam as Belén clamps the blade of his dagger between his teeth, breathes deep through his nose, and then slips below the surface of the water.
I bury my face in Hector’s neck, seeking his heat. He rubs up and down along my arms. “Is it the Godstone?” he whispers.
“Can’t. Pray.”
Storm and Mara are silent in the space beside us as we wait for Belén. What if more than one person pursues us? How will Belén be able to see what to do?
Hector’s grip on me tightens, and my soaked body molds to his. Warmth sparks in the pit of my stomach, something wholly separate from the Godstone. Of their own volition, my arms snake around him, slide beneath his pack. My hands splay against his broad back, and I pull him close, closer. It would be the easiest thing in the world to press my lips to his throat, the line of his jaw. It would almost be like an accident.
A grunt. A splash.
Hector releases me and pulls fighting daggers from the vambraces at his forearms.
But the ice is fading from my blood. “It’s all right,” I say, laying a hand on his wrist. “The cold is gone.” I send out a quick prayer, just enough for a smidge of warmth and a bit of gratitude.