Zinnia remained motionless for one suspended heartbeat, listening to the silence beyond the open door.
The trail of blood gleamed darkly across the floorboards, beginning near the threshold and disappearing into the corridor where the lamps had burned low. It was too fresh to have dried, yet no footsteps retreated from the room, and no injured guard called for help. The quiet felt deliberate, as though whoever had left the blood wanted her to follow.
Every instinct Black Hollow had sharpened warned her not to move.
Her hand closed around the iron poker beside the hearth. It was not balanced like a blade, but it was heavy enough to break bone if she swung hard. She crossed the room slowly, avoiding the trail, while the thin light from the dying fire stretched her shadow across the walls.
