Chapter Eighteen
Dara's room tells the story in thirty seconds.
Overturned chair. One shoe in the middle of the floor, the other by the door. The particular scatter of things that happens when someone fights and loses fast. She fought. She lost fast. And whoever took her knew what they were doing because there is no blood, no broken furniture, nothing that suggests more than two people, and two people who know what they are doing can move a small nineteen year old girl out of a compound that has just had its attention pulled in six other directions without leaving much trace at all.
I stand in the center of the room and I think.
"Not Aldric," I say.
Caden is beside me. "No. He was in the north wing. His wolves were in the main hall."
"Someone else. Someone who used his move as cover.
